“And you still think this is a good idea?” Crawford folded her hands in her lap, her face as compassionate as a saw blade. “You have nowhere to go, my lady—and no income, no clothes, and no future. And that’s if you do marry him. If you don’t, you’ll fare even worse than he will, my lady. For God’s sake, we must return to the inn before it’s too late!”
Even Mary began to look alarmed. If he didn’t want this to become a kidnapping in actual fact, he needed to make a few things clear to Mary—and without the damned maid looming over them like a dour gargoyle. Arran banged on the roof of the coach with his fist. “Stop us here.”
The moment the shabby old vehicle rocked to a halt, Mary reached past Arran for the door handle. “I need some air,” she muttered, taking the long step down to the rutted road and then striding for the edge of the lane and the small stand of trees beyond.
This morning she’d been desperate. Arran’s appearance at the inn would have seemed a godsend even if she wasn’t rather enamored of him. But the reality of it all was that she had no idea if she was better off now than she’d been an hour ago.
She couldn’t seem to pull enough air into her lungs. Had she gone mad, choosing to flee everything she knew simply because she liked the sound of Arran MacLawry’s voice? Had she chosen ruin and poverty and a devilish handsome face over the slim chance that she might be able to change her father’s mind about Charles Calder? Over the even smaller chance that they could convince Roderick to return and she could be happy with just … ordinary?
“Mary.”
Arran followed her into the shelter of the trees. “Go away,” she said without heat. “I need a moment to think.”
“I’ll give ye as many moments as ye want,” he returned in his intoxicating brogue, pulling at the shoulders of the shabby coat that was clearly too small for him. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? Just how ridiculous was she?
“Then go,” she insisted, when he didn’t move.
“I have one thing to tell ye first.” He leaned against a straight oak trunk, crossing his ankles and regarding her coolly. This was where he fit in, she realized abruptly. Not beneath chandeliers and gilded cornices, but out of doors, where his tall frame and broad shoulders had room to move, where the wind could lift the coal-black hair from his temple.
“I decided to come with you, Arran. I’m merely weighing the consequences. I should have done it before, but I was so … grateful to see you.” “Grateful” wasn’t the right word, actually, but admitting that she’d been excited and elated and aroused wouldn’t make her sound any more intelligent.
“And ye’re nae so grateful now that Miss Lemon Mouth has soured the air?”
“She made some good points.”
“Aye. I reckon she did. And now I’ll make some.” He plucked a leaf off a low-hanging branch and began shredding it in his fingers. “I may disagree with Glengask aboot nearly everything, these days, but he did make certain everyone in his family would be protected, no matter what might happen to him or to the clan. Therefore, even if we’re both banished from our families and clans, I have enough blunt to see ye with a new wardrobe, a horse, a house, and a carriage or two if it pleases ye.”
“You rescued me from marrying Charles.”
“Aye, after I kissed ye and sent Delaveer scuttling away.”
“That wasn’t just you doing the kissing,” honesty made her admit. “But I don’t want to be a woman who jumps from one man’s arm to another’s. Crawford just made me consider what I would do if my grandfather doesn’t want to see me. Or if he decides I should marry Charles, after all.”
“I’d be more worried if ye didn’t have some serious reservations, lass. I dunnae want ye to see me as the least of three evils, either. I want ye, and I think ye want me. We’ll begin with that. It’s a long way to the Highlands, and we’ll have time to figure oot if we’re … compatible.”
“You’re being very reasonable.”
“I’m generally a reasonable man.” He straightened. “I’ll wed ye, Mary Campbell, but now ye’ve wounded me. If ye want me now, ye’ll have to ask me fer my hand like ye mean it.” Arran flashed her a jaunty grin and then strolled back to the coach.
Mary kept her gaze on his departing backside, then blinked and turned her gaze elsewhere. No one could dispute that Arran MacLawry was a fine-looking man, but her physical attraction to him had nothing to do with how she meant to resolve her situation. His appearance had helped cause her troubles. And yes, she did like him, far more than Roderick and Charles. But if she decided to make a mistake this momentous, she required more than ten days of acquaintance, a handsome face, and a keen wit. After all, he’d fled an arranged marriage just as surely as she had.
