Rogue with a Brogue

by Suzanne Enoch

  He risked a glance at Mary’s straight, stiff shoulders. Because he’d been unable to think straight, or in fact to ponder anything beyond having her in his arms and hearing her clever laugh, he’d put them in this position. And now the best he could do was try to salvage enough peace that Roderick MacAllister wouldn’t withdraw from the negotiations.

  “Do ye mean to murder my brother now, in front of all these witnesses?” Ranulf demanded, in the same tone that had once sent an armed Adam Daily rolling backward down a hill rather than confront him.

  Fendarrow lowered the pistol, then shoved it into his pocket. “No,” he said clearly. “Nor do I want this … aberration to affect our dealings. In return, however, I want him”—and he jabbed a finger in Arran’s direction—“gone from London.”

  As angry as Ranulf likely was, being ordered to do something that concerned his own family wouldn’t sit well with him. Especially when the order came from the Campbell’s oldest son. Arran braced himself, ready to step between the two men.

  “I’m agreeable to that,” Ranulf said with a curt nod. “He’ll be gone by sunset tomorrow.”

  Arran stared at his brother’s profile. Jaw clenched, fists clenched, eyes narrowed and icy, the Marquis of Glengask didn’t look inclined to concede anything, much less banishing his own brother at a Campbell’s request. And yet not even a Sasannach could have misunderstood his words.

  Fendarrow grabbed Mary by the arm and yanked her back toward the house. They headed in Delaveer’s direction, as if the marquis meant to hand her over to Roderick right then and there. The viscount, though, shook his head and walked away. Damnation. Now it was worse. Mary’s already pale cheeks went even grayer, but she didn’t fight her father’s grip. Instead, her pretty, moss-green gaze fixed on Arran’s face, she backed away from the garden.

  Once she went through the door into Penrose House, he would never see her again. He knew that with an ice-cold certainty that made his lungs feel like they were filled with sand. It would have happened soon enough anyway, but not yet. He wasn’t ready. “Ranulf.”

  His brother faced him. “I dunnae want to hear another damned word from ye,” he snarled. “I dunnae even want to look at ye. Get in the coach and go back to Gilden Hoose.”

  “Ran—”

  “Now.”

  With a curse Arran turned on his heel and strode for the stable yard and the street beyond. He passed by the coach, ignoring Debny’s attempt to catch his attention, and continued down Hill Street. If he sat in the coach like a naughty lad sent to his bedchamber for poor behavior, he would combust.

  As he turned the corner another coach trundled by, the horses under the whip. The Campbell coat of arms glinted on the door panel in the lamplight. Mary had been sent home as well, to take responsibility for … for whatever it was they might accuse her of. His first instinct was to charge after them and claim responsibility for whatever ill deeds they chose to fling in his direction. If he showed his face at Mathering House, though, he would be doing more harm than good.

  And realistically, what would he do, anyway? Promise he wouldn’t make more trouble so she could be wed to dull Delaveer, after all? He didn’t want her to marry the viscount. He didn’t want her marrying anyone—at least not until he’d figured out what the devil he wanted, himself.

  Damn it all. So much for his reputation as the “clever” MacLawry brother. Even Bear had never been caught by a lass’s parents. And the worst part of it was that for the past few days, and especially tonight, he felt like something had begun, like they’d been on the precipice of something that could have been—would have been—extraordinary, if only she hadn’t been a Campbell and he a MacLawry.

  Now, because beneath everything else he was Ranulf’s brother and heir to clan MacLawry’s chief, he would take the thrashing he was handed, and then he would go home. Go north to the Highlands, return to Glengask. The incident finished and if not forgotten, then never to be discussed again. Ranulf the master negotiator would make some additional concession to the Stewarts, and he would still have his alliance. The remainder of his own life would be filled with the dull prattle of Deirdre Stewart. Mary, however, was likely to be confronted with something even worse. And it was all his own damned, arrogant fault.

