Rogue with a Brogue

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Now, Arran,” she urged him, her breath coming faster again.

  “It’ll hurt ye fer a minute, lass. But I’ll nae hurt ye again.”

  “I’m ready. Please.”

  Moving as slowly and carefully as he could force himself to do, he canted his hips forward and slid inside her, hot and tight. When he met resistance he paused, holding her lovely green gaze with his own, then moved deeper. Mary gasped, and he caught the sound with a kiss. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, but he held still, fully engulfed. Now she belonged to him.

  “Relax, lass. Feel me inside ye.”

  Gradually her eyes half closed. “Dear heavens,” she murmured.

  With her fingers still restlessly kneading at his back, he slid out, then pushed back in again. “Does it still hurt, my bonny Mary?”

  She shook her head. “No. It feels … Do it again.”

  That made him grin. “My pleasure.” He pumped his hips into her, slowly at first, then harder and faster as her ankles locked around his thighs. Each motion felt like a statement—that she belonged to him, that he wasn’t letting her go.

  “More,” she groaned, arching her back.

  He obliged, again and again, then shifted his weight to free one hand so he could pinch and tug at her nipples. When she came he felt it, and with a grunt he joined her. For a long moment he held her, both of them shuddering.

  Let the Campbells try to stop them now, if they would. Or the MacLawrys. Wherever this adventure took them next, it would be together.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mary gazed into fierce light blue eyes above her and tried to gather up a single thought. The only words close to reaching her mouth seemed to consist of “more,” “good God,” and a plea for him to remain precisely where he was, inside her. She’d never felt so wicked, and so deliriously … happy.

  With a slight, satisfied smile, Arran lowered his head for another of his breath-stealing, heart-stopping kisses. He settled onto his elbows, the shift of his weight on her—in her—exquisite, and reached up to pull the pins from her hair one by one.

  “You— Is it always like that?” she managed shakily, shivers of pleasure running down her spine as he unbraided the long tail of her hair.

  “Nae,” he returned, his deep brogue rumbling through him and into her. “Ye undo me, my bonny Mary. Body and soul.”

  She didn’t think she’d ever heard anything so romantic. Coming from a man as self-assured as he was, it shook her to her core. “I’m undone, myself.”

  His smile deepened. “Good. Ye needed some undoing.”

  At the least, she knew now what he’d meant when he’d told her to stop thinking so much. Every sensation, every caress … It was all overwhelming. And at the same time she couldn’t quite remember why she’d resisted him in the first place. From that first night they’d met, when he hadn’t known who she was other than Lady Vixen, he’d felt exotic, forbidden, and very tantalizing.

  “What’s going through that mind of yers, lass?” he rumbled, sliding an arm beneath her and turning them so that he lay on his back with her looking down at him. “Ye’re nae regretting this, I hope.”

  Regret? All she wanted to do was have at him again. But Crawford would know, and then everything would change. Everything had changed, already. But she couldn’t say it was for the worse, whatever the consequences might be. “I don’t believe I am,” she said aloud.

  “I feel like I’ve been waiting forever for ye to say that, ye know,” he said with a chuckle. “Proclamation of undying love, or nae, it’ll do fer tonight.” He ran his palm down from her shoulder to her backside, cupping her arse.

  “I want to do it again,” Mary stated, kissing the base of his jaw as he’d done for her.

  “Oh, we will.” Lifting her as if she weighed no more than a feather, he set her next to him on the bed. “But nae tonight.”

  “No?” she asked, sitting up as he moved to the edge of the bed. “Why not?”

  He picked up his trousers and shrugged into them, lean and well muscled and perfect. “Because ye want me.”

  Mary frowned. “What the devil is the logic in that?”

  With a grin, he caught up his shirt and pulled it on over his head. “Tomorrow while we’re riding, I want to look over at ye and know that ye’re longing fer my touch, my bonny lass. I want ye to crave me the way I’ve been craving ye since before we began this wee journey. And I want ye to think aboot tomorrow night, when I’ll have ye again.”

