Rogue with a Brogue

by Suzanne Enoch

  Mary squared her shoulders, walked up to the inn’s peeling blue door and pushed it open. A dozen men and half that many women sat at various wooden tables in the main room. It rather reminded her of the inns where they changed horses on the way up to Scotland, in fact, except for the strong London accents chittering around her.

  Toward the back of the room a figure stood, and her heart skittered, her mouth curving upward before she could even think to stop it. This was the moment, she realized. The moment when she chose to misbehave, when she chose to think of her own interests above those of clan Campbell—at least for one afternoon. Moving as gracefully as she could with all her insides jittering about, she joined Arran at the table.

  “You came,” she said, sitting on the bench opposite him.

  He resumed his seat again. “And so did ye.”

  For a brief moment he looked down at his hands, and she wondered if he meant to tell her that they were tempting trouble for no better reason than it was trouble, and that meeting for a stupid luncheon simply wasn’t worth the risk if they were discovered. All that was correct, but she didn’t wish to hear it. Not when it had made her feel so wicked and bold just to be here.

  When he looked up again, his face bore the half smile that made her knees feel just a little wobbly. “I’ve an idea,” he drawled.

  “And what might that be?”

  “What if we begin from the beginning, as if we’d never heard of each other, of our families? What if I’m Arran, a lad from the Highlands, and you’re Mary, a lass from Wiltshire, neither of us with any other commitments, and we just … become acquainted?”

  She offered her hand. Without a hesitation, he reached out and shook it. She could swear that where their skin touched felt electrified, though that might have been her nerves. “I agree,” she said. “I’m Mary. Pleased to meet you, Arran.”

  His grin deepened. “So, tell me aboot yerself, lass.”

  Chapter Five

  “I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose your father at such a young age,” Mary said, selecting another of the absurdly delicate and delicious tea cakes Arran had requested after their luncheon.

  “It upended everything,” he returned, then motioned the innkeeper for another pot of tea.

  She wondered if he’d patronized the Blue Lamb before, because he certainly seemed to know which foods to order. On the other hand, he’d likely spent a great deal more time at ramshackle inns than she had. “You must’ve been so angry. At my grand—”

  “Nae,” he said, putting up a hand. “None of that.”

  Considering how deeply their family histories were intwined, it had been surprisingly easy to refrain from mentioning MacLawrys or Campbells, or MacAllisters or Stewarts. She certainly knew at whom the majority of his suspicion and anger had been aimed over most of his twenty-seven years, just as he was obviously aware how many times his family’s name had been sworn at by hers. And words were the least of it. Mary nodded.

  “Is this your first time in London, then?” she asked, deciding to change the subject before things became testy.

  The glance he sent her from beneath long, dark lashes was amused. “Nae. We all attended Oxford, though there’s some debate over whether Bear actually opened a book. I came doon a few times with friends, but nae fer long. And I had to march in a parade before Prince George once, when my regiment came back from the Peninsula.”

  “So you served in the army?”

  They both reached for the same tea cake, their fingers brushing. And neither of them gave way. If this was purely a friendship they were beginning, it was an odd one; she didn’t get shivers when she held hands with Liz or Kathleen. Finally he turned up her palm and placed the sweet into it.

  “Aye. Fer four years.”

  “But the Mac—you, I mean—stayed in the Highlands to avoid the English, I thought. Why fight for them?”

  He shrugged. “It was encouraged that we prove our loyalty to the Crown. If I hadnae gone, Bear would have. As his head is better suited fer being a battering ram than fer thinking, I’m fairly certain he would’ve gotten himself killed.”

  “You’re very close to your brothers and sister, aren’t you?” She knew they were a feared and united clan, but for some reason the idea that they felt affection for each other had never really occurred to her—not that she’d spent much time thinking about the MacLawrys at all, except as the people who prevented her from visiting her grandfather in Scotland on all but the rarest and briefest of occasions.

