Rogue with a Brogue

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I look forward to it.”

  Without a backward glance Arran walked around to the far side of the table and claimed a chair between a pretty blond lass and an ancient-looking lady with white hair pulled into a bun so tight its purpose seemed to be to keep her eyes open. Good. He didn’t feel like engaging either his wits or his patience over roasted duck and summer pudding. All of his attention focused on the autumn-haired lass two-thirds of the way down the table and seated between a round, bald fellow and a hatchet-faced older man. If she’d been joined by Lord Delaveer he wasn’t certain what he would do—but he knew he wouldn’t have liked it. At all.

  “Are we supposed to introduce ourselves?” the younger lass asked, her voice high-pitched and breathy. She actually lowered her head to gaze at him through her eyelashes.

  “I shouldn’t bother, dear,” the tight-faced woman replied, leaning her ample bosom in front of Arran to do so. “You’re here to be gazed upon. Leave the cleverness to the ugly people.”

  “But—”

  “Never mind her,” the fellow past the lass countered, then offered his hand. “Thomas, Lord Addent.”

  “Oh.” Looking mollified, the blond lass shook his fingers. “Lady Constance Overton.”

  Arran returned his attention to the white-haired woman. “I’m nae inclined to introduce myself,” he drawled, “because I reckon ye’ll call me ugly.”

  She barked a laugh. “You can be the exception, young man.” With a baleful glance at the chinless fellow on her other side, she held out her hand, wrist limp.

  Taking her pale fingers, Arran bowed over them. “Arran MacLawry,” he intoned.

  “Ah. Glengask’s brother. Why not Lord Arran?”

  “It sounds pretentious. I’ve nae anyone I need to impress tonight.”

  Retrieving her hand, she cackled again. “I like you. Lady Forsythe-Hendley, and I am pretentious. If people don’t bow and scrape before you, what’s the point of being titled and paying all those taxes?”

  He grinned. “At least ye admit to it.”

  “I insist on it.”

  While Lord Addent charmed breathy Lady Constance Overton, Arran spent most of the dinner chatting with the sharp-tongued dowager countess. He knew precisely where his brother was seated, close to the head of the block-long table with Uncle Myles only a few chairs away. He’d found Mary’s parents, flanking her on the opposite side of the table, likely as watchful for MacLawrys as he generally was for Campbells. And Deirdre sat closer to him than he liked, and only one seat down from Roderick MacAllister—two unwanted pawns in an unwanted game.

  “You’re unmarried, I hear,” Lady F—as she’d insisted he call her—commented.

  “I am.” For the moment, anyway. “Why, do ye have a granddaughter to set after me?”

  She slapped her hand on the table. “Heavens, no. The girl’s a complete imbecile, just like her parents. I plan on having her marry Lord Pettigrew. That’ll show him.”

  Arran laughed. “Ye’re a cruel woman, Lady F.”

  “Indeed, I am. So who is she?”

  He lowered an eyebrow. “Beg pardon?”

  “You’re young, unmarried, sitting beside one of the Season’s beauties, and you’re chatting with me. Either you fancy the bearded set, or someone’s got your attention.”

  If it was that obvious to a complete stranger, he was going to have to be more cautious. Turning now to flirt with Lady Constance would be far too obvious, so he kept the grin on his face. “I’m a Highlands lad. Only a Highlands lass will do fer me.”

  “Then you are in the wrong place, Arran MacLawry. You won’t find any of those here.”

  There were two, actually, even if they’d been raised English. But only one had the Highlands spirit. One of them he had no wish to engage in conversation, and the other he was forbidden to approach. “Hence me chatting with ye, my lady. And ye’ve kept me from nodding off into my onion soup.”

  “Likewise. It’s only a shame I’m not fifty years younger, or I’d show you the merits of English ladies.” She put a hand over his, but the gesture felt friendly rather than amorous. “I was at the Lansfield soiree when you and Glengask wore your full Scottish regalia. Even my heart went pitter-patter, I think. My great-grandmother was a MacDonald. You made me proud of that.”

  Arran wasn’t certain anyone should boast about being a MacDonald, but he understood the sentiment, and nodded. “Alba gu bràth.” Scotland forever.

