arrogance and brute strength, she realized abruptly, wondering why she hadn’t noticed it before. Behind his brogue and his bold words she glimpsed a keen, measured intelligence, a thoughtfulness she would never have expected on first—or second—meeting.
“Yes?” she prompted, even more curious now about the point he was obviously attempting to make.
“I want ye to understand why I have guards watching over her, and why ye and yer family need t’keep a careful eye on her. She’s accustomed to feeling safe, and doesnae consider that she’s been safe because she has three brothers and a great part of her clan keeping her that way.”
“Is it truly that dangerous for her to be here?” And for him to be here, for that matter, but she didn’t ask that aloud. With every ounce of her being she wanted to look around the quiet edge of the park for danger, though she had no idea what to look for.
“It could be. I ken ye didnae expect this trouble. If ye no longer wish the responsibility of having her in yer household, I’ll collect her today. I doubt an English family wants to be this close to clan troubles. And with yer distaste of punching, ye especially.”
That was an insult, of course, but she thought she understood the reason for it. This man standing before her, gazing at her, close enough to touch, was the nearest thing to a king that could be found in Scotland these days. He had enemies. Scottish—Highland—enemies who shot each other on the front steps of their own houses. Stupid, avoidable, prideful violence, more than likely over something no one remembered any longer.
“I should discuss this with my father,” she said evenly, “but I imagine he’ll only say what I’m about to.”
“And what might that be?”
“None of this … mess would seem to be Winnie’s doing. She wants only to enjoy a fortnight in Mayfair. I believe we can manage that for her.”
After a long moment he nodded. “Good. Though I’ll still be keeping a close eye on ye.”
Charlotte lifted an eyebrow, attempting to ignore the way her heartbeat accelerated at his words. “On me, or on Winnie?”
Glengask leaned in, his gaze on her face intent and unreadable. “Aye.”
Her heart fluttered again, a low shiver beneath her skin both warm and unexpected. Why, she had no idea; she couldn’t fall for his charms, because he had none. Or none that she cared to recall. And he was not the sort of man who interested her in the first place.
Before she could tell herself that she hoped he wouldn’t … kiss her or something, he straightened again. A glint of humor warmed the blue of his eyes as he held out his arm. “I think we’d best make our way back to the dress shop, before anything uncivilized happens.”
With a sigh she couldn’t quite hide, Charlotte took his sleeve again. He still seemed determined to antagonize her, but somewhere this morning she’d stopped finding it quite as annoying as she had at the beginning of their conversation. Of course she’d known him for less than a day. At least she could be assured that he hadn’t gone out of his way to be other than what he was. She doubted he could dissemble if he wished to, and that, at least, was … refreshing.
“What are ye smiling at?” he asked, his glance taking her in before he shifted his attention back to their surroundings.
“Honesty,” she replied.
* * *
Almack’s.
Ranulf had read about the supremely proper Assembly, of course, mostly with a degree of disbelief that anyone would actually tolerate attending such a place. He’d half decided that the stories must be an exaggeration, tales that grew in spectacular fashion with each retelling.
As he stood, stiffly dressed in a new black jacket and gray trousers, with a plaid black-and-gray waistcoat—a poor tartan lacking the red threading of the MacLawry banner, but the only bit of Scotland the strict dress code would allow—he could see with his own eyes that the stories were
“Yes?” she prompted, even more curious now about the point he was obviously attempting to make.
“I want ye to understand why I have guards watching over her, and why ye and yer family need t’keep a careful eye on her. She’s accustomed to feeling safe, and doesnae consider that she’s been safe because she has three brothers and a great part of her clan keeping her that way.”
“Is it truly that dangerous for her to be here?” And for him to be here, for that matter, but she didn’t ask that aloud. With every ounce of her being she wanted to look around the quiet edge of the park for danger, though she had no idea what to look for.
“It could be. I ken ye didnae expect this trouble. If ye no longer wish the responsibility of having her in yer household, I’ll collect her today. I doubt an English family wants to be this close to clan troubles. And with yer distaste of punching, ye especially.”
That was an insult, of course, but she thought she understood the reason for it. This man standing before her, gazing at her, close enough to touch, was the nearest thing to a king that could be found in Scotland these days. He had enemies. Scottish—Highland—enemies who shot each other on the front steps of their own houses. Stupid, avoidable, prideful violence, more than likely over something no one remembered any longer.
“I should discuss this with my father,” she said evenly, “but I imagine he’ll only say what I’m about to.”
“And what might that be?”
“None of this … mess would seem to be Winnie’s doing. She wants only to enjoy a fortnight in Mayfair. I believe we can manage that for her.”
After a long moment he nodded. “Good. Though I’ll still be keeping a close eye on ye.”
Charlotte lifted an eyebrow, attempting to ignore the way her heartbeat accelerated at his words. “On me, or on Winnie?”
Glengask leaned in, his gaze on her face intent and unreadable. “Aye.”
Her heart fluttered again, a low shiver beneath her skin both warm and unexpected. Why, she had no idea; she couldn’t fall for his charms, because he had none. Or none that she cared to recall. And he was not the sort of man who interested her in the first place.
Before she could tell herself that she hoped he wouldn’t … kiss her or something, he straightened again. A glint of humor warmed the blue of his eyes as he held out his arm. “I think we’d best make our way back to the dress shop, before anything uncivilized happens.”
With a sigh she couldn’t quite hide, Charlotte took his sleeve again. He still seemed determined to antagonize her, but somewhere this morning she’d stopped finding it quite as annoying as she had at the beginning of their conversation. Of course she’d known him for less than a day. At least she could be assured that he hadn’t gone out of his way to be other than what he was. She doubted he could dissemble if he wished to, and that, at least, was … refreshing.
“What are ye smiling at?” he asked, his glance taking her in before he shifted his attention back to their surroundings.
“Honesty,” she replied.
* * *
Almack’s.
Ranulf had read about the supremely proper Assembly, of course, mostly with a degree of disbelief that anyone would actually tolerate attending such a place. He’d half decided that the stories must be an exaggeration, tales that grew in spectacular fashion with each retelling.
As he stood, stiffly dressed in a new black jacket and gray trousers, with a plaid black-and-gray waistcoat—a poor tartan lacking the red threading of the MacLawry banner, but the only bit of Scotland the strict dress code would allow—he could see with his own eyes that the stories were
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