  “Did I give that impression?” he returned with a slow grin. “Aye, we wouldnae have survived withoot each other. They’re my dearest friends. Are ye and yer cousins close? Ye seem to have at least forty of ’em.”

  Mary chuckled. “My father has two younger brothers and three younger sisters. At last count I had thirteen first cousins.”

  “But ye’re yer father’s only bairn?”

  “Yes.” She nibbled at a cake to give herself a moment. “I had an older brother, William—named for my grandfather—but he died before I was born. Only a few days old, I think. They don’t talk about him much. And because Mother got so sick when I was born, they didn’t want to risk having another child.”

  “Ye know, considering how much I thought I knew about ye, Mary, nearly everything ye tell me is a surprise.” He moved in closer to the table and reached out to tap his forefinger against her knuckles. The gesture looked innocent enough, but as he met her gaze with those light blue eyes of his, it felt surprisingly sensuous. Oh, my.

  “Likewise,” she returned, attempting to keep her mind on the conversation. “You and your brothers were bedtime stories my uncles and cousins told me to keep me awake and shivering under the covers. You’re supposed to have a needle-thin dagger in your boot, for instance, that’s still red with the crusted blood of … my kin.”

  “Oh, aye, I do.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  Reaching beneath the table, he produced an old, sharp-looking knife. It looked very clean, just the sort of tool a Highlander would use for skinning the deer he shot. “More or less, anyway.” His gaze growing serious, he sheathed the blade again. “It’s nae spilled a drop of yer kin’s blood. My fist has; I split Charles Calder’s lip just last week, as I recall. But nae my knife. And nae my rifle.”

  “I believe you,” she said, wondering why he so obviously wanted to assure her that he’d never done permanent harm to any of her family. Was he trying to tell her that she was safe with him? Because while she did believe that he wouldn’t harm her, she didn’t feel safe. She felt wicked.

  The inn door opened again, as it had every few minutes since they’d sat to eat a rather fine roasted chicken and watered-down Madeira. She’d had the Madeira, rather; Arran had gone from whisky to tea. The common room seemed to be a popular place for luncheon with local merchants and bankers, which suited her perfectly well. Because while she and Arran seemed to be finding more common ground than either of them expected, if anyone of their acquaintance saw them together, this little tête-à-tête would be finished—and the day would end with her being married either to Roderick MacAllister or Charles Calder, depending on whether her father declared open war on the MacLawrys again or not.

  Arran looked past her. His abrupt frown alarmed her to her toes. “Yer maid’s here,” he murmured, starting to his feet. “Will she use yer name?”

  Oh, no. Was it so late already? “Yes. I didn’t give her a dif—”

  “Mrs. Crawford,” he called, motioning the servant closer.

  “Oh, thank heavens, my l—”

  “Mrs. Fox has been waiting fer ye,” he drawled. “Ye’ll see yer daughter home for me, willnae?”

  Mary flashed him a quick grin. Now she had a faux mother and a faux name. Fox. She liked it, for obvious reasons, but it was also forgettable—which had no doubt been the point. “Yes, Mama. Thank you. Mr. Fox needs to return to work. At the mill.” She stood, sending the servant a warning look to keep her from blurting out somethin
g they didn’t want overheard.

  “I … Yes, of course,” Crawford stammered. “It’s time we get you home, daughter.”

  Arran tossed some coins on the table, sent the innkeeper a nod, and took her hand in his as they walked to the door. “I reckon we should do this again,” he said in his low brogue.

  “Why, Mr. Fox, are you attempting to lead me astray?” she asked, her voice unaccountably breathy.

  “Aye, I believe I am, Mrs. Fox.”

  “You are a rogue, sir.”

  He grinned. “Aye, that I am. Do ye have an objection?”

  “Only that we’re both slated to marry other people and our families will murder us if they find out.” And likely a million more that logic dictated she consider, but she would do that later. Now was the moment for courage. Until a few days ago, she would never have thought that danger had an appeal. Now, it was all she could do to keep from laughing in delight.

