The Devil Wears Kilts Read Free Page A

half step back. “She knows better than to push me,” he said. “I willnae discuss it with her again, and I’m nae wasting any more breath on it arguing with ye.”
    “Aye, we all know better than to fight ye.” Arran turned for the door. “Think I’ll join Munro and go throw some wee pointy things at the wall.”
    For a moment Ranulf considered joining his brothers and Lachlan, but odds were that the three of them were discussing whether a Season in London would be so bad for Rowena. They would be reminiscing about the handful of years they’d spent at Oxford, and their own infrequent trips down to Town. Arran, especially, would reflect that his four years spent in His Majesty’s Army hadn’t made him any less a Scot. They were all correct, and they were all wrong.
    Rowena didn’t want a holiday in a faraway place. She’d read their mother’s journals, and she’d become enamored of a soft life of parties and lace gowns and men who spent as much time on their dress as any woman. She thought she wanted to be English.
    She would grow out of it, of course, realize that a life of dull, idle distractions and snobbery wasn’t much of a life at all, but until then she would damned well stay at Glengask. Under his watchful eye. Under his protection. Whether she appreciated his efforts, or not. It was a simple equation, really. He was the Marquis of Glengask, the chief of Clan MacLawry and all its dependents, and whatever rules they might try to make in England, here his word was law.
    He still should go down to one of the villages, as he did nearly every day, but he had little desire to do so. Instead he sent Cooper to have Mrs. Forrest, the cook, make an extra pan of baked fish for the morning. Father Dyce would make good use of the bounty for the poorest of the cotters below. All of which left him with an unexpected bit of the most rare of things: time. He’d seen most of his tasks done yesterday, so that he could devote the day to Rowena’s celebration. Scowling, Ranulf glanced in the direction of the stairs. Perhaps he’d spoiled her, but what was an older brother to do but see that his only sister and youngest sibling had everything she could ever desire?
    “M’laird?”
    Ranulf turned. “What is it, Cooper?”
    The old Scot shuffled his feet. That in itself was odd; Cooper generally had a fierce pride about his station, and he’d been known to box the ears of footmen for the offense of slouching. “There’s … a bit of confusion over someaught.”
    “What confusion?” Narrowing his eyes, Ranulf resisted the urge to order the butler to hurry it up. That would only rattle the fellow, and he’d never get out a sensible word.
    “The … ah, Debny mentioned to Mrs. Forrest that they’d borrowed the phaeton, but since it was early she didn’t see fit to mention it to me, but now … well, it’s past sunset and there’s no … that is to say, the—”
    “Who borrowed the phaeton?” Ranulf interrupted, realizing that if he didn’t direct a question they would never get to the end of the tale.
    “Mitchell, m’laird. I presume fer Lady Winnie. A’course they do go out, but like I said, it’s getting late, and they’ve nae taken the dogs or any riders with them, and—”
    Ranulf missed the last bit of the butler’s speech, as he was already halfway up the stairs, ice piercing his chest. “Arran!” he bellowed as he ran. “Munro!”
    Rowena’s bedchamber looked as though a stiff north wind had blown through it. Clothes and bedding were strewn everywhere, bits of burned paper spilled out of the generous hearth, and the wide-open windows let the Highlands evening chill flow into the room. But at the same time …
    “Ran! What th’devil is—”
    “Christ. Did someone take her?” Arran stumbled in just behind Munro, Lachlan on their heels. “Damned Gerdenses. They’ll bleed for this!”
    “Wait, Arran,” Ranulf ordered, squatting down to run his hand through the burned papers and