The Devil Wears Kilts by Suzanne Enoch

she stood beside her horse. “Aye?”
    “I wanted you to know,” she said in a low voice, her direct hazel gaze meeting his again, “that I spoke with both my parents last night about your concern for Winnie’s safety. My father has asked Longfellow to assign two additional footmen to patrol the house all through the night, and the grooms have begun a twenty-four-hour watch of the grounds.” She smiled again. “Nothing to make her feel caged, but enough for us all to be aware before anything untoward can happen.”
    It wasn’t enough, but it was more than he’d expected. And considering that Rowena had managed to slip away from Glengask even with all the men he had there, he wasn’t precisely in a position to complain.
    “I appreciate that,” he said, inclining his head. “I’ll tell Peter he can stay in at Tall House tonight. But I’ll be leaving Una here.”
    Her brow furrowed. “You’ve had someone watching Hanover House?”
    “From dusk till dawn, aye.”
    For a moment she cast her gaze about as though she expected the stout footman to leap out of the shrubbery. “I had no idea.”
    “Ye were nae meant to.”
    “And the dog?” she went on, glancing down at the smaller-framed Una.
    As dogs went she was still at least a head above most, and any foxhound had best have three or four siblings if they thought to have half a chance against her. “She’s a mild-hearted lass, but she’ll give her life to protect Rowena. Ye’ve naught to fear from her, my lady. And ye’ve naught to fear from me.” He wasn’t certain what prompted him to say that last bit, but it seemed … necessary. Because of the MacLawrys she and her family were likely to find themselves in circumstances they could never even have dreamed of, after all.
    She reached up, straightening a fold of his simply tied cravat. “Well, then,” Lady Charlotte said, then abruptly patted his chest and lowered her hand again. Clearing her throat, she turned away. “Benjamin, hand me up, will you?” she asked, looking at the groom who held her horse.
    “I’ll do it,” Ranulf grumbled, warning the servant away with a glance.
    Unsteady inside and not entirely certain why, Ranulf slid his hands around her waist and lifted her. He’d had his hands on her before when he’d moved her out of his way and again last night for the waltz, but this felt more … intimate.
    Charlotte placed her hands on his shoulders. “The saddle?” she said breathlessly.
    Christ. Attempting not to dump her over backward, he set her onto the sidesaddle. The way he felt abruptly singed—the way his gut reacted to touching her—it did feel almost like witchcraft. He stepped back, wiping his hands on his thighs. “There. All proper now, I hope?” he grumbled, and turned his back to swing onto Stirling. Beside him Rowena was grinning excitedly, up in the saddle of a pretty gray mare and no doubt pleased to be having her way once more. “And who put ye into the saddle?” he asked.
    “I did, m’laird,” Debny said, before she could respond. “One o’ them Hanover grooms near tried it, but I knocked ’im back.”
    “Oh, dear,” Charlotte muttered from Ranulf’s left, but he pretended not to hear. No one was bloodied, so as far as he was concerned it had all been handled amicably.
    The sedate walk they settled into hardly seemed worthy to be called a ride. Admittedly the mid-morning crowd of vendors, carts, hacks, shoppers, and other people meandering about aimlessly as they were, made anything above a trot near lethal, but that hardly made it more tolerable. By the time they turned up Park Lane and the grand park came into view on the left, even the dogs had their tails tucked.
    Another breath of uneasiness ran through him. They’d never manage more than a walk there, either. Just in his limited view through the trees an endless sea of carriages and horses and parasols and hats spread before them. Somewhere behind him he caught Owen’s muffled curse, and