The Devil Wears Kilts

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I’ll have Owen hire someone to make repairs,” the valet said, setting the painting on the floor. “Such poor craftsmanship. There’s no excuse, my lord.”

  Ranulf thought there was an excellent excuse; it was either the wall or Charles Calder and George Gerdens-Dailey’s faces. “Thank ye,” he said aloud. “Now find me someaught to wear to White’s, will ye?”

  “White’s? Yes, my lord. Of course. With pleasure.”

  This was what he did, Ranulf supposed. He tried to put aside a handful of hurtful words and ignored the fact that they could signify the start of something much more dangerous. He went to stuffy luncheons and made stuffy, proper acquaintances and called them friends and pretended to like wee cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

  As he dressed, Fergus rose from his place before the fire and butted Ranulf’s hand with his nose, demanding scratches. Absently Ranulf complied. The poor fellow was indispensable in the Highlands, both for protection and for chasing down rabbits and deer. Here, though, he was mostly a curiosity, unusual for his size and fearsome appearance, but of no use at soirees and Society’s proper gatherings.

  He was rather the same, now that he thought about it. In the Highlands decisiveness and a firm hand kept those dependent on him fed and safe and thriving where most others brought uncaring greed and shortsightedness that forced their own people into the cities or the Lowlands or across the sea to America. In London, though, everything he knew was wrong, everything he was skilled at was inappropriate, and others played the game better than he did.

  A logical, sane man would likely leave Town and return to where the world was right side up. But today he wasn’t a sane man. Today he was a man in love. Giving Fergus’s rough fur another ruffle, he finished dressing and went downstairs to collect Stirling.

  Debny had saddled his own horse, as well. Rather than spending time arguing, Ranulf swung up on the big bay and headed toward Pall Mall. However tired and angry he happened to be, in a very few minutes he was going to have to be charming and personable. He meant to be the sort of man to whom Lord Hest would be happy to hand over his daughter, whether he could barely tolerate himself or not.

  “Come back for me in an hour or so,” he told his groom once they’d reached the unassuming front door of the club.

  “And if ye leave before that?” Debny asked, catching Stirling’s reins.

  “I’ll hire a hack.”

  “M’laird, I am nae going to see ye withoot an ally.”

  Ranulf took a breath. “I’ll keep Myles with me,” he said.

  The groom nodded. “That’ll do, then.”

  “I damned well hope so,” he muttered, and walked up to the door. Now his own servants felt comfortable dictating to him.

  The door opened as he reached it, and a liveried doorman stepped forward, blocking the entrance. “Are you expected, sir?” he asked politely.

  So now he had to explain himself and his business to servants and strangers. “Lord Swansley’s expecting me,” he ground out, attempting a mild expression and fairly certain he wasn’t succeeding. “The Marquis of Glengask.”

  The doorman stepped aside. “Welcome, my lord,” he said, gesturing to a passing footman. “Franklin will show you to your table.”

  Well, that was more like it. Myles and two other men sat close to the middle of the room, and all three men stood as he approached. Inwardly swearing, Ranulf inclined his head as he recognized one of his lunch companions.

  “Lord Stephen Hammond, aye?” he said, shaking his uncle’s hand and taking the one open chair at the table.

  “Yes,” the Duke of Esmond’s second son replied, and indicated the stocky, brown-haired man seated opposite Ranulf. “And this is my good friend Simon Beasley. Simon, Lord Glengask.”

  “Lord Swansley tells us you have a large holding in Scotland,” Beasley commented.

  “Aye.” Ranulf had no desire to elaborate. “How do ye know my uncle, Mr. Beasley?”

  “Our families are neighbors,” the stout man returned with an easy smile. “Our family patriarch is the Marquis of Dunford, but I’m several cousins away from him.”

  “Simon and I attended Oxford together,” Lord Stephen put in. “Both of our families have pedigrees dating all the way back to the second Henry.”

  “There’s a club of sorts at Oxford,” Simon added, his grin deepening. “A gathering for descendants of England’s original earls.”