  Scowling and half hoping some thug would accost him, Arran reached Union Street, hesitated, and then turned north when he should have turned south. If he was wrong about what would be in store for Mary, he was about to cause even more trouble for himself. But he needed to know. He needed to know she would be well.

  And so he kept walking. Turning another corner, he climbed the steps to the modest-sized house in front of him and swung the brass lion’s head knocker against the door. He hadn’t precisely been full of good ideas this evening. And he could only hope this would be the exception. Or it could be the first—or last—nail in his coffin.

  The door swung open, an elderly, liveried man moving into the opening. “Lord Arran,” he said, inclining his head. “Was Lord Fordham expecting you? He isn’t in this evening, I’m afraid.”

  Arran nodded, still attempting to gather his thoughts into something coherent. “I wondered if I might write a note oot fer the viscount.”

  “Certainly, my lord.” Stepping aside, the butler ushered him into the morning room. “You’ll find paper and pen in the writing desk. May I bring you some tea?”

  What he wanted was whisky, but he was going to need all his wits over the next few hours. “I’d thank ye fer some tea.” This was going to take some time he likely didn’t have, but at the moment he was finished with weighing regrets. And taking action weighed less than leaving all his questions and hopes unanswered.

  * * *

  “I should have him arrested, is what I should do,” Lord Fendarrow snapped, pacing a tight line in his office.

  Mary and her mother sat in the chairs facing the desk, the marchioness following her husband’s stalking with her head, and Mary doing her best to keep her gaze on her folded hands. It was the only way she could keep them from clenching, and the only way she could keep from doing something as stupid as stomping her feet and shouting that if anyone would just take a moment to listen, they might understand.

  “Accosting my daughter,” her father continued, the pitch of his voice rising as he ranted. “The Duke of Alkirk’s granddaughter! Rogues, all of them! I’m sending word to Alkirk. This will mean war.”

  “No!” she broke in, all the blood leaving her face. “You can’t do that, Father! I was kissing him just as much as he was kissing me, for heaven’s sake! I told you that.”

  “That’s enough, Mary!” her mother said sharply. “He is the man; this is all his responsibility. He tricked you. He led you astray. You are very nearly betrothed. This is … inexcusable.”

  “Mother, y—”

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” her father took up, snapping his fingers. “The end of the truce. That’s the MacLawrys’ aim. Why else would Glengask have sent his brother after you? And why would he have arranged for me to discover you at so opportune a moment and at so crowded an event? He doesn’t want the Campbells allying with the MacAllisters.”

  “Father, I—”

  “They may have men in place, just waiting for word that we’ve broken the truce so they can murder us all.” He stalked to the window, peered outside, then pulled the curtains closed as if he feared assassins could be lurking in the shrubbery even now.

  “Arran and I stumbled across each other, and we’ve become friends,” Mary insisted, raising her voice when her mother tried to hush her again. “There’s a truce, so what’s the difficulty?”

  “The ‘difficulty,’ as you call it, Mary, is that you are Lady Mary Campbell, for God’s sake. Why do I need to state that you do not kiss random men? Especially men from a rival clan?” The marquis snapped his mouth shut. “You only kissed him, didn’t you? You’re not despoiled? By a MacLawry?”

  “What? Of course I haven’t—we’ve only been acquainted for a week!”
>
  “Which is evidently long enough for you to embarrass us and put all of our futures at risk. Roderick wouldn’t even look at us as we left the dinner, and what do you think Charles is going to say when he hears that Arran MacLawry kissed you?”

  Mary began feeling ill. Not because of what she’d done, but because they’d stopped her. Because Charles Calder had clearly endeared himself to her parents more than she’d realized, in case of just such a fiasco. Because Lord Glengask had said that Arran would be on his way back to Scotland by tomorrow night, no doubt with Deirdre Stewart on his heels.

  She couldn’t even explain it. For goodness’ sake, she was one-and-twenty. He was not Romeo, and she was most certainly not Juliet. This wasn’t love at first sight. But there was something. They’d begun something, touched something, she and Arran. They’d said they would end it when the time came, but given the way she felt at this moment, she wasn’t certain how she would have parted from him.

