Free The Devil Wears Kilts by Suzanne Enoch Page B

company, ye’d best nae let me find ye. And I’ll come looking. I swear it.”
    Myles nodded. “If anything happens to her, I’ll already be dead.”
    That almost sounded Scottish. “Ye can call on her tomorrow, then.”
    For several minutes after Myles left the house, Ranulf sat where he was, gazing sightlessly at the remains of his breakfast. The last time they’d crossed paths Myles had found himself with a bloodied nose and bruised ribs. Arran had had to pull Ranulf off their uncle, in fact. Any Scotsman of his clan would have known better than to trust the Donnellys. That betrayal had been bad enough. But when Bear had stumbled, wounded and bloody, through the front door— that made Myles’s mistake unforgivable. This time seeing him, though, Ranulf had felt more … constrained than he had three years ago.
    And he knew precisely why. That tall, blond lass. Charlotte Hanover. She didn’t like violence. Which wouldn’t have swayed him an ounce, because a Sasannach female knew nothing about how to survive in his world—except that he’d caught that look on her face when they’d danced. That look said things. That look said that she did know of what she spoke.
    It had made him curious. And that was why he thought of her as he rose to collect Stirling and his pair of outriders, as he trotted past finely manicured gardens and tall, white houses, and as he turned up the Hanover House drive. Curiosity. Naught else. Because there couldn’t be an attraction. Not when she was English. No, however mad his rivals might think him, he was not so mad that he would voluntarily bring an Englishwoman to the Highlands. Not after he’d seen one—a woman with a five-year-old daughter and three sons under twenty—poison herself to escape it.
    Ranulf shook himself as he dismounted in the shade of Hanover House. The places his mind went at times surprised him. His imaginings had led him to build schools and to go against the trend of clearing his land of cotters in order to graze sheep. They’d taken some of his father’s ideas and made them reality—at great cost both to his purse and to his safety.
    And in all that, in all his adult years, he’d never so much as thought of bringing an Englishwoman to the Highlands. So he could only consider the unbidden thought of showing the Highlands to Charlotte Hanover an aberration. Either that, or the lass was a witch—though if she meant to entangle him, she would likely have spent less time arguing the philosophy of violence with him.
    The front door opened as he reached the bottom step. “You’ve arrived just in time,” Lady Charlotte said with a warm smile. “We’ve decided to show Winnie the sights, beginning with Hyde Park.”
    His first thought was that though he’d never seen it himself, Hyde Park would be too open, and far too crowded for anything less than an army to provide Rowena adequate protection. Or rather, that was his second thought. His first thought was more primal, and had a great deal to do with the form-fitting peach riding habit Charlotte wore. More precisely, with the slender curves beneath it.
    “Good morning, Ran,” Rowena called, prancing up to kiss his cheek. “Look, I’m wearing those idiotic riding boots I had from Lach, after all.” She lifted the straight skirt of her dark green riding habit to show him her ankles.
    “That’s enough of that,” he grumbled, swatting her hand away so the skirt fell back to its proper place. “Ye’ll have the Sasannach calling us savages and devils.”
    “Oh, pish,” his sister returned, then giggled. “That’s a grand word, isn’t it? ‘Pish.’”
    Ranulf narrowed his eyes. “Ye know what else is grand? Keeping to yer own k—”
    “May I have a private word with you before we leave, Ranulf?” Charlotte interrupted.
    If she hadn’t used his given name, saying it in that prim, musical way she had, he likely would have ignored her. Instead, clenching his jaw, he turned and walked over to where