And so for the moment it made much more sense to say only that he was escorting her north to see her grandfather. Because everything had been perfectly … pleasant before he’d roared into London. Predictable, yes, and even dull, but pleasant. And it could be again, if she could convince the Campbell to do away with the idea of her marrying Charles.
At this moment she felt much more kindly toward a sworn enemy than she did her own clan, but her only hope of returning to her old life lay in not succumbing to Arran’s charms and doing something as ridiculous as proposing to him—and then in reaching Alkirk and throwing herself on her grandfather’s mercy.
She took a slow breath and made her way back to the coach. Insisting that Crawford accompany them was the most brilliant thing she could have done. The maid would save her reputation, and as a bonus she would certainly take every opportunity to point out what a mistake it would be to succumb to Arran. Even to kiss him, really. Though she’d kissed him several times already just today, and truly there didn’t seem to be much harm in it.
Yes, she was grateful to have Crawford there, she decided. And not at all annoyed.
“So do we go forward, or back?” Arran asked, holding out his hand.
Mary gripped his fingers, intentionally not noting their warm strength, and stepped back up into the coach. It would likely be for the best if he didn’t know she’d decided not to be charmed by him. He might decide that setting the MacLawry agenda aside to escape with her into the Highlands wasn’t worth the reward. Or the lack of reward, rather. Oh, goodness, he was in at least as much trouble as she was. And yet there he sat, gazing at her expectantly.
“We go forward,” she said, and her insides hardly warmed at all at the sight of his responding smile. It was most likely indigestion she felt, anyway.
They drove roughly southwest until late afternoon. Then Arran instructed the driver to find them a respectable inn somewhere off the main road, and shortly after nightfall the coach rattled to a stop in the Twice-Struck Oak Inn stable yard.
“Peter, hire us a pair of rooms fer the night,” Arran said, tossing a coin at the rough-faced footman.
“Aye, m’laird.”
“Nae more o’ that. I’m nae a lord here.”
The servant flushed. “Aye, Mr. Fox,” he amended.
Mary took Arran’s hand and stepped to the soft ground beside him. She’d initially thought to tell him to save his coin rather than going to the expense of purchasing her a mount; staying inside the carriage with Crawford seemed safer for her heart. But after five hours of being whacked on the bottom every time they drove over a rock or a rut, a horse seemed a heavenly idea. And it had nothing to do with the hours the maid had spent glowering.
He kept hold of her fingers. “I’ll go into the village in the morning to find ye some clothes. Have the battle-axe make me a list of what ye both require.”
“I could send Crawford to do that.”
“Nae.” He edged closer to her, lowering his voice. “She reads and writes, aye?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Then I’ll be keeping an eye on her fer a time.”
Wrapping her hand around his rough sleeve, Mary leaned into his hard frame a little. It wouldn’t do to be impolite, after all. “Do you think she would try
to send word to my father?”
“Aye, Mrs. Fox. I reckon she would.”
“What about Peter? You sent him off alone.”
“Peter cannae read or write. And he figures the only thing worse than what I’m doing is seeing me caught by an angry cavalry of Campbells.”
As accustomed as she was to bloodcurdling tales about clan wars and about the MacLawrys in particular, it still surprised her that he could speak so nonchalantly about a happenstance that would surely lead to his death. “If Peter and Crawford weren’t along with us, how many rooms would you have requested?”
“One. We’re married, lass. Remember that, or people might well remember us if someone should come by later to inquire.” He frowned. “Crawford’ll remember she’s yer màthair, willnae? If anyone looks here, it’ll be fer a Highlander, a lady, and her maid.”
“She’ll go along with this for my sake. But whatever we do, you’re still a Highlander.”
“So are ye, lass, even with yer odd accent.”