  A few years ago just saying that might’ve seen him thrown in prison, but Lady F only smiled and nodded. Very well, not every Sasannach was a fool. He did have friends among them—men like William Crane, Viscount Fordham, with whom he’d served in the army. But outside of that, he hadn’t even bothered to consider he might find a friendly face. Much less an interesting one. Of course she was part Scottish, which could explain it.

  Beyond that, he did his best not to rush through every course. He couldn’t force everyone to eat more quickly so he could go strolling in the garden. Whoever said that anticipation was the best part of a reward deserved a clout to the back of the head. Both he and Mary had already skirted rules and orders. They would be outright defying their family patriarchs if they went out to meet by the pond—and whether she appeared or not was the only thing that concerned him. And he knew what that meant. He was becoming obsessed with the last woman in the world he should ever be approaching, and he was willing to risk his own safety and that of his clan just to see her.

  * * *

  Deirdre Stewart looked from Arran MacLawry, as close by her as she could manage to sit, to Lady Mary Campbell, halfway down the table. It didn’t make any sense. She’d done everything right, just the way she’d been taught. Let a man know of her interest, smile and laugh, flirt and be nothing but pleasant and mild.

  In addition, her father had said that her marriage to Lord Arran would gain the Stewarts more ships for trading, more crops to sell, and more stability in the Highlands without them having to be there. It should have been her he’d been whispering to behind the crowd tonight. It should have been her meeting him down by the pond for … whatever it was they meant to do there.

  She could imagine, of course. He would kiss her, and she would smile at him and tell him how handsome and wicked he was—at least that was how she’d imagined it would be when he asked her to meet him somewhere private. Oh, she could almost swoon just thinking of it.

  Except that it wouldn’t be her. From the way he’d looked at Lady Mary when he thought no one else noticed, he might agree to marry someone else—her—but it would be a misery. Her, being made to look foolish by a Campbell and a MacLawry. The Stewarts and the MacLawrys were supposed to be forming an alliance, through her and Arran. How could they do that when he was sneaking off to see someone who was supposed to be his enemy?

  If Lord Fendarrow discovered that they were somewhere together, Mary Campbell would likely be sent home to Fendarrow for the rest of the Season. And then perhaps Arran would do as he’d been told, and turn his gaze to her. She was one of the Season’s beauties, after all. Everyone said so. And Mary Campbell had been out for three years, and Deirdre couldn’t recall if anyone had ever called her a beauty.

  As the ladies finally rose to leave the table she found Lord Fendarrow, seated several chairs away. Lord Glengask had been so adamant that nothing happen to disturb this truce they’d somehow arranged so she could tell him, of course, but then he might send Arran away. All the MacLawrys would vanish back into the Highlands, and would have no need of the Stewarts. No, the Marquis of Fendarrow would know just what to do—and she would be helping the Stewarts, the MacLawrys, the MacAllisters, and the Campbells, all at the same time. And when had anyone ever accomplished that?

  Chapter Seven

  Mary followed her mother out of the dining room as all the ladies left the gentlemen behind to their brandy and cigars. Servants had opened the double doors at the far end of the drawing room to reveal an additional sitting room. Why they hadn’t done that earlier w
hen everyone was crowded together like potatoes in a sack, she had no idea. Of course she didn’t intend to spend much time in there, regardless of whether there was room to exhale or not.

  “Mother,” she said, touching the marchioness’s powder-blue sleeve, “please excuse me. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Her mother nodded, most of her attention on Lady Penrose and the story she was telling about the massive dining room table. “I’ll save a seat for you, dear. Don’t be long.”

  With her heart pounding, she retreated downstairs and left the house through the servants’ entrance across from the stable yard. She would be in so much trouble if her parents discovered what she was doing and who she was seeing. It thrilled and terrified her all at the same time. A heady combination indeed, and that wasn’t even adding in Arran and his intoxicating voice and kisses.

  Torches lined the garden paths, and she found the pond with no difficulty. Golden scales flashed orange in the firelight, and she sat on a bench in the shadows to watch. Crawford had been convinced that Arran meant to wait until she was alone and then set half of clan MacLawry on her like wolves. Well, she was alone now, and he knew it. If he did mean trouble, she would much rather know it.

