The Devil Wears Kilts (22 page)

“Bloody Puritans,” he grumbled.

Well, she wasn’t a Puritan, of course, but she understood his meaning. Evidently the Marquis of Glengask intended to be only as much of a gentleman as circumstance demanded he be. And as she rather wished Simms elsewhere, herself, she could only nod.

“Is your other brother here as well?” she asked, to distract herself from thoughts of being ravished.

“Ye want to talk aboot my family, now?”

“I think a different topic might be helpful, yes.”

He sighed. “Nae, then. Bear’s still in Scotland. For the last four hundred years there’s always been a MacLawry at Glengask. It’s even on the family crest,
i gcónaí MacLawry ag Glengask
—‘always a MacLawry at Glengask,’ literally. And these days, well, I’d never allow that oath to be broken.”

Charlotte nodded. “So your clan will know you mean never to abandon them.”

“Aye.”

It and the meaning behind it were quite possibly the most noble family motto she’d ever heard. And the fact that it was in Gaelic rather than Latin seemed … brave, and proud, rather than quaint. “Say it again, will you? In Gaelic, I mean.”

“With pleasure.
I gcónaí MacLawry ag Glengask.
”

She found herself watching his mouth as he spoke, savoring the elongated vowels and the musical roll of his words. “Do you speak Gaelic at home? At Glengask?”

“Here and there. Mostly we speak English. We all had to learn it in school, and for a while during my father’s time we werenae allowed to speak Gaelic at all.” He hesitated. “As satisfying as it might have been not to know any English, it wouldnae have served any of us well.”

“And your mother was English.”

The look in his eyes cooled again. “Aye. That she was.”

From what Winnie had said, Eleanor MacLawry, nee Wilkie, had taken her own life three years after her husband’s death. Even if he’d wished to discuss it, which he clearly didn’t, today didn’t seem the appropriate time. Instead she nodded, searching for anything to take her mind away from how very close he sat to her, and how very warm he seemed even through two sets of clothes.

“So tell me—was there something in particular you wanted to see at the British Museum?”

Silence.

When she glanced sideways at him, he sat with his jaw set, his gaze squarely on Simms. And her maid didn’t look terribly comfortable with the scrutiny. No, he hadn’t expected or wanted a chaperone, but that was hardly the servant’s fault.

“Ranulf.”

“Ye know I wasnae going to take ye to the damned museum.”

“Well, we’re going there now, so what would you like to see?”

His gaze slid over her, slow and lingering. “What would I like to see, Charlotte?” he repeated. “Shall I begin at the top, or the bottom?”

Good heavens.
“Even if you don’t wish to review the history of England because of the fighting with Scotland,” she said hurriedly, heating from the inside out, “there are some lovely Greek and Egyptian items on display.” The breeze blew a lock of his long, curling black hair across one of his sapphire eyes, and she nearly brushed it off his face before she caught herself and stilled her hand again.

“Aye. I’m certain there are.” He sat back for a moment, the restless tap of his fingers against his thigh hypnotic. Then he muttered several words in Gaelic that she was certain, if translated, would sound much worse in English. “I cannae,” he muttered.

“You can’t what?”

“Do this all day without touching ye.” He abruptly sat forward to pin the lady’s maid with his fierce gaze. “Simms, aye?”

“Yes, my lord,” the servant responded, her cheeks becoming a blotchy red.

Charlotte tensed. If he meant to order Simms out of the barouche, she would have to step in—both for the maid’s sake and for her own. Whatever she might want privately, they were on the street in the middle of London. Some measure of propriety would be observed.

“If ye knew yer mistress was misbehaving, but that no harm would come of it, what would ye do?”

Simms looked from him to Charlotte. “My lady’s reputation will always be safe with me,” she said after a moment, a fierce pride in her voice that Charlotte couldn’t recall ever hearing before. “I would never speak of her private affairs unless the silence endangered her safety.”

“Hm,” he mused, settling back again. “Debny. Take us to Gilden House. I want to show Lady Charlotte the stable damage by daylight.”

“Aye, m’laird.”

“And this is your idea of discreet?” Charlotte whispered, fleetingly wondering if she’d stepped out of Mayfair and into some wild Gypsy romance.