  That seemed singularly uninteresting, but Ranulf nodded. The Sasannach talked so much, they probably had knowledge of all sorts of useless, inane information.

  “How far back does your title go?” Lord Stephen asked, as a waiter came by and took their luncheon orders.

  “I dunnae track back to a Henry,” Ranulf drawled, catching his uncle’s warning look.

  “Ah. How recent is it, then?” Simon signaled a footman for a bottle of wine.

  Bah. Wine might as well be water. “A mite older than that. My ancestors were Vikings and Celts. The first jarl of Glengask was, according to legend, a great bear of a man called Laurec. He took to wife a wild Celtic lass who painted her face blue and danced naked in the moonlight.”

  “Ranulf,” Uncle Myles rumbled.

  “Well, it’s an old legend,” he conceded. “Quite possibly exaggerated.”

  The other two men exchanged a glance. Hm. Evidently stories about Vikings and naked, blue-faced lasses were too scandalous for polite Society. He wasn’t even certain why he’d told the story, except that he’d been drinking for the past ten hours and perhaps it was finally beginning to blunt the edge of his anger and frustration.

  “It’s a fascinating tale,” Lord Stephen commented. “With roots so deep in the Highlands, Glengask, what are you doing in London?”

  “That’s right,” Beasley seconded. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

  Ranulf shrugged. “This is where the parties are.”

  Myles laughed, though he didn’t sound terribly amused. “His sister, my niece, turned eighteen a few weeks ago. She wanted her London Season.”

  The conversation stopped for a few moments as waiters brought their meals. He’d requested roast venison, but the mess he received was nearly drowned in a gravy so thick and salty he might well have been eating beef. Or even chicken.

  “So when your sister’s had her Season you’ll be returning to the Highlands, I presume?”

  He glanced over at Lord Stephen. “Aye. More than likely.”

  “Are those Highland lasses as bonny as they say?” Beasley asked, chuckling.

  “And as wild?” the other one added.

  “There are some bonny lasses. And some wild ones. Just the same as there are here, I would imagine.”

  “I would imagine a marquis, a descendant of a Viking and a blue-faced Celt,” Lord Stephen said over his glass of wine, “would have his choice of the prettiest and best-bred Highland ladies. Women of a similar breeding and with similar … expectations.”

  This was beginning to sound insulting, though it wasn’t the words as much as it was the tone. He glanced over at Myles, and was surprised to see the intent look his uncle sent him before the viscount returned to his pheasant. Was he missing something? With these reduced expectations, he should be able to manage. Being tired and half drunk certainly wasn’t helping, though.

  Or perhaps Myles was merely warning him not to tell any more Viking stories. Ranulf frowned inwardly. If this was the path of his life now, he was going to have to at least pretend to be content, if not happy. She would be that part of his new life, and that would make him happy.

  “Did you know Charlotte Hanover was once engaged?” Lord Stephen commented smoothly.

  Now Ranulf was interested. “Aye. James Appleton died in a duel, she said.”

  “He did.” Stephen nodded. “A damned tragedy, all over a bit of clumsiness. Appleton would eventually have made her a viscountess, with a lovely old house on Charles Street that’s perfect for hosting soirees. And they would have spent the rest of the
year in Trowbridge, just outside of Bath.”

  “Since they weren’t married,” Beasley took up, “she couldn’t wear full mourning, and she had to be out of black in six weeks. But we all knew, and we let her be.”

  “I’m certain she was grateful,” Ranulf said, realizing his jaw was clenching. He forced himself to relax.

  “She was quite a prize to pass by, too—the daughter of an earl with a dowry that was impressive to start with.” Stephen did some calculations on his fingers. “Now, seven years later, it’s probably more than double what she was worth at eighteen, just as compensation for her being five-and-twenty.”

  Ranulf took a swallow of weak wine. “I would wager the two of ye are making a point of some kind,” he drawled.

  “Just that you have your women and we have ours, and no one likes a poacher.” Lord Stephen angled his glass of wine in Ranulf’s direction, toasting him. “Especially when a man is a visitor. It’s rather like being asked in for dinner and then stealing the silverware.”