  Except that she did feel like she knew already, or she wouldn’t have ventured outside at all. To herself she could admit that she felt like the danger, the thrill, surrounded her and excited her, but she herself was safe. Because she trusted Arran. But was it that excitement that made him so alluring, or the man himself? It certainly wasn’t thoughts of the future, because the two of them didn’t have one. Not together.

  “Did ye know they pass a pot aboot fer all the men to piss in, so no one has to leave the table?” Arran rounded the back of the pond and ducked into the shadows to sit beside her.

  She hadn’t even heard him approach. “How did you make your escape, then?”

  “I stood up, nodded at my brother, and walked oot the door. He’s being civilized, so he’ll nae leave his new friends to look fer me.” He took her right hand, lifting it to look at her fingers. Slowly he twined his own with hers.

  “You shook my father’s hand.”

  Arran smiled, the expression heating her insides. “I didnae want him and Ranulf coming to blows. And he has a fine daughter.”

  Well, that was very nice of him to say. But she still had some concerns, and if he began kissing her, despite the fact that she was not the sort of lady who swooned at the idea of romance, she would likely forget them. “It occurs to me,” she said slowly, “that we’re not doing anything but preparing to cause ourselves pain. More pain.”

  He cocked his head in that alluring way he had. “Has Delaveer offered fer ye, then?”

  “No, but evidently he’s had a jeweler call on him. And his father will be in London on Sunday.”

  “That’s two days from now.”

  “I know. What about you and the Stewarts?”

  “There’s a luncheon tomorrow. It’s nearly settled.”

  Another chill ran down her spine. “I’m not ready for the end of … this.”

  For a moment he met her gaze, light blue eyes dark in the torchlight. Out here, even in formal English clothes he looked wild—a Highlander to the heart, merely wearing a civilized jacket and waistcoat because it suited him to do so. Someone who didn’t care for the Campbell’s approval or a taste of his power, because he had his own. And that was very intoxicating, indeed.

  “I dunnae want this to be the last time I set eyes on ye, either, bonny Mary. I dunnae want this to be the last time we talk, or the last time we kiss.” He firmed his grip on her hand. “Will Delaveer be good to ye?”

  Mary nodded. “I think he will. He’s not cruel, just … dull.”

  “I’ll nae release ye to someone ye dislike or fear. Nae matter the consequences.”

  She knew he meant it; she could feel the truth of it in her heart. And the idea that he would soon be married to lovely Deirdre Stewart troubled her as much as did the thought of her own impending marriage. Would he think of her? Would he miss her? She wanted to ask him, but it felt unnecessarily cruel to both of them. “Well, I daresay we both know married people who live completely separate lives,” she offered, trying to sound lighthearted. “That will be tolerable, I suppose.”

  “Tolerable,” he repeated, more harshly. “I’ve known ye but a short while, and I cannae seem to shake ye from my thoughts. I feel like … I feel like a traitor to my own brother, but then I tell myself that if he can make friends with all the Sasannach and call it reasonable, I can kiss one Campbell and call it desire.” That slow smile touched his shadowed face again. “We’ll settle fer ‘tolerable’ tomorrow.”

  She wanted to lean against his solid shoulder, and sternly stopped herself. That would only make parting from him more difficult. It seemed impossible that a fortnight ago he was just a name, a rogue who brawled, who seduced and abandoned women, and who stood against everything the Campbells favored. Stories about a faceless monster who in person was nothing at all like she’d feared.

  “I know precisely how you feel, Arran, because I keep having that same conversation with myself. I wish … I wish … something.”

  “Well, then.” He tilted her chin up with his fingers and kissed her. Heat spun down her spine, delicious and welcome. Part of what they said about him must have been true, because he kissed like sin itself. But they weren’t her kisses. She was stealing them from another woman.

  Mary blinked her eyes open and put the flat of her free hand against his chest to push him back. “No more kisses,” she announced, though her gaze didn’t leave his mouth, his slightly parted lips. “This is only making it worse.”