“It is precisely my idea of discreet,” he returned in that rumbling, low-pitched whisper that started heat between her thighs. “If I had t’stand beside ye all afternoon looking at damned statues, everyone would know how much I want ye,
leannan
. And that wouldnae be discreet.”

“But driving directly to your house and walking inside?”

“With Simms to chaperone ye.” He cocked his head. “Ye drive me to madness, lass. If ye dunnae want me, ye’d best say so now. I’m nae a man ye tease, Charlotte Hanover.”

Her heart skittered. The idea of parting from him today without … touching him, made her ache. He’d made it clear from the beginning that his pursuit was solely about satisfying a physical desire, but he wasn’t the only one who wanted something. “Whether this is a mistake or not, I can’t think of a better moment to make one,” she finally said.

Ranulf grimaced. “I’ve heard better praise, but that’ll do.”

For the next fifteen minutes she tried not to let the bouncing of the carriage press her against his side. She attempted a bit more casual conversation, something at which she generally excelled, but nothing worked. London had never seemed so big, or the distances so great.

By the time they turned up Market Street and the barouche stopped before the main steps of Gilden House, her jaw hurt from being clenched so tightly. Before Owen could even emerge from the house Ranulf had the carriage door open and cupped her elbow to help her to the ground.

“M’laird,” the footman said, “we didnae expect ye to re—”

“Take Simms here down to the kitchen for someaught to eat,” he interrupted, keeping Charlotte close by his side. “I want everyone else on the ground floor till I say otherwise.”

“Aye, m’laird.”

“Ye and Fergus included.”

“I’ll fetch him at once, m’laird.”

Charlotte walked through the front door, though she had the feeling that if she’d hesitated he would have picked her up and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of beets.

“That way,” he muttered from directly behind her, indicating the staircase.

She remembered where his master bedchamber lay. He’d shown it off just last evening, after all. “Don’t rush me,” she ordered, pushing a shoulder back against him and stopping on the landing. “I am not a cow being herded to slaughter.”

“My lady?”

Charlotte looked down to see Simms standing at the bottom of the stairs, Owen glaring at her and seeming ready to drag her down to the kitchen by force. “What is it, Simms?”

“I shall be discreet—if this is what
you
wish me to be.”

Clearly Simms didn’t approve of any of this, but it warmed Charlotte’s heart that she’d asked the question despite being outnumbered by large Highland men, and at the way the maid had worded it.

Feeling as though she were about to take a step into purgatory—which she was, according to most proper ladies—she smiled. “Thank you, Simms. Have some luncheon. I’m where I wish to be.”

At the top of the stairs she turned right and stepped into Ranulf’s generous master bedchamber. A moment later the door clicked shut behind her, and she heard the key turn to lock them in.

“A good thing the Simms lass cooperated,” Ranulf drawled, not moving from the door. “I might have had to set her loose in the wilds and hope she couldnae find her way back.”

“Like a dog?” Charlotte turned around to look at him. She’d actually expected he would begin mauling her the moment they crossed the threshold. But there he stood, one shoulder against the door frame and his arms folded across his chest.

“It might’ve worked. It might still, if need be.”

As he spoke she moved to the front window, standing out of sight of the street as she pulled the curtains closed. The other window looked out over the empty space where the stable had been, so she left it alone. This felt clandestine enough without extinguishing all the light in the room.

“Are you just going to stand there?” she finally asked, eyeing him as he watched her wander about the room.

“Ye told me not to rush ye. I’m here where I want to be with ye, so I figured ye can come over here and kiss me in yer own time.”

Taking a deep breath, trying to quell the flutter in her chest, she walked up to him. “I want to be clear about one thing,” she said, putting a gloved forefinger against his chest.

“Ye have my attention.”

“This is because we have a mutual … desire,” she said slowly, curling her finger into his cravat. “I’m not some weak-kneed miss, and you are not a heartless cad. It’s simply a matter of attraction.” There. For her own … pride she needed it made clear that she understood the circumstances, and that she didn’t want what he wasn’t offering.