  Now it made sense. He wasn’t the point of conflict; Charlotte was. That surprised him, though now that he considered it, it likely shouldn’t have. “I have a house here in London,” he said, then realized that he sounded submissive and apologetic. He might be attempting tolerance, but he damned well wasn’t anyone’s whipping boy. “And even if I didnae,” he continued deliberately, “if a lass doesnae have a ring on her finger, she’s fair game.”

  Beasley’s left eye twitched. “We’ll just call everything fair game, then.”

  Ranulf fiddled with the knife beside his plate. “Ye live in a soft land, lads. Before ye declare the start of someaught, keep in mind that I came here fer polite conversation and a good meal. I can leave that same way, with ye knowing that once I depart London, I’m nae likely to return anytime soon. Or ye can begin someaught that may not end the way ye like.”

  With a laugh that didn’t sound at all genuine, Lord Stephen sat back in his chair. “We’re merely conversing here, Glengask. There’s no need for threats.”

  “I agree,” Ranulf drawled. “So stop making them.”

  Myles leaned in to empty the wine bottle into his glass. “I heard that Sullivan Waring is sending five horses down to Tattersall’s next week. The rumor is they may go for as much as three hundred pounds apiece.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Beasley snorted. “Not even Waring’s horses are worth that much.”

  Lord Stephen continued gazing at Ranulf, who coolly looked right back at him. If the fellow thought a good stare would frighten him off, well, Ranulf had overestimated the Sasannach. And his expectations had been fairly low to begin with. Finally the duke’s son turned his eyes to Simon Beasley. “I think it’s safe to say that we all know where we stand here, and that perhaps we began today on the wrong note.”

  “Well said,” Myles agreed. “May I suggest we begin again?”

  “I dunnae quite see the point.” Ranulf set his utensils down, giving up on the gravy-drowned monstrosity on his plate. “Ye spoke what ye meant—more or less. Anything now, polite as ye may word it, would be a lie.”

  “But we all lie to each other, Glengask. I told Simon his new coat could well begin a new fashion, for example, when truly I think it hideous and the color of vomit.”

  Beasley brushed at his front. “I say, Stephen.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Simon, it’s lime green.”

  If these two men had been suspicious and hostile, Ranulf could have tolerated it. He would even have respected it, to a degree. But as he listened to the two men debating the merits or lack thereof of a lime-green coat, he realized that every smile he ever gave them, every quip he laughed at, would be a lie. These men and he would never be friends. They came from different worlds, and other than a shared fascination with Charlotte they had absolutely nothing in common.

  Because he had a great deal invested in this experiment, he stayed through the end of the meal and even made an effort at nonsensical small talk. It was exhausting, and he’d nearly decided that he preferred anger to boredom when the Englishmen climbed to their feet.

  Lord Stephen offered his hand. “I assume you mean to continue your pursuit of Lady Charlotte Hanover, then?”

  “I dunnae think that’s any of yer business, Hammond.”

  The duke’s son lowered his hand again. “That’s good to know as well, Glengask.”

  “Aye. I thought we should be clear.”

  Ranulf walked outside with his uncle. Even London air felt welcome after that, and he took a deep breath. “So were they meant to be friends, or did ye have someaught else in yer head?” he asked, as the Swansley coach circled around to meet them.

  “You accused me once—and rightly so—of being too trusting. I try not to make the same mistake more than once. And those two make me … suspicious.”

  “Aye. My skin’s still crawling,” Ranulf agreed. “Anything particular ye care to share?”

  Myles shook his head. “No.” As they climbed into the coach, he sat forward. “I did want you to be aware that that sentiment exists among some of my fellows. But for God’s sake don’t judge every peer by the behavior of those two men. There are good people here, and I would be proud to introduce you to some of them.”

  The viscount’s voice shook a little. Was he worried that he would once again be judged by the company he’d elected to keep? Or did he truly want Ranulf to find friendships in London? Either way, it was touching.