  “I know.” He squinted one eye. “I’m bloody frustrated, Mary. And so if ye have an idea, I’m listening.”

  She had several ideas, but most of them seemed to end with him being shot on her front step and her being forced to wed Charles Calder. “We shake hands and wish each other happiness.”

  “I have a different idea,” he drawled. “We save the fare-ye-wells fer tomorrow, and now I kiss ye again. Ye taste like honey.”

  “That’s probably from dinn—”

  She couldn’t finish speaking because he covered her mouth with his. Mm. Mary slid her hands around his shoulders, wanting to be closer to him. Abruptly he lifted her to sit across his thighs, and she leaned into his muscular frame. Beneath her bottom he stirred, and heated electricity jolted through her again. Arran MacLawry didn’t want her because of her pedigree; he wanted her in spite of it. And that was very arousing. He was very arousing. And he was correct; good-byes could wait until tomorrow.

  “Damn you, Arran MacLawry! Get your bloody hands off my daughter!”

  * * *

  Arran set Mary on her feet and stepped between her and the voice before he even consciously noted who was shouting. One hand moving toward the knife in his boot, he faced the Marquis of Fendarrow—and the pistol in the marquis’s hand. The truce was broken, then. Thanks to him. Slowly he straightened. With the way the marquis’s hand was wavering, Mary might be injured by accident.

  “Mary,” Fendarrow hissed, motioning at her with his free hand, “come here. Now.”

  “Father, please put that down before something terrible happens,” she said, her voice tight. Arran felt her palm touch his shoulder then abruptly drop when her father flinched.

  “Lass, ye need to move away,” he said calmly. Or he hoped he sounded calm; his mind flew through a dozen different possible outcomes, several of which ended with him dead in a fish pond. “Nae need fer both of us to get shot.”

  “There’s no need for anyone to get shot. Father, for heaven’s sake, put that pistol away! Why do you even have one here?”

  The lass did move, but only to stand directly beside Arran. He appreciated the united front, but at the same time she likely wasn’t helping matters. This wasn’t the part her family wanted her to play. When shouting began on the carriage drive, Arran clenched his jaw. The only thing worse th
an being discovered by her father would be adding his brother into the mix. For a brief moment he considered making a run for it; Fendarrow likely hadn’t shot at anything but grouse for years, and that wasn’t done with a pistol. But that would leave Mary to face this mess alone. And a MacLawry didn’t run from a fight.

  “Arran!” Ranulf bellowed, skidding into the garden with Uncle Myles on his heels. The entire guest list trotted and skipped and waddled out of the house behind him, Lord Allen and Deirdre with them. And Lord Delaveer. Bloody wonderful.

  “What’s all this?” the Earl of Penrose demanded, their host’s stern tone somewhat undercut by the way he stopped several yards away from the fracas.

  “Put that damned pistol doon, Fendarrow!” Ranulf ordered. Unlike their dinner party host, he moved directly into the line of fire. His gaze moved from Arran to the Campbell’s granddaughter and back again. “Arran,” he murmured, “ye bloody f—”

  “Get yerself back, Glengask,” Arran interrupted. “This has naught to do with ye.” By himself, he could likely disarm Fendarrow before the marquis had a chance to pull the trigger, but Ranulf would jump in if he moved—and he damned well wasn’t going to risk his brother’s life. Although as he’d just trampled their fragile little truce, he’d already put Ranulf in danger.

  “I don’t give a damn about either of you,” Fendarrow growled. “Mary, come here. Now.”

  “I’m so sorry, Arran,” her soft whisper came from behind his shoulder. “I don’t know wh—”

  “Go to your athair, lass. We cannae settle anything here tonight,” he murmured back, keeping his hands well away from his sides and his gaze steady on her father. Abruptly he wished he knew more about the man; once a Highlander left the Highlands for England’s softer ways, though, the MacLawrys tended to ignore him.

  Slowly Mary moved around him and walked toward her father. Arran had read about scandals similar to this one in the London newspapers that had made their way up to the Highlands. They all ended with either the father shooting the rogue who’d tried to despoil his daughter, or a quick marriage between the two parties concerned to quash any further scandal. The latter would never happen. Not between Mary and him.