“A simple matter,” he repeated, reaching up to twirl the blond curl hanging from her temple about his finger. “I think ye should kiss me now, Charlotte.”

Chapter Ten

She fluttered, inches from giving him the moment about which he’d been dreaming for the past week. It would have been such a simple matter, to lean a little forward and touch her sweet mouth with his own.

But Ranulf held himself precisely where he was, every muscle aching with tension. This had been his suggestion, in his house, and according to his timing. He was accustomed to leading, to ordering that something be done and then seeing it accomplished. Allowing Charlotte to decide the next moments was both maddening and supremely arousing.

Gloved fingers toyed with his cravat, the gentle tug and pull quite possibly the most erotic sensation he’d ever experienced. His breath came slow and deep, his heart keeping time as he waited.

Finally she slid her palms up his chest, lifted on her toes, and featherlight pressed her lips against his.
Thank God.

Allowing himself to move again, Ranulf cupped her face in his hands, kissing her back until her lips softened and she opened a little to his seeking teeth and tongue. When she moaned the pressure in his groin tripled, and he shifted to grip her hips, pulling her closer against him.

She called it a mutual attraction. He called it an obsession with a stubborn, maddening woman who with a few words had made him reconsider decades of resentment and prejudice. His eyes felt opened. If she had decided she didn’t enjoy his company, or that his views made him unacceptable even as a temporary lover, he remained uncertain what he would have done.

Still kissing her, he shed his English-tailored coat. Next he unbuttoned his waistcoat and dropped it to the floor, as well. “Yer turn, lass,” he murmured, turning his attention to the trio of buttons that held her pretty, dark green pelisse on over her green and yellow sprigged muslin gown.

His hands brushed her breasts as he worked, and she jumped a little. “I feel very wicked,” she breathed unsteadily, breaking from his mouth to watch his hands travel down her front.

He opened the pelisse and pushed it down her shoulders. Ripping every stitch of clothing off her would have been more satisfying, but he’d promised a measure of discretion, and she already thought him a violent devil. Returning her home with all her buttons and seams torn away would be neither discreet nor wise.

Lowering his gaze from her face, he cupped her breasts through the thin muslin. Just the size to fit in his hands, they were, as if she’d been made with him in mind. He firmed his grip and she gasped, pressing against his palms. “Ye’re wearing too many damned clothes,” he noted, trying not to jump as her hip brushed against his cock.

“I think I’d like to sit down,” she commented faintly, leaning up for his mouth again.

“I’ll do ye one better.” Bending, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her over to his big, soft bed.

As he set her down in the center of the plump mattress she tangled her fingers into his hair, pulling him down over her. Ranulf sank down onto his hip beside her, keeping her lithe body wrapped in his arms. He fought the sensation that he wasn’t close enough to her, that he had to be inside her immediately, to satisfy his own need, to claim her for his own. He would. He would, but for both their sakes he would go slow. The last thing he wanted was to frighten or hurt her.

But then she grinned up at him and tugged at his cravat. “Who in the world tied this?” she asked with a chuckle, pushing his chin sideways as she worked the knots loose with her gloved fingers.

Both actions served to remind him that she wasn’t as delicate as he’d previously thought. “Poor Ginger,” he returned. “My valet. He said he nearly lost both his arms because of yer stubbornness.”

“My stubbornness?” she repeated, finally pulling the cravat free and tossing it off the bed.

“Aye. He said he would have let go of that bucket crank after twenty minutes last night, but he couldnae let ye best him.”

She chuckled. “Poor man.”

Taking advantage of the momentary conversation, he rolled onto his backside and sat up to yank off his English boots and drop them to the floor. “I know what my valet was thinking, then, but what about ye,
leannan
? And give me yer feet.”

“I don’t remember thinking much of anything,” she mused, lifting one foot to put her ankle into his waiting hand.

He pulled off her low-heeled walking shoe and set it beside his boots. “I doubt ye’ve ever thought nothing. Were ye worried aboot me, lass?”

She handed over her other foot. “I hadn’t seen you in a week. I thought that after you went to all the trouble of acquiring a house and hosting a dinner and being so…”

“Gentlemanly?” he suggested, though he didn’t feel at all gentlemanly at the moment.