“The only one who’s allowed to like the way of things is Ranulf. Dunnae ye see that by now? Do ye think I’d be aboot to marry Deirdre Stewart if I had a choice? Saint Bridget. I’ve had more interesting conversations with a hammer.”
Rowena furrowed her brow, dark gray eyes searching his. “Arran, you aren’t in love with Mary Campbell, are ye?”
Since her brogue kept slipping into hearing she must have been truly surprised, and truly distraught. On another occasion he might have teased her about it, but this morning he didn’t feel amused. He wanted to know that Mary wasn’t paying an even higher price than he was for this disaster. That was the only thing that would make leaving London acceptable—if by doing so he was helping her. Of course helping Delaveer to her didn’t sit nearly as well, but he was a better choice than Calder.
He’d done what he could when he’d had Fordham forward that letter to her. Answering it would be up to her. And if she didn’t respond, he would never know if she was simply relieved that the decision of what they would do next had been removed, or if she felt as at sea as he did. Milling currents, muddled feelings, that sense of loss without ever having grasped what it was they might have had.
“We’ll never know now, will we?” he said aloud, knowing his sister expected some sort of response. “I’m pledged to Deirdre. Or near enough.”
“But did ye tell Ran? If he knew, he might—”
“Who do ye think ye’re talking to, Rowena? Now go downstairs and be nice to our bràthair before he decides ye need to go home, as well.”
That evidently made an impact on her, because after favoring him with a tight, damp hug she fled his bedchamber. Arran blew out his breath, then stood to resume packing. He might have been more positive, more circumspect, he supposed. He might have offered his sister some hope that he and Ranulf would reconcile.
Except that he didn’t think they would. Ranulf hadn’t spoken a word to him since they’d parted at the Penrose dinner. But more than that, this trip down to London had changed the marquis. Whatever it was, Arran didn’t understand it, he didn’t like it, he didn’t see a reason for it, and he didn’t think it was in the best interest of clan MacLawry, no matter who else they brought into the fold.
Finally he shut the trunk and buckled the leather straps to keep the lid locked down. Every ounce of will he possessed fought against the desire, the need, to go to Mathering House and discover for himself how Mary fared. But he’d arranged for her to get his note. If he went to see her in person, several people would likely end up dead.
“M’laird,” Owen said from the doorway.
“Aye. Come in.”
The butler stayed in the hallway, as though he were worried he might catch the plague if he stepped into the room. “I’m to tell ye Debny’s hitching up the heavy coach fer ye, and that ye’re to be gone in thirty minutes. He’ll drive ye home.”
“I sent Peter oot to hire a coach fer me. I’ll nae take that monster with the MacLawry crest on the panel. And I’ve nae need of bodyguards.” Arran furrowed his brow. “I’m lyin’ in the bed I made.” Of course soon enough he and Lady Deirdre would be lying in the bed Ranulf had made for them.
“I— As ye say, m’laird. I’ll inform Lord Glengask.” The servant nodded, then cleared his throat. “Ye’ve a letter from Lord Fordham, as well.”
Arran just resisted launching himself at the door and snatching it out of Owen’s hand. “Aye? I left him a note last night to tell him I was leaving London.” Walking up to the door, he held out his hand. “Are ye allowed to give it to me, or do ye have to get Glengask’s leave first?”
Owen straightened. “I’m only supposed to catch notes ye send oot.”
Ranulf didn’t trust him not to make more trouble, then. He wasn’t surprised, and he was more thankful than ever that he’d stopped by William Crane’s house last night. Arran took the missive from the butler’s fingers, then retreated to his writing desk to read it, intentionally leaving the bedchamber door open as he did so.
Taking a breath, telling himself his hands shook from anger, he opened the letter. Across the top of the page in Fordham’s distinctive handwriting, he read, “This arrived at 2:17 this afternoon. And write me when you’re safe at Glengask, you idiot.”
The rest of the note had been written in a different, more elegant hand. For a heartbeat he shut his eyes. Mary had sent him an answer, and he had no idea what he hoped it would be. Or rather, he did know what he wanted to read, but there was no way in the world any good could come of it.
