The Devil Wears Kilts by Suzanne Enoch

one who’d just had a fiancé flung at him. Not that it affected anything but his curiosity, of course. Even if he might for a moment consider her attractive, even if he might for a moment have imagined her naked in his arms, she remained the one thing that could never be a part of his Highland life—an Englishwoman.
    “Ye heard me,” he pressed anyway. “Who is this fine fellow who couldnae be bothered to join ye at Almack’s, or fer a pleasant ride on a fair morning in Hyde Park?” He shifted in the saddle, wanted to grab her arm, to make her look at him, but restrained himself. It was still merely curiosity, after all. “Ye ken what I think?” he continued when she didn’t respond.
    “I’m certain I haven’t the slightest interest in what you think, my lord.”
    Somehow he’d gone back to being “my lord” again, a sure sign that he’d stumbled across something that made her uncomfortable. A true gentleman would likely stop pursuit of the topic, but everyone in London knew he was no true gentleman. Instead he edged Stirling closer. “Well, I’ll tell ye, anyway,” he pushed, keeping his tone low enough that the throng around them couldn’t overhear. “I think there’s nae such man as James Appleton.”
    This time she turned her head to face him fully. Her fair cheeks went white. “What?”
    “That’s it then, aye?” he went on, his gaze lowering to her soft mouth almost in spite of himself. “Ye cannae abide a devil like me giving ye a kiss, so ye conjure an imaginary beau fer yerself instead of telling me to my face that ye want naught to do with a Highlander. It’s a cowardly English lie, Lady Charlotte, and I’m sorry t’admit that I thought better of ye.”
    For a long moment she stared at him, her entire body shaking. If she meant to faint he would have to catch her, he supposed, but that would be the end of it. No more touching her, no more thinking about her. He was the damned chief of Clan MacLawry. And he had better things to do than waste a moment daydreaming about a lass who wanted naught to do with him. For Christ’s and Saint Andrew’s sake, women fought among themselves for a night in his bed. This was ridiculous.
    Her hands clenched around the reins, and for a heartbeat or two he thought she meant to slap him. Ha. That would put a nail into her coffin of abhorring physical confrontation—though that had all likely been a lie, as well, something meant to keep him at a distance.
    Then she reached up and with trembling fingers unfastened the small oval locket from around her neck. She held her arm out, the locket dangling from her fingers. “Take it,” she bit out.
    Kneeing Stirling closer, he took it from her fingers. “I didnae give it to ye, lass.”
    “I know that. Open it. The little fastening on the side.”
    Reining in the bay, he did as she ordered. The thing was old and absurdly delicate, but with a bit of effort he managed to get it open without breaking it. On the inside of the lid he made out the inscription “Forever in My Heart.” The opposite side held a wee portrait, a young man with light hair and rosy cheeks, a high cravat covering what looked like a soft chin, and soulful green eyes that gazed out at nothing.
    “That, Lord Glengask, is James Appleton.” She’d stopped close beside him, he realized, her voice quiet and controlled. “The reason he didn’t join us at Almack’s, and the reason he isn’t here riding with us today, is because three years ago he tripped on a dance floor and fell into a potted plant. And then he decided to challenge the first man who laughed at him—and there were several—to a duel. He was killed the next morning. Because of a waxed floor and a potted plant, and because he was embarrassed.” She held her hand out to him again, palm up. “Now return him to me, if you please.”
    “The…” Trailing off, he handed her locket back to her. This time he’d put his foot in it, all the way up to his thigh. No wonder she