  A warm shiver ran down her spine and settled … there. “What if I’ve changed my mind about you by then?”

  “Ye willnae.” After he stomped into his boots, he returned to the bedside to cup the nape of her neck and favor her with a long, slow kiss. “I’ll have ye every night between here and Scotland. And then ye can decide if ye still want to run to yer grandfather and yer old life, or if ye want a new life with me.”

  He set aside the chair that blocked the door, unlocked it, and stepped out into the hallway. With the door almost closed, he leaned back in. “Dunnae let that battle-axe say a cross word to ye aboot this. Blame me if ye wish; my shoulders are broad enough. I’ll see ye in the morning, lass.”

  With that, he shut the door. Surely he was only teasing; he would return in a moment and strip off his clothes again to join her in his bed. She arranged herself on one hip, pulling her loose hair over one shoulder. It felt wanton, so hopefully it looked that way rather than pitiful or comical.

  His bootsteps faded toward the stairs leading to the inn’s common room, and didn’t return. Mary frowned. He couldn’t truly mean to leave her in this state. Yes, she felt delicious and satisfied, but at the same time, a restless want ran just beneath her skin. How was she supposed to think straight now? How was she supposed to make a logical decision about her future when he was all she could think about?

  Huffing out her breath, she finally rolled to the edge of the bed and stood to turn her gown right side out and step into it. With her room just across the hallway and most everyone still at the assembly she didn’t bother buttoning it, or trying to tidy her hair. Crawford would be the only one worth fooling, and the maid would instantly know what she’d been about. And at this moment, she didn’t even feel guilty about it.

  She stepped into her shoes and then crossed over to her own room. Crawford stood from the writing desk and the book she had open there. “My lady, I didn’t expect…” She trailed off, her already somber expression lowering even further. “Your parents will be so disappointed, Lady Mary. And I can only imagine what Mr. Calder’s reaction will be.”

  “I don’t belong to Charles Calder, Crawford. Not any longer. And stop chastising me. I wish to go to bed.”

  Pinching her lips together, the maid helped her back out of her gown. “You could tell your father that he forced himself on you, I suppose,” she said after a moment. “You would also have to tell them that he kidnapped the two of us. I’ll vouch for that, of course. And then hope that no child comes of this. MacLawry will … Well, we don’t need to discuss him, but we might still be able to salvage your repu—”

  “That is enough! For heaven’s sake, listening to this is like having a spider crawl across my scalp. No one but us knows anything. Nor will they. Not until I speak to my grandfather and get this mess straightened out. And no one is going to hurt Arran.”

  That last part had somewhere become the most important, making certain that Charles Calder and her other cousins didn’t harm a single black hair on Arran’s handsome head. Of course he was quite capable of taking care of himself, but that wasn’t the point. The idea that he might be hurt … It stopped her heart.

  And a child? Why hadn’t she considered that? All she’d wanted was Arran. To touch him, to feel his hands on her skin. Nothing else mattered. But a child? If she was pregnant, they would have to find a way to live peaceably. She would be able to have a family with him. To wake up every morning and not only see him, but see his eyes, his face, in a daughter or a son.

 
She shook herself. Tomorrow night seemed a very long time from now. Until then, she would settle for thinking hopefully unwanton thoughts and for praying that a fairy-tale ending could be possible for a MacLawry and a Campbell.

  * * *

  “Let me buy ye a pint, m … my dear Mr. Fox,” Peter’s voice came from the depths of the nearly deserted tavern.

  Arran made his way over to the table. It was a lucky thing the footman had spoken up—he’d almost forgotten he wasn’t a Scot. “I’ll buy you one, my good man,” he countered, signaling the tavern maid.

  “Ye’re a true, gentleman, y’are,” Peter returned, his words slurring just a little. For a Highlander to be that far in his cups, he must have been going at this for a time.

  “I thought ye were keeping watch,” he said in a low voice, dragging the opposite bench closer and sitting.

  “Just warming my innards. Ye’ve returned early from the dance, aye?”

  “Aye.”

  Peter glanced up at him. “Should I nae ask ye more aboot that, then?”