  “Then we’ll stop when we’ve said our vows, and in the meantime we dunnae let them find oot.” Drawing her up against his chest, he lowered his face to hers.

  This time she expected the warm touch of his mouth against hers, the pull between the two of them, but the kiss still stole her breath and sent warm electricity swirling down her spine. Oh, this—he—was trouble, trouble, trouble. And no good could possibly come of her attraction to him. And yet she could scarcely think of anything else.

  “I’ll be attending the dinner party at Lord and Lady Penrose’s house on Friday evening,” she murmured against his mouth.

  He kissed her again, then with a breath took her hand and placed it around the dour-faced Crawford’s arm. “Now there’s a coincidence,” he drawled. “I believe I’ve been invited, as well. Or my brother has, rather, which is the same thing.”

  She wanted to kiss him again, but now that Crawford had hold of her, the maid wasted no time in dragging her out the door and onto Ellis Street. “You—this—I—you—”

  “Crawford, you cannot say anything,” Mary broke in sternly, abruptly alarmed that her lady’s maid was about to suffer an apoplexy.

  “But he … he kissed you, my lady!” she blurted out, then put a hand over her mouth.

  “Good heavens. Keep your voice down. I am Mrs. Fox at the moment, and you are my mother.” Mary lifted a hand to hail a passing hack.

  “I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I didn’t tell you that that man is a … a rogue and a blackguard and a MacLawry. What will your father—oh, goodness, or your grandfather—say? He doesn’t mean you any good, you know.”

  “No one is going to know, and we are being discreet. Our families have been warring for centuries. Don’t you think it’s time two of us became acquainted?”

  “I think you’d be better off becoming acquainted with Lord Delaveer, begging your pardon. This MacLawry could mean to ruin you and then tell the world! Bless me, that would kill your mother.”

  It would do more than that. It would explode the truce, and open the road to a full-out war between their clans. Could that be his goal? To seduce her and then publicly humiliate her? To stop her family from allying with the MacAllisters?

  From what she’d learned about him thus far that didn’t seem likely; if anything, the Arran with whom she’d chatted seemed honorable, and not just for a MacLawry. Still, she might feel mad and wicked in his presence, but she was not a fool. Or she tried not to be one. Before anything went too far—if it hadn’t already—she would need to call a halt to it. They both had obligations to their clans.

  But none of that would stop her from going to that dinner party Friday evening.

  * * *

  For someone who spent as much time as he did taking steps to protect Ranulf’s various progressive policies and innovations, assessing what their neighbors’ reactions were likely to be and heading off the worst of the trouble, Arran couldn’t begin to explain what he was doing. Not even to himself.

  In the Highlands, when a pretty lass caught his eye, he invited her to share his bed. More often than not she accepted, and then after a night or two or three he found himself bored and sent her on her way. They both wanted a bit of fun, satisfied a mutual desire, and moved on.

  That method had served him well enough, and it mostly avoided the chore of him having to converse with the lasses beyond a few pleasantries. They’d all grown up in the same set of valleys, had heard all the same gossip, and none of the ladies had ever seen a larger town than the village in which they lived.

  And then there was Mary. Yes, he’d kissed her twice now, and since the hat shop yesterday he’d been imagining unbuttoning her pretty, fashionable muslin gown and licking her soft skin. He shifted, abruptly uncomfortable in the ill-sprung hired hack.

  It wasn’t just a physical attraction, though. He’d chatted with her. They had talked, the two of them—and he likely already knew her better than he did any other lass save his own sister. More than that, he enjoyed talking with her. He liked the way she viewed the world, even if it was contrary to his own way of thinking. He liked her. And that, he hadn’t expected.

  She interested him a thousandfold more than Deirdre Stewart and her “yes, Lord Arran” and “no, Lord Arran” politeness. They said Deirdre was a great beauty, and he could see it, he supposed, in a porcelain doll sort of way. But the porcelain doll had no passion that he could detect—especially when compared with an autumn-haired, clever-tongued vixen.

