Page 75 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“In English, it’s a cock. In Gaelic, aball-bearta.” Lifting his gaze to her eyes, he reached up to cup one breast through her silk gown.“Bruinne,”he murmured, then slid his hand beneath the lace to pinch her nipple. “Sine.Do ye wish to continue quizzing me,leannan?”
With a chuckle that sounded breathless to her own ears, Charlotte shook her head. “Show me, instead.”
Ranulf put his hands around her thighs and drew her forward until with a satisfying slide he entered her. Trying to stifle the pleased moaning sounds she couldn’t help making, Charlotte buried her face against his shoulder. The hard muscle with its velvet-soft skin sank hot into her again and again until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but hold on to him and try not to shriek with pleasure as she came around him.
With a low groan he started to pull away from her. She knew why. She knew what it meant. And she wrapped her ankles around his hips, folding her shaking hands into his lapels at the same time. “No,” she said, looking up at him.
“Charlotte.” He grunted, then pushed deep into her again, shuddering.
It was about trust, and the way she felt more alive, more… necessary when she was in his company. It was about showing him that she meant it when she said she would share his burdens. But how did anyone put that into words? This was the best she could manage.
He leaned his forehead against hers. “Ye shouldnae have done that,leannan,” he murmured. “Ye make me wish I lived a safer, saner life.”
That sounded like he was about to walk away and leave her behind. After he’d teased her about courting her, after he’d told her his darkest secret. Did he not want her in his life, or did he think her incapable of sharing it with him?
Was she, though? Capable? Could she live in a world where fathers were murdered and killers vanished and the wrong word said to the wrong person could at best mean a fight, and at worst mean a war? It was maddening, wanting to be with him so badly and not knowing if she had the courage to remain. Or even if he wanted her to.
“We should get back,” she said slowly, lifting her head to gaze at him again.
He brushed a finger across her cheek and kissed her, this time so gently it made her heart ache. “With George Gerdens-Dailey here, lass, everything’s more complicated.”
She nodded, steeling herself for what she needed to say next. “I think he might be the one who shot your brother.”
Ranulf’s expression cooled to ice. “What makes ye say that?”
Oh, dear.She wouldn’t have told him, but he’d shared so much with her. “No bloodshed, Ranulf. Please. Not because of anything I tell you.”
He backed away, tugging her skirt down roughly and then refastening his trousers. “Ye want a bargain, do ye?”
“I said I understood what you did when your father died,” she said, hopping down from the dressing table and straightening her skirts. “That doesn’t mean I want to be the reason you murder someone.”
Abruptly he approached her again, seizing her hands in his. “If I prove to ye that I can be a peaceable man, Charlotte, if I find a way to stay away from these troubles and keep them away from my family, could ye…” He trailed off. “I love ye, ye know,” he finally said, his voice low. “Ye drive me mad, but I love ye.”
Her heart stopped, so quiet she could hear it whispering to her, sighing in surprised happiness. It wasn’t just her. Whatever either—both—of them had intended when this began, he felt it, too. Relief, joy, a hundred things galloped through her as her heart began drumming again. Future be damned. At this moment Ranulf loved her. It was enough for now. It would have been enough for forever, if she had any faith at all in happy endings.
“He said he hadn’t had MacLawry blood on his hands in nearly three years, and that he had an itch for more.” Charlotte took a ragged breath, afraid if she stopped she would lose her nerve again. “I love you, too, Ranulf. And you drive me mad, as well.”
Chapter Fourteen
The conundrum seemed something more fit for Tantalus or Solomon, Ranulf decided as he escorted Charlotte back to her sister.
While he would always consider Berling a party to his brother’s shooting, he now knew who’d actually fired the shot. A man whose father he’d taken away in retaliation for losing his own. The Gerdenses had struck first, of course, but the deed had been done.
For Gerdens-Dailey to shoot Bear, who’d been eight when the Gerdens brothers had vanished, and now to turn his gaze on Rowena, who’d only been two—Ranulf wouldn’t have been inclined to excuse that, regardless. And now the stable fire, which—if what Arran had surmised was true and Berling hadn’t set it—looked very much like George Gerdens-Dailey’s handiwork.
If he took his revenge as he wanted to, though, he would be proving to both Charlotte and himself that hewasa savage, a man who’d be a fool to bring any kind of proper wife into his life—much less one who couldn’t abide the idea of fighting over words or deeds. And he wanted her in his life, as much to prove that he could head a clan in an intelligent, progressive way as because she comforted and settled and inspired him with merely a smile.
“We were beginning to worry,” Jane said when they stepped through the sitting room door. “You were gone for quite a while.”
“I had a great deal of explaining to do,” Ranulf said, avoiding his uncle’s gaze.
“Are we leaving the party, then? I’ve already missed two dances, and I need to make my apologies to, oh, everyone.” Young Jane scowled.
“We’re staying,” he decided. “Ye’re feeling much improved, Uncle.”
“I’m feeling much improved, suddenly,” Myles repeated.
Ranulf took Charlotte’s right hand, and Jane’s left. “If ye cross paths with any of those men ye overheard, ye’ll have to pretend to know nothing of their conversation. Can ye do that, lasses?”