  “Nae, ye shouldnae.”

  Putting it in words could only diminish the evening, anyway. He’d been Mary’s first, and he had every intention of being her only. She’d even left her logic aside for a moment, which left him hope that she would be able to choose him over her clan when the time came for it.

  Walking out of that room with her sitting naked and disheveled and lovely was likely the most difficult thing he’d ever done. But as long as he was the pursuer, he remained uncertain of her own level of commitment. And with what would certainly lie ahead of them, she needed to decide for herself how far she was willing to go, how much she was willing to do. He knew what he was willing to do, but it would take both of them not only to survive this, but to make a future together. For God’s sake, he’d intentionally not taken any precautions with her. She could be carrying his child, even now.

  The maid brought him a mug and he downed it, blinking a little when the brew turned out to be a bitter beer rather than ale. He could be a father. A year ago with some lass from the Highlands the idea would have dismayed him; he was a MacLawry of the clan MacLawry, and he couldn’t afford to be so careless. Tonight, though, he felt … not precisely content, but satisfied. This was the path he was meant to tread, and he was with the woman who would walk it beside him. The only uncertainty was whether she’d yet realized that or not.

  “Ye’re quiet, Mr. Fox,” Peter commented, working more methodically on his own mug. “I do have Howard up in the stable loft keeping an eye on the road while I’m in here. I’ll go oot again in a minute.”

  “I doubt anyone has figured out where we are yet, Peter. But I’m still not ready to stop looking over my shoulder.”

  “Ye should be looking in front of yerself, as well, ye know. She is a Campbell. Aye, she’s pretty, but ye can nae trust a Campbell. She’ll smile at ye while she puts a dagger into yer gizzard.”

  “My gizzard is safe. Mary wouldnae hurt me.” Not physically, anyway.

  “If ye say so. I dunnae trust either of those females.” He sat back again and took another swallow. “So we’re to keep strolling aboot this damned soft country and staying at these cozy inns while death comes hunting ye? Because even if they’ve nae found our trail yet, they will.”

  “Death may be hunting me, but I’d wager it’s still looking in the wrong place.” That was why they’d decided to avoid the North Road; once the Campbells—and Ranulf—realized what had happened, they would search along the quickest route north. Except that his odd little party was half a hundred miles west of it.

  “If ye say so. I know yer brother, though, and he knows ye. How much will ye wager that he’ll nae come to the conclusion that ye didnae take the easier road?”

  That was a good point, dammit all. “Let’s speed our pace a little tomorrow, just to be safe,” he said. “We dunnae want to make it look like we’re fleeing, but enough to get us to the Highlands by the end of the week.”

  “Aye. That’s the best news I’ve had in a fortnight. Once we get there, though, do ye still mean to marry the Campbell lass?”

  “I do, if she’ll have me. I suppose it depends on whether she prefers being Alkirk’s granddaughter to being my wife.”

  “Bah.”

  “Bah?”

  “Ye’ve become too civilized, lad. A MacLawry doesnae allow anyone else to decide the course of his life. He sees what he wants and finds a way to claim it. Tooth, claw, sword, rifle, or mind.” He tapped a forefinger against his temple. “Just like yer brother’s doing. If ye want her, take her.”

  Arran frowned even as a second tankard arrived to replace the first one. Its contents disappeared just as quickly. “Ranulf’s turning himself into a Sasannach,” he grumbled. “I want no kinship to that. Because he’s nae laying claim to Charlotte; he’s twisting himself inside oot to be what she wants.”

  “She proposed to him, ye know. He didnae bend a knee nor bow his head, from what I heard.”

  “He’s bowing now.”

  “Why, because he’s talking to the Stewarts and those Sasannach lords? How else could he purchase their land in the Highlands? I reckon those prissy lords are the ones bowing to him. And well they should. By the end of the month he’ll own more of Scotland than Prince Georgie does. At least that’s what Owen says.”