He opened his eyes again. “Dear Lady Joan,” he read to himself, hearing her voice in his head, “I regret to tell you that I won’t be in London to better our acquaintance, though I dearly wish that wasn’t so. My parents have decided it is time I marry. I will be leaving Mathering House first thing in the morning, and returning to Fendarrow in Wiltshire by the main road. There, in two weeks’ time, I am to be wed to Mr. Charles Calder, my cousin.”
Arran stopped reading. Anger pulsed through him. The MacAllisters were out—and that was his fault. Even if he hadn’t known about Mary’s dislike for her cousin, Charles Calder was a clever, cruel man whom he wouldn’t want to see wed to his worst enemy—which he supposed Mary was. She didn’t feel like an enemy, though. And unless in the next few lines she could convince him that she’d made her peace with the idea of marrying Calder, he was not going to allow it to happen. The strength of that thought actually surprised him. But he bloody well meant it.
He looked down again. “If you have any words of hope or wisdom for me, Lady Joan, I would welcome them. And please know, I do not blame you for the fact that we are not better acquainted. Indeed, our friendship was just begun, and as far as I’m concerned, our friendly sentiments were mutual. Or so I choose to believe.”
“Damnation,” he muttered, his jaw clenched. “Damn, damn, damn.”
“I have no expectations from you, but as you asked after me, I wanted to answer completely and truthfully. Yours in fond, fond recollection, Mary.”
She hadn’t wanted to let this … moment between them end, either. At least he hadn’t been wrong about that. But knowing her feelings didn’t help anything. It didn’t help her. Arran walked over to the nearest window. Calder, MacAllister, Stewart—he wanted nothing to do with any of them. Who the devil gave a damn if they gained a few more bodies fit for glaring across the valley at the Campbells? Especially now that the Campbells weren’t allying with the MacAllisters. All this nonsense was for nothing. And he and Mary still had to pay for it.
The window frame beneath his fingers splintered. He unclenched his hands from the wood, but the fury and frustration continued burrowing its way into his chest. Arran smoothed out the crumpled letter and read it again.
Mary had been very specific about when she was leaving and where she was going. She hadn’t precisely asked for a rescue, but she had asked if he—or Lady Joan, rather—had any suggestions, because she was about to become desperately unhappy. As was he.
A knock sounded at the half-open door, and he turned around. “My clock has struck, I presume?” he drawled.
“Aye,” Owen answered, his expression even more dour than it had been earlier. “The coach ye hired is doonstairs. Debny saddled Duffy, so ye could ride if ye wanted.”
Arran nodded, then motioned at the two footmen with Owen. “Just the one trunk, lads, and my satchel.”
“I’m to send Peter Gilling north with ye, m’laird, to watch over ye until ye’re back at Glengask, and then to be certain ye … behave until Lady Deirdre arrives.”
“Nae. I go alone. I fought the French fer four years, the same as you and Peter. I can keep clear of a few Campbells, if need be.”
Owen’s scowl deepened. “Laird Glengask willnae like that.”
Walking up to the butler, his mind spinning already with a dozen different scenarios that would be impossible with another member of the household in tow, Arran pointed a finger deeper into the house. “Then Laird Glengask can tell me th
at himself. Because I dunnae give a damn what he likes or doesnae like.”
“I— Aye, m’laird.”
The footmen disappeared with his luggage, and Arran made one last tour of the bedchamber he’d occupied for the past few weeks. The wall remained torn up where he’d cornered the badger, but other than that it might have been any Sasannach’s room in any Sasannach’s house. It wasn’t home. Nowhere was home but Glengask. And if Ranulf’s temper didn’t cool, he likely wouldn’t be welcome there after the rest of the family returned.
Of course if he did half of what he was beginning to contemplate, he might find the entire Highlands rising up against him. Slowly he pulled on the old hunter’s jacket he’d worn when he’d ridden down to London. He’d been in a damned hurry, concerned that Ranulf had lost his mind over an English chit and was about to get himself killed. Ha. He should have stayed in Glengask.