  “Go up to bed, Mary,” her father finally ordered, pausing his pacing. “For the world at large I blame MacLawry. Privately, I am most disappointed in you. And some things are going to alter. This indulgence we’ve shown because of your grandfather’s fondness for you stops. Clearly you cannot be trusted not to act in ways that weaken this family.”

  That sounded even more ominous. Protesting now after she’d already stated that she’d become friends with Arran would only make her father more furious. With a stiff nod she stood and walked to the office door. “Good night, Father. Mother.”

  They didn’t answer. In her entire life she’d never seen them so angry. Certainly she’d never given them cause to be disappointed or even annoyed with her before. But this was her fault. She couldn’t say she was proud to be a part of clan Campbell, because she’d never truly felt challenged about it. She was proud of her grandfather and how well respected he was, and she was proud to be his granddaughter. For the most part her parents did as he requested, which made them seem almost like an extension of him. Would the Campbell be as angry as they were? Was he truly the one who’d pushed the alliance with the MacAllisters? What would he say now that she’d ruined it? Would he not wish to see her or write her letters or send her bits and baubles from the Highlands any longer?

  Crawford waited for her upstairs and helped her change out of her fine violet evening gown and into her night rail. The maid was clearly near to bursting with “I told you sos,” but Mary didn’t give her the opportunity to use them. Of course she knew better. The risk had seemed worth it. It still did, actually.

  She spent most of the night awake, half hoping that Arran would climb through her bedchamber window—not to ravish her or help her run away, but so she would have someone with whom she could discuss what had happened. So they could attempt to make sense of events and figure out what they needed to do to fix things.

  He didn’t appear, and then Crawford began throwing open curtains shortly before eight o’clock in the morning. “We need to hurry, my lady,” the maid said, pulling a rather plain green and brown muslin from the wardrobe.

  “Why are we hurrying?” Mary asked, brushing the night’s restless knots out of her hair. “No one will be out and about for hours.”

  “I don’t know, my lady. Your father the marquis said you were to come down to breakfast at once.”

  So she would be spending the day being reminded of her ancestry and her duty and the history of the clan’s rivalry with the MacLawrys. Or perhaps he’d managed to convince Roderick that the truce, more rickety or not, remained, and that the Campbells and MacAllisters still had an alliance. She frowned. Roderick. Yes, he was likely waiting for her just downstairs. After she’d kissed and chatted with Arran. A life of dull and mild, with a hundred might-have-beens up in the attic where she could dwell on them endlessly.

  Even with all that, though, she couldn’t regret meeting Arran. Without him she would have missed a handful of the most interesting conversations of her life. She would have missed the sensation that her feet weren’t quite touching the ground when he smiled at her. She would have missed knowing him—and that would have been a tragedy even greater than the one currently opened at her feet.

  “Oh, you have a letter,” Crawford exclaimed, making her jump. The maid produced a crisply folded missive from her pocket and handed it over. “I nearly forgot, with all the goings-on this morning.”

  Mary frowned as she turned it over. “‘Lady Joan Crane,’” she read aloud, not recognizing the name. The address was a respectable one on Reeves’s Mews, so with a shrug she broke the wax seal and unfolded the note.

  “Dear Lady Mary,” she read to herself. “Though we aren’t well acquainted, I would very much appreciate knowing that you are well. If for any reason you find your present circumstances untenable, please feel free to inform me.”

  What the devil was this? She opened the last fold of the short note, and a small scrap of yellow and white muslin fell to the floor.

  Heat and understanding jolted through her. Swiftly she bent down to retrieve the scrap, and curled her fingers hard around it. Arran had kept this, from that morning at the hat shop. She hadn’t even realized. And he’d managed to find a way to contact her. He was still thinking about her, still concerned about her—just as she was about him.

  Almost immediately the chill of reality swept in to drive the warmth of those thoughts away. Because able to contact her or not, he was still a MacLawry. He was still leaving for Scotland by sunset, and she still had Roderick MacAllister awaiting her downstairs. And so she would write him via this Lady Joan, and tell him that she was well, that she wished … that she wished him well, and that this—whatever it might have become—was over.