  What? Why hadn’t he known that Ranulf was purchasing land? He was generally the one in whom his brother confided. Yes, Ran had asked for support, but Arran had thought the marquis had become set on making friends with the English lords because it pleased Charlotte for him to do so. Just as he’d decided to ally with the Stewarts to gain their trade contacts. He had no idea Ranulf had been purchasing English- and Stewart-owned land.

  Peter began to look concerned. “Should I nae have said anything aboot that? I know his lairdship didnae want to argue with ye aboot spreading our cotters thin, but Owen didnae say it was a secret. And we all know we need the land, with us taking in Campbell and Gerdens and Daily cotters. So—”

  “It’s fine, Peter,” he interrupted. Whatever he’d missed, it was his own fault. Had he been that distracted by London? By Mary? And he’d accused Ranulf of losing his head over Charlotte. Far from it, evidently. His brother had been using his time in London to make more room for their own people, even the newly adopted ones. And now he’d gone and destroyed the truce with the Campbells—at a time that couldn’t have been worse for any of this.

  “Thank ye fer saying so, Mr. Fox,” Peter drawled, looking relieved.

  “Nae. Thank ye, Peter. I may have been a damned fool, and nae even realized it.” And he would more than likely never be forgiven for it. But had it been worth it? He could answer that with every beat of his heart. If she loved him, it was worth it.

  “Well, I’d best get back to watching the road,” the footman said, rising a bit unsteadily. “With his one eye, that Howard’s only half a lookout, at best.”

  Arran forced a grin. “Dunnae fall out of the hayloft. Ye’d send all the Highlands lasses into mourning.”

  “Aye. And half them Sasannach ones, too.” Peter buttoned up his coat and pulled a pair of rough gloves from his pocket. “I nearly forgot,” he commented, freeing an envelope from the tangle of gloves. “I saw that female bringing this doon fer tomorrow’s mail, and I thought ye might want a look at it.”

  “Which female?” Arran asked, taking the letter and flipping it over to see the Mathering House address neatly written across the front.

  “The square-jawed one. Crawford. I thought she might be sending word of her whereaboots to Campbell kin or someaught.”

  “Aye, it’s someaught.” He didn’t even hesitate before tearing open the plain wax seal. Whatever it was, Crawford was not going to be sending letters to Mary’s parents. Swiftly he unfolded it.

  “Dear Lord Fendarrow,” he read, his eyes narrowing and growing anger making his fingers clench into the paper. “On the chance that my previous letter missed you, I again inform you that Lord Ar
ran MacLawry has forcibly taken Lady Mary and myself from the Giant’s Pipe Inn. We are presently in the village of Wigmore, and will resume traveling north in the morning. I will once again do my utmost to slow our flight, but our kidnapper is determined to drag us into the Highlands. After that, it will be too late to prevent this catastrophe from being known. It may be too late already. Please come in all haste! Ever your servant, Eunice Crawford.”

  “Peter,” he said, keeping his voice low and even, “ye and Howard hitch up a fresh pair of horses. Then come up and help me get the luggage down. We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”

  “Aye, m’laird. Might I ask—”

  “This is a second letter. The Campbells know where we are. Or bloody near enough.”

  The footman’s ruddy expression paled a little. “I’ll see to it.”

  As Peter hurried off, Arran strode for the stairs. At Mary’s room he shoved at the door, but it was latched. Balling a fist, he pounded. Hard. “Mary! Open the door!”

  Inside he heard a smattering of sharp-voiced conversation, and then the door clicked and opened. “What’s wrong?” Mary asked, sleepy-eyed in the white night rail he’d purchased for her.

  If he’d been less angry, the way she looked would have completely distracted him. As it was, he wordlessly handed her the letter and then moved past her slender form into the room. “You,” he growled, jabbing a finger at the battle-axe in her mobcap and high-necked night rail where she stood on the near side of the bed. “What did the first letter say?”

  Her pale features grayed around the edges, but she kept her chin high. “I’m not speaking to you, you rogue.”

  “Call me whatever ye like, but ye will tell me aboot the other letter.” Arran took a long step forward, using his height to force her to look up even farther, changing her stance from defiant to submissive.