“Peter goes with ye,” Ranulf said from the doorway. “Ye’ve done enough to bloody up things with the Campbells. I’ll nae have ye killed when that would mean open war. And I’ll nae have ye marrying some farmer’s daughter to avoid yer obligations.”
Damnation. If he protested or argued now, Ranulf would assume—and rightly—that he wasn’t finished with making trouble. So instead he gave a curt nod. All the things he wanted to say, explanations, decisions, his intentions, Ranulf wouldn’t want to hear. And actually, if Mary was leaving London tomorrow, he didn’t want to stay either, so he no longer had any reason to argue against it. “He can ride with the driver, then.”
The two deer hounds pushed past Ranulf into the room, their tails down as if they sensed the tension in the house. He gave each of them a brisk pat. “Guard Glengask,” he instructed them, and moved by his brother without touching him or meeting his gaze.
Downstairs the footmen finished loading his trunk onto the back of the coach and fastened the satchel to Duffy’s saddle. Arran paused in the foyer for a moment, waiting for … Hell, he didn’t know what he was waiting for. The earth would open and swallow the lot of them before Ranulf would bend.
As he stepped outside Rowena ran out of the morning room and threw her arms around him. “I’m so sorry, Arran,” she sobbed. “I dunnae want ye to go.”
He tilted her chin up with his fingers. “Dunnae weep, piuthar. I’m nae dying; I’m going home to the Highlands.”
“I know that. But Ran’s so angry with you.”
There remained a wide chasm between what he wanted to say to Ranulf and what he would say to Rowena. “As in every argument,” he drawled, extracting himself from her grip and walking over to swing up on Duffy, “I ken there’s more than one side. He has his. I’m nae certain it’s the correct one. He doesnae seem like a man who puts his family first, any longer. So mayhap it’s time fer me to look after myself.”
“What does that mean, Arran? You’re worrying me.”
He forced a half smile. “It doesnae mean anything. I reckon I’ll grumble fer a time, then do as Glengask asks.”
Or perhaps he wouldn’t. With that he nodded at Peter perched up beside the one-eyed coachman and kneed Duffy in the ribs. Ranulf didn’t like the choices he’d made. But with this method of punishment, Ran had given him what he wanted: time. Even if it did come with a nanny named Peter Gilling. But Arran could guarantee that his brother wouldn’t like what he meant to do with the opportunity. Whether Mary Campbell would like it or not was a question for tomorrow.
* * *
What a difference forty hours made. Just two nights ago Mary had been enjoying the most interesting, arousing moments of her life, even if she did know it would be short-lived. Part of her remained baffled that every moment since had gone so wrong.
She kept her gaze fixed on the changing scenery outside the coach window, but it could have been a moonless midnight for all the attention she paid. Arran had left London sixteen or so hours ago, heading in the opposite direction she was going now. Disasters for both of them.
“Mr. Calder was very pleasant this morning,” Crawford said, shifting on the opposite seat.
“Of course he was,” she retorted, her stomach roiling again at the mention of her newly betrothed’s name. “He’s gotten exactly what he wanted. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one who told my father I was out by the fish pond.”
Whether her parents were angry with her or not, Mary couldn’t fathom why they’d decided she should marry Charles. She found none of her cousins particularly appealing, but she could see this as nothing other than a punishment—one that would literally last a lifetime.
“Perhaps you could reason with them after they’ve had a chance to see that with Arran MacLawry gone from London, the talk has subsided.” Crawford sent her an uncertain smile that was likely meant to be hopeful. “And no blood was spilled, so perhaps Lord Delaveer will return to the table.”
“Even if my father hadn’t already placed the announcement in the newspaper, according to Roderick’s letter he will have nothing to do with a woman of my low character, whatever the incentive.”
“That seems an ungentlemanly thing to say.”