Almost no one called her a Highlander. Only her grandfather ever called her by her Scottish name—the one she’d been born with. Everyone else had anglicized it to Mary, but she’d always felt in her heart that she was Muire. Belatedly she gathered her thoughts back in. “What I mean is, how would anyone mistake you for anything but a Highlander?”
His attractive smile returned. “I’ve an idea or two.”
Heavens, he would be memorable covered in mud or wearing a priest’s frocks. Hopefully no females would be inside the inn. And now she had the additional image of him in nothing but mud with which to contend. Well done, Mary.
The footman met them at the door. “Secured ye two rooms at the top o’ the stairs, m— Mr. Fox.”
“Excellent. Fetch our trunk up there, will you, Peter, my boy?” Arran said, in a rather remarkable London accent. Even Crawford was staring at him. “What?” he murmured in Mary’s ear, making her shiver. “Ye think I havenae been listening to the Sasannach?”
“No. I … Hm. Well done,” she whispered back.
“Thank ye.” Half turning, he took Crawford by the arm, pulling her up on his other side. “Come along, Mother Graves. Let’s get you settled in, my dear.”
Mary feigned a cough to keep from laughing. With Crawford’s glare she actually looked like a disapproving mother-in-law. For the first time Mary began to think they might actually have a chance of succeeding.
The innkeeper helped Peter haul the heavy-looking trunk upstairs and deposit it in one of the small, neat rooms they’d claimed. Of course none of Mary’s things were in there, but no one in the inn could possibly know that. All in all, and despite having only a few hours to plan a rescue, Arran had done surprisingly well.
“My wife’s cooked up a pot roast,” Mr. Jessup the inkeeper said, bobbing his head. “We’ll be serving downstairs in an hour.”
“That sounds perfect,” she returned. “We’re all famished this evening.”
“Well, there’s plenty for all.”
By dinnertime the Twice-Struck Oak was full to bursting; evidently they weren’t the only ones avoiding the main roads. Arran had said that these out-of-the-way establishments on the edges of forgettable villages were always less expensive, but it still made her wonder how many of the other guests might be fleeing unwanted lives.
Not that hers was unwanted; it had merely taken an extremely unfortunate turn. Or turns, rather. She glanced sideways at Arran, laughing easily at some tale spun by the village blacksmith. How odd that a MacLawry had both caused her troubles—with her own ample help—and had turned out to be the only one concerned with helping her escape them.
And how well he blended in here—much better than she did, Mary was certain. These people were well outside of Society. They were accustomed to looking after themselves, to driving their own carts and mending their own clothes. Her peers would look down on them as the unwashed, ignorant masses, but in a sense they had a freedom about them. A way of living in the moment that Arran himself seemed to embody. And it was very, very attractive to a lady who’d known her own role since … well, since forever, even if it had lately begun to chafe.
But this was about more than her indulging in fairy-tale dreams. Poor Thomas and Gordon were likely beside themselves back at the Giant’s Pipe, and if Gordon had borrowed a horse rather than taking the coach, he might well have made it back to London by now. Her parents might be aware that she’d gone missing. Would they think she’d run away? That she’d been kidnapped? If she hadn’t been so angry at the way they’d refused to listen to her explanation, at the way they’d used her one and only indiscretion as an excuse to hand her off to a clever, cruel bootlicker, she might have felt some empathy for them.
Instead, she sat beside Arran and chuckled at the tale Mr. Billings the farmer told about a very stubborn pig and his wife’s turnips. She sang along to “Barbara Allen,” and listened to Arran’s fine baritone when he joined in. Of course he knew it; it was a Scottish ballad, after all. Tonight it was a simple thing to believe that they belonged together.
Here she wasn’t Lady Mary, or the Campbell’s granddaughter, or even a Campbell at all. No one tried to gain favor with her or marry her off because of her birth, and when Mrs. Jessup the innkeeper’s wife complimented her on her hair, she could believe it was meant sincerely.
Finally Arran stood and offered his hand to her. “We should head upstairs,” he said in his faux English accent. “We’ve an early day tomorrow. Shall we, Mrs. Fox?”
A low, excited tremor ran down her spine. “Certainly, Mr. Fox.”