  Once Crawford finished pinning up her hair, Mary put the note and the scrap of muslin in the drawer of her writing desk and went downstairs to be lectured.

  In the breakfast room doorway, though, she stopped dead. Her parents sat in their usual places, their expressions as grim and somber as she’d expected. But the reason she couldn’t catch her breath was seated in her usual spot at her father’s right elbow. And it wasn’t Lord Delaveer.

  “Good morning, Mary,” Charles Calder said with a smile.

  The fact that he was smiling when he should have been plotting revenge against the blackguard MacLawrys horrified her. Because she could only think of one thing that would make him smile this morning. The MacAllisters had fled the alliance, after all.

  “Have a seat, Mary,” her father said flatly. “We have some things to discuss.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Dunnae bother, Winnie. His mind’s made up.” Arran threw the new pair of Hessian boots he’d acquired into the traveling trunk along with the ridiculous beaver hat the Sasannach required their men to wear out of doors.

  He’d arrived in London four weeks ago in such a hurry that he hadn’t packed anything but a clean shirt. Everything going into the trunk now had been purchased here. More than likely he’d never need any of it again, but perhaps the church in An Soadh could make use of the clothes if they ever put on an English play.

  “But he’s arranging his wedding,” his sister countered, tears skittering down her cheeks. “We’ll all be heading home in a few weeks. Ran would be better off with you here.”

  Arran held up a small porcelain fox that had somehow found its way onto his dressing table. “Is this from ye, or Ranulf?” he asked.

  “Me.”

  “Thank ye, then.” He wound it into the small pile of cravats he’d also acquired, then tucked it into one corner of the trunk.

  “Couldn’t you simply apologize?” Rowena insisted. “Tell him you were spying on the Campbells for us, to see if they truly mean to honor the truce.”

  He shook his head, setting aside the thought that he’d considered telling that very lie just so he would have an excuse to be seen in Mary’s company. If that tale had ever had its moment, it had now passed. “Nae, piuthar. It’s only Ranulf who can decide to make peace with an enemy because he wants
a woman. The rest of us wed who and when we’re told. So watch yourself, Rowena. I hear the Cameron has an unmarried son. And he’s naught but fifty-seven, only twenty-nine years yer senior.”

  “You shouldn’t say such things, Arran. Especially about Charlotte. And the Hanovers are very nice, too.”

  “Aye, they are. And I have no quarrel over a friendship with the Hanovers. It’s Glengask shaking hands with all the Sasannach and all the Scots who’ve fled the Highlands that grinds my teeth. But he can do as he wishes. I cannae, obviously.”

  “This is ridiculous!” she argued, stomping one foot. “Just talk to him! We are family. We don’t send each other away.”

  “Ye have that wrong, Winnie,” Arran returned, waiting until his sister’s back was turned before he slipped a pistol into the pocket of his hanging jacket and set the other one into the trunk. However he felt about Mary, he was not popular with the Campbells at the best of times. By now the lot of them were likely frothing at the mouth to be after him. “Ran banished Uncle Myles fer three years fer being pleasant to the Donnellys.”

  “Because it ended with Bear being shot. This isn’t the same. And he forgave Uncle Myles.”

  “Aye, he did. The moment Ranulf needed him to navigate through the Sasannach.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “So you’re just leaving London. You’re running away like a scalded dog.”

  Arran walked around his bed and sat on the edge of it to face his sister. “Whatever anyone thinks, I dunnae want trouble with the Campbells. I didnae intend fer this to happen. So aye, I’m leaving. Like a scalded dog.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  Frequently Arran had been put into the position of being the diplomatic MacLawry, the one who soothed over some of the more radical of Ranulf’s decisions. Like when he’d decided to build schools in the two villages on Glengask land, and require every child under the age of twelve to attend them. Well, with the mood he was in, Ranulf could be his own diplomat.