  “Give me a day or two to get the bad taste oot of my mouth,” he returned, “and I’ll be happy to meet yer actual friends.”

  And skeptical as he was about the whole thing, he had one very good reason to give London and Londoners another go—Charlotte liked it here, and he would not make the mistake his father had in keeping an English lass locked away in the Highlands when her heart lay elsewhere. Especially when his heart lay squarely with her.

  * * *

  Charlotte leaned closer over the map she’d found of the Highlands. Tracing out the latitude and longitude, she referred to the book of property holdings she’d liberated from her father’s office and marked out the approximate boundaries of Glengask. Even with the small scale of the map, Ranulf’s property was impressive and immense, dwarfing most English estates. It crossed the river Dee at two points, and was cluttered with vast, shallow valleys and craggy hills and gorges and windswept grass and farmlands.

  For a long moment she sat looking at it, lost in imaginings of riding alongside the wild river and walking through high-walled canyons where trees found sanctuary from the cold and winds. And always beside her was Ranulf, showing her the beauty of the Highlands and making her love his land nearly as much as she loved him.

  Blinking, she returned to the property book. She wasn’t there to measure the wealth of Glengask. Running her finger down the endless lists, she found the name Gerdens, and carefully marked out that property, then did the same with Campbell and Dailey and Calder.

  Then she sat back. While Glengask was by far the largest estate—which made sense as the MacLawrys were the only ones to refuse to sell off any of their land—it was definitely surrounded by the others. From what she could tell he had a few allies at the fringes, like the MacTiers and the Orlins and the Lenoxes, but farther out in almost every direction lay someone who’d either threatened a MacLawry, or actually wounded or killed one.

  “My goodness,” she breathed. Why hadn’t she realized it before? Ranulf wasn’t imagining enemies or puffing out his chest because he enjoyed being notorious or because he felt his pride was being dented. Now that she knew him better, knew how precious his family and his people were to him, she could see quite clearly that he had spent years making himself the largest, most frightening devil in the Highlands—a man no other man would dare to cross.

  And she was telling him to be civilized, to settle his disputes with words. What would be more likely to stop one man from trying to kill another? A sternly worded warning, or the well-founded belief that if a fellow acted, h
e would be the next one put beneath the sod? These men had grown up in the wildest, most dangerous place in the kingdom. Even if some of them now lived in more civilized places, their ancestors, fathers, grandfathers, had passed down the traditions of hatred for fellow clans and fear of change. And most definitely they all feared a man who refused to bow to anyone—up to and including the current Prince Regent.

  He’d already refused to react thrice when he’d been challenged—by Berling, Gerdens-Dailey, and once by Calder. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t convince herself that Clan MacLawry had been made safer by his actions. Or rather, his lack of action.

  And he’d done it for her, because she was enlightened—or squeamish, or had once been hurt because a man had more pride than brains and she’d then decided that any show of force or violence was useless and barbaric. But she didn’t live in the Highlands, and she’d never been pressed by her fellows to alter who she was or how she chose to live.

  She’d lost James to a senseless, stupid, utterly avoidable act of violence that he’d brought upon himself. He’d never had much of a sense of humor—at least not about his own foibles. Even five years after his death, she remembered the red-blotchy flush of his cheeks, the way he’d practically dared anyone to laugh at him for something as … innocent as tripping. And then someone had laughed, and nothing would serve but that he reclaim his honor and his pride by walking forty paces and shooting a pistol.

  Ranulf MacLawry was not James Appleton. She doubted the two would have tolerated each other, much less have been capable of being friends. But where James had been obsessively self-concerned and frivolous, Ranulf seemed to be anything but that. And whatever else he might be, Ranulf was not foolish.

  Charlotte stood up from the library’s table and walked to the window. One man had died senselessly, and by her advising a second, even more extraordinary man to be … civilized, she might well be dooming him to the same fate. And that—and that would be more than she could bear.

  Arran had said that Ranulf was going to have luncheon at White’s today. He’d also muttered something about his brother going mad and deciding he needed Sasannach friends, but all she’d heard was that he was attempting to be civilized.