loathed prideful violence. “Lass, I—”
“No. You kissed me, and I thought of James. He reminds me not to fall for the charms of hotheaded, thin-skinned brawlers ever again. I did not lie to you, sir, and I am not a coward. You, however, are a savage and a devil. And I am finished talking to you.” With that she clucked to her horse, and the chestnut mare trotted over to where her sister and Rowena giggled about something or other.
A savage and a devil. Well, he’d been called worse, and with less cause—which was likely why Charlotte Hanover’s words stung. He deserved them. However much an idiot her fiancé might have been, Ranulf had jumped to a damned conclusion—a wrong one—and she’d called him on it. Almost no one had ever done that to him before. The lass owned a bloody ocean of courage to stand up to him, and that was damned certain. And those things she’d been saying about how words could bite as deeply as a sword felt abruptly and painfully true. She’d cut him deeply, no doubt about that.
Now he needed to apologize. It wasn’t something he did often or well, but by God he was man enough to own up to a mistake when he made one. He turned Stirling—and Fergus gave a low growl to his left.
At the same time the hair on the back of Ranulf’s neck pricked. That wasn’t a growl for showing off. One hand sliding toward the pistol in his pocket, he shifted a little to look in the direction both dogs were now staring, bodies low and tails stiff and parallel to the ground—awaiting his order to charge.
A trio of riders stood to one side of the path, all three of them gazing at him. None of them had weapons aimed at Rowena or him. Good. Then he might not have to kill any of them today.
Out of the corner of his eye he noted Owen and Debny cutting a path through annoyed park visitors, closing in on where Rowena and the two Hanover lasses were now enjoying a lemon ice. They knew their duty. Above all else they—Rowena—needed to be protected. Likewise a lass with sunshine hair who’d lost her love to his own pride was not to be put in danger because of another man’s. The strength of that particular thought surprised him, but just as swiftly he put it aside for later contemplation.
Turning his attention back to the motionless trio twenty feet away across the path, he deliberately took a moment to assess each of them in turn. The man to the right possessed so many overly large muscles he likely didn’t have much space left for thinking. He would be the enforcer, then. By contrast, the man seated to the left was sleek as an otter, garbed all in black and his eyes shadowed by the black beaver hat on his head. The adviser, who would try for a knife to the back rather than a punch to the face. By far the more dangerous of the two. Which left the man in the middle.
“Good morning, Lord Glengask,” that rider said, inclining his head and smiling too widely. Pale blue eyes flicked from him to the three lasses and back again.
Ranulf wondered if the man realized how precariously his life was balanced, and how swiftly it would end if he moved so much as an inch toward them. “Berling.”
“How pleasant to see you out of the Highlands,” Donald Gerdens, the Earl of Berling, continued coolly. “The last time we spoke, I believe you said something about it taking the devil and a dozen horses to remove you from Scotland.”
The precise speech, the way Berling carefully quashed any trace of brogue in favor of the most polished of Oxford-educated accents, had seemed pitiable in Scotland. Here, it felt almost criminal. But Ranulf was well aware that the residents of Mayfair thought otherwise. Here, he was the ruffian, and Berling was the civilized English gentleman with a country seat in the Highlands. “I recall that conversation,” he said aloud. “Ye ended with a broken nose and a warning to stay well off my land.”
The muscled man gathered in his reins and sat forward, as eager to charge into
“No. You kissed me, and I thought of James. He reminds me not to fall for the charms of hotheaded, thin-skinned brawlers ever again. I did not lie to you, sir, and I am not a coward. You, however, are a savage and a devil. And I am finished talking to you.” With that she clucked to her horse, and the chestnut mare trotted over to where her sister and Rowena giggled about something or other.
A savage and a devil. Well, he’d been called worse, and with less cause—which was likely why Charlotte Hanover’s words stung. He deserved them. However much an idiot her fiancé might have been, Ranulf had jumped to a damned conclusion—a wrong one—and she’d called him on it. Almost no one had ever done that to him before. The lass owned a bloody ocean of courage to stand up to him, and that was damned certain. And those things she’d been saying about how words could bite as deeply as a sword felt abruptly and painfully true. She’d cut him deeply, no doubt about that.
Now he needed to apologize. It wasn’t something he did often or well, but by God he was man enough to own up to a mistake when he made one. He turned Stirling—and Fergus gave a low growl to his left.
At the same time the hair on the back of Ranulf’s neck pricked. That wasn’t a growl for showing off. One hand sliding toward the pistol in his pocket, he shifted a little to look in the direction both dogs were now staring, bodies low and tails stiff and parallel to the ground—awaiting his order to charge.
A trio of riders stood to one side of the path, all three of them gazing at him. None of them had weapons aimed at Rowena or him. Good. Then he might not have to kill any of them today.
Out of the corner of his eye he noted Owen and Debny cutting a path through annoyed park visitors, closing in on where Rowena and the two Hanover lasses were now enjoying a lemon ice. They knew their duty. Above all else they—Rowena—needed to be protected. Likewise a lass with sunshine hair who’d lost her love to his own pride was not to be put in danger because of another man’s. The strength of that particular thought surprised him, but just as swiftly he put it aside for later contemplation.
Turning his attention back to the motionless trio twenty feet away across the path, he deliberately took a moment to assess each of them in turn. The man to the right possessed so many overly large muscles he likely didn’t have much space left for thinking. He would be the enforcer, then. By contrast, the man seated to the left was sleek as an otter, garbed all in black and his eyes shadowed by the black beaver hat on his head. The adviser, who would try for a knife to the back rather than a punch to the face. By far the more dangerous of the two. Which left the man in the middle.
“Good morning, Lord Glengask,” that rider said, inclining his head and smiling too widely. Pale blue eyes flicked from him to the three lasses and back again.
Ranulf wondered if the man realized how precariously his life was balanced, and how swiftly it would end if he moved so much as an inch toward them. “Berling.”
“How pleasant to see you out of the Highlands,” Donald Gerdens, the Earl of Berling, continued coolly. “The last time we spoke, I believe you said something about it taking the devil and a dozen horses to remove you from Scotland.”
The precise speech, the way Berling carefully quashed any trace of brogue in favor of the most polished of Oxford-educated accents, had seemed pitiable in Scotland. Here, it felt almost criminal. But Ranulf was well aware that the residents of Mayfair thought otherwise. Here, he was the ruffian, and Berling was the civilized English gentleman with a country seat in the Highlands. “I recall that conversation,” he said aloud. “Ye ended with a broken nose and a warning to stay well off my land.”
The muscled man gathered in his reins and sat forward, as eager to charge into
Similar Books