  By the time he arrived back at Gilden House it was well past three, and he half expected Ranulf to be waiting on the front drive to bellow at him for being contrary. As frustrated as he felt after naught but a kiss with Mary when he’d been fantasizing about a great deal more, a brawl might well be just the thing. Or it might knock some sense into his skull so he could forget the lass before something happened that they would all regret.

  Instead of Ranulf, however, the familiar face waiting for him in the foyer belonged to his sister, Rowena. “There you are,” she said with a merry smile, still burying her lovely Highlands brogue beneath the passing fair southern England accent she’d picked up from the Hanover sisters.

  “Didnae Owen tell ye I was oot at luncheon?” he returned, kissing her on the cheek and using every ounce of willpower he possessed not to look into the neighboring room for Jane Hanover. “What brings ye here, Winnie?”

  “You do.” She hugged his arm, pulling him into the morning room.

  Arran held his breath until he could verify that she hadn’t brought anyone else with her. When she seated herself primly on the couch, he settled down beside her. Before she’d fled Glengask for a London Season, the youngest MacLawry sibling had confided in him frequently. Even with the chaos of the past weeks, he’d missed that.

  “Well, here I am,” he drawled. “What’s in yer heart, piuthar?”

  Her shoulders rose and fell with the deep breath she took. “Firstly, why don’t you like Jane? She adores you, and if you married her, we would be sisters.”

  “Ye’re supposed to ease yer way into a question like that, ye know,” he said with a short smile. “A bit of ‘how was yer day’ and ‘isnae the weather fine today’ first.”

  She grimaced. “Not with you, I’m not. Answer the question.”

  “As ye wish, then. I do like Jane Hanover. She seems a fine, friendly lass, and she talked her family into taking ye in when ye ran from Glengask and appeared on their doorstep.”

  “That was Charlotte, actually, but go on.”

  Had it been? Ranulf’s betrothed? That was interesting. “I thought ye didnae know Charlotte before ye arrived.”

  “I didn’t. I never corresponded with her. But she was so nice, and then when Ran burst in to drag me home she walked right up to him, put her hands on her hips, and told him no.”

  “And they fell in love because she argued with him?”

  “I think that’s part of it,” she returned, “but you’d have to ask Ranulf. I’m talking about you and Jane, though.”

  “Lass, completely aside from clan politics ye k
en I cannae marry yer friend just because it’d be fun fer ye to call her sister, I hope. Ye’ll have Charlotte fer that.”

  Her face fell. “But she’s pretty!”

  “Aye, she is. She’s also nae but eighteen.”

  “I’m nae but eighteen. Ranulf wants me to marry stupid Lachlan, so eighteen is nae—not—too young.”

  So Lachlan had in a few short weeks gone from being her knight in shining armor to being stupid. He was going to have to tell Ranulf about that—if they were still speaking. But perhaps Lachlan MacTier could be of some help, after all.

  “Winnie, do ye recall how Lachlan reacted to ye tagging aboot after him everywhere? And sighing and making doe eyes?”

  “I did not—”

  “He ran the other way as fast as his wee legs would carry him.”

  “Lachlan does not have wee legs. He’s as tall as you are, Arran.”

  Arran grinned. “So ye do still like him.”

  Sending him an annoyed look, she rose to pace from the couch to the fireplace and back again, while he wished someone could have this same chat with him about Mary and remind him why he needed to stop tempting fate as he was. That would entail telling someone about her, though, and he knew better than that.

  “I don’t like Lachlan,” Rowena retorted belatedly. “He hasn’t even bothered to write me a letter since I left the Highlands. I was merely stating the fact that he was tall.”

  She paused at the mantel to run her finger along the spine of a porcelain dog there. Arran didn’t know where it had come from—but then Ranulf had purchased the house fully furnished so he wouldn’t have to go to the trouble of searching out English knickknacks. Personally Arran would rather have looked at bare walls and empty shelves, but then he wasn’t trying to become a Sasannach.