“Yes, but then Charles’s argument was that if I didn’t agree to marry him, he could well feel the need to extract from the MacLawrys the price of the damage Arran and I did to the Campbells. Not a gentleman to be seen.” She clenched her jaw. Charles had clearly been anticipating the fragmenting of the truce, and then while it teetered he’d threatened to push it into the abyss himself. And her parents had seemed almost grateful to him for “offering” for their disgraced daughter. If it hadn’t felt so tragic, it would have been ridiculous.
As it was, her parents had already placed the announcement in the newspaper and set the date. And she knew why they’d done that, as well. The more quickly they made the arrangements, the less likely her grandfather would be able to intercede. Of course she had no idea if the Campbell would have done anything to save her, given the opportunity; he’d wanted her wed to Roderick, and she’d stomped that plan into the dirt. Aside from that, Charles Calder had licked her grandfather’s boots for years, and the Duke of Alkirk couldn’t possibly view this mess any less seriously than did the Marquis of Glengask. And Glengask had sent his own brother away. The duke had several granddaughters. Perhaps Beatrice or Mavis would simply take her place as his favorite.
The timbre of the wheels changed, and she blinked the world back into focus as the coach turned into an inn’s stable yard. The Giant’s Pipe Inn already. They were making good time, likely because she hated every moment that brought her closer to Fendarrow Park.
Thomas the footman pulled open the coach door and flipped down the steps. “Gordon says the roads have been good, so you’ve an hour for luncheon and to stretch your legs while we change the horses, my lady.”
Mary took the hand he offered and stepped down to the ground. “Thank you, Thomas.” She turned toward the inn as the footman handed Crawford down. Had it only been two months since she and her parents had last stopped at this coaching inn at the beginning of the Season? It seemed like years. Decades.
Inside, Crawford requested a platter of baked ham and fresh bread, and they sat at one of the scattering of long tables and benches. At midday the inn’s common room was crowded, both with travelers and locals stopping in for a bite. Previously she’d enjoyed the light, friendly banter darting around her. Today, it didn’t fit her mood.
She was halfway to requesting a private room where she could sulk and close the shutters when she caught sight of the man seated at the back of the room, a floppy straw hat on his head, a pint in his hand, and light blue eyes gazing straight back at her. Her breath caught.
In addition to the farmer’s hat Arran had also donned a worn, patched brown coat, but she recognized him immediately. Her heart began to pound, the twisted knot in her chest to loosen. Perhaps their moment wasn’t yet finished. Had he read her return note? Did he merely want the chance to say good-bye in private? To say he wished she’d refused to dance with him that first night? Sh
e almost wished for that, herself—she’d had the barest taste of passion and possibility, just enough to make her yearn for impossible things.
Arran angled his head toward the rear door, then stood and left the common room. Mary found herself on her feet almost before she’d decided to move. “I’m going to walk down to the stream,” she said. “I need to clear my head.”
“Of course, my lady.” Crawford climbed to her feet, as well. “Shall I fetch your parasol?”
“No. Stay here and finish eating. I’ll be in sight of everyone in the yard.” She forced a smile. “I have a great deal of thinking to do.”
From Crawford’s expression, the maid thought it was far too late to begin considering things logically now. She was correct, of course, but nothing about Arran and the way he swept her into a windstorm was logical. Logically she should never have spoken a word to him. Logically they should hate each other simply because of the surnames with which they’d been born.
Mary stepped outside, and a warm hand pulled her around the corner of the inn. “What are you doing here?” she asked in a low voice, fighting the urge to kiss him right there.
“Nae here,” he murmured in that enticing brogue she’d thought she would never hear again. “This way.” Taking her hand in his, he led the way into the scattering of trees behind the inn. Down the eroding stream bank, across a questionable bridge of stones, then up the far side again. Finally he faced her again. “I took a bit of a detour on the way north,” he drawled. “I wanted to have a conversation with ye, lass.”
When his mouth curved in a slight, rueful smile, she couldn’t stand it any longer. Grabbing his lapels, she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. In response, Arran pressed her back against a tree, molding his mouth against hers. Hungry. She’d been hungry, and this—him—was the only thing that could sate her.
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