Tonight she wanted nothing more than to feel his mouth and his hands on her bare skin—which did nothing at all for her resolve to resist his charms. If he asked, though, if they shared a bed as a husband and wife did, she knew she wouldn’t be able to resist him.
Crawford rose from the table, as well. “Sleep with me tonight, my dear,” she said loudly, though she kept Mary between herself and Arran. “You know I don’t travel well.”
“Oh.” Mary stumbled, not nearly as grateful for the rescue as she should likely have been. “Of course, Mother.”
With Arran close on their heels, they climbed the stairs to the first floor. Mary could feel the heat of him looming behind her as they stopped by the first door. Nobody seemed to want to make the first move, but they couldn’t stand there all night glaring at each other, blast it all. Finally Mary reached past the maid and pushed open the door.
“Go on, Mother,” she said. “I’ll be along in a moment.”
The maid still didn’t move. “I’m here to preserve your reputation, my lady, and I intend to do my duty.”
Moving with that abrupt, deadly grace of his, Arran stepped forward, lifted the ample-sized maid off her feet as easily as if she’d been a feather, and set her down again inside the doorway. “There,” he said.
Crawford’s face turned scarlet. “I will not be manhan—”
Arran pulled the door closed on her comment. “That female is trying my damned patience,” he said darkly.
The idea of being with him was just another fairy tale, Mary told herself. Nothing good could come of her being ruined, and certainly not by a MacLawry. Not even this one. “It’s for the best, Arran,” she returned. “We—you—if we share a bed, then our choices become much more limited.”
Light blue eyes studied hers. “I’ll nae touch ye unless ye wish it,” he finally murmured, lifting his hand to run a finger along her cheek. “Unless ye wish it. I dunnae give a damn what Crawford wishes. This is between ye and me, my bonny lass. So open whichever door pleases ye tonight. If the maid tries to interfere like that again, I’ll tie her to the roof of the bloody coach.”
Serious as his tone was, the image of Crawford squawking on the roof of the shabby old coach made her snort. “She would die of mortification.”
Arran narrowed his eyes. “I’m trying to get ye in my bed, Mary, my lass.”
Oh, my. “Crawford makes a very good point, you know,�
�� she muttered, plucking at his sleeve, “regardless of whether she’s overstepping or n—”
He backed her against the wall and tilted her face up with a hard, hot kiss. Good heavens—though heaven had nothing to do with the way he kissed. That mouth of his was made for sin, and she wanted to be a sinner.
A serving woman topped the stairs. Mary would have shoved Arran away, but he kept her pinned between his hard body and the wall. The woman chuckled and squeezed by them. As she went through a door farther down the hallway, Arran shifted to nibble at Mary’s ear. “We’re married, lass. I’ll kiss ye when I choose.” His mouth drifted to her jawline. “And I choose to kiss ye now.”
Her knees began to feel wobbly. To keep from falling to the floor, she slid her arms around his shoulders. Mm. Every part of her felt … breathless. Tangling her fingers into his thick, black hair, she drew herself closer against him.
The door at her shoulder squeaked open. “This will not do!” Crawford gasped.
Arran freed one hand and pulled the door closed again. “Come to my room with me, Mary,” he murmured.
Oh, this was not the way to make a logical, informed decision about her future. Lust for him had already caused her to do things she would never have imagined previously. And it couldn’t possibly solve any of her troubles now. “I should go in there with Crawford,” she whispered, hearing the reluctance in her own voice.
He tugged down the high neck of her gown to press his lips against the base of her throat. “Ye shouldnae.”
Uttering a half-hysterical giggle she ducked out of his grip, fumbled behind her back for the door handle, and pushed it down. “Good night, Mr. Fox,” she managed, and closed herself in the room before she could change her mind.
Chapter Ten
For a long moment Arran leaned his forehead against the cool stone that lined the hallway. He was a damned Highlander, for God’s sake. A MacLawry. The day a petite lass and a maid could defeat him would be his last.
Rogue with a Brogue Page 14
