“Ye see my point, though,” he continued. “Jane’s been chasing me like I’m the last rabbit in winter. She’s too young, too agreeable, and too naïve. And I think ye know we’d both be miserable together, even if Ranulf hadnae decided we need the Stewarts aboot to keep his Charlotte safe.”
She sighed. “Yes, I suppose so. It still would have been fun.”
“Nae fer me. Or fer her, after she realized I’m nae as nice as she thinks.” As he spoke, it was another young lady’s face who entered his thoughts, and it wasn’t that of his nearly betrothed. He barely knew Mary. And if a MacLawry ever married a Campbell, the earth would crack open and swallow the Highlands. That was the legend, anyway.
He shook himself out of the ridiculous daydream. Of course his mind went to making a match with Mary, because it was so absurd. Nothing meant for rational thought, anyway, and far outside the future being laid out for him. “Ye said ‘firstly.’ Was there someaught else, then?”
“You and Ran are arguing. I don’t like that, so stop it—whatever it is.”
“It’s nae that simple, piuthar. Ye can pretend nae to be Scottish, but I cannae. I dunnae want to be a Sasannach. And Ranulf … Since when do we consider Sasannach opinions before we do someaught? Since when do we make alliances with clans we’ve had nae to do with for three hundred years just because now they bolster our numbers in Mayfair?”
“Times are changing, Arr—”
“Aye, they are,” he interrupted, warming to the argument. “Because Ranulf and ye are changing them! The only difference between now and six weeks ago is that ye left Glengask, Winnie, and he followed ye.”
His younger sister stared at him. Then, putting her hands on her hips, she stalked up to him. “So you’d rather we were still all alone in the Highlands without any allies but those who owe us loyalty because their great-great-great-grandfathers bent a knee to ours? Ye’d rather we didnae have any friends or allies outside the village of An Soadh? Perhaps Maggie at the bakery there could show Ran how to manage English politics.”
“Winnie, ye—”
“Perhaps ye’d rather have had Lord Berling shoot ye last week when he aimed his pistol at your head, but I’m glad Ran could arrange a truce. Times are changing, Arran. And because Ran’s in London and nae far away in the mountains, he can see to it that we profit rather than perish. Here and back home.”
She stood there, breathing hard and glaring at him, tears rising in her pretty, dark gray eyes. “Ye’ve made yer point,” he snapped. Being lectured to by a lass nine years his junior wasn’t something he’d ever tolerated before. Some things were definitely changing, then.
But other things weren’t changing. Ranulf could dine with English fops, but he wasn’t permitted even to dance with a Campbell lass. Not even when their meeting had been completely by accident. And he couldn’t explain any of that to Winnie.
Unless he could. For a long moment he gazed back at her. “What if I told ye someaught?” he went on in a calmer voice. “Could I trust ye with it?”
“Of course you can. You’re my brother.” She must have said her piece and done, because her brogue had disappeared again. A damned shame, that.
She would likely keep her word to him, then, whatever he told her. But saying anything aloud to anyone felt like he was putting voice to something that was too nebulous to be touched. If it became a real, solid thing, it might well shatter and break—like a piece of blown glass cooled too quickly.
And really, he’d only seen Mary Campbell—Saint Bridget, was it four times now?—and he wasn’t certain he had anything to confess, anyway. Burdening his sister with that kind of knowledge for no good reason wouldn’t be fair to either of them. “Another time,” he said aloud, pushing to his feet.
“Are you certain? Jane didn’t want me to say anything, but Deirdre Stewart likes you, you know. She told me you’re very handsome, and have a Highlands way about you.”
“What the devil does that even mean? I’m a Highlander. Of course I act like one.” Then again, Deirdre had Highlands blood, but he damned well didn’t see it in her. Mary Campbell, now … Wherever she’d been raised, she was a Highlander.
“I don’t know,” his sister returned. “Do you want me to ask her?”
“Nae. Now. Are ye expected back at Hanover House, or do ye care to try me at billiards?”
Rowena flashed her customary charming grin. “I have time for a game, and then you can see me back to the Hanovers after I thrash you.”
He followed her to the door, wishing all his troubles and concerns could be resolved as easily as his sister’s frown. “So ye say. I have my doubts.”
* * *
With a muffled curse Ranulf ducked backward into his office and slipped behind the half-open door, where he stood silent and unbreathing until his siblings had passed by and gone upstairs. He wasn’t accustomed to sneaking or snooping about, and he could admit that he didn’t do it well. But his family was supposed to come to him with their troubles. That was the way it had always been. He wasn’t supposed to have to track them down and eavesdrop to discover what bothered them.
If he’d had any doubts that Rowena was becoming a keen-sighted young lady, her fine argument in favor of learning more about the English had answered them. Now he only needed to worry that she would use the same logic of changing times against him and announce she’d found a Sasannach lordling she wanted to wed.
Perhaps ordering Lachlan MacTier, Lord Gray, to remain at Glengask as Bear’s lieutenant had been a mistake. But the viscount’s lack of attention had been one of the reasons Rowena had decided she required a proper English Season in London. And he’d ultimately agreed to it because his sister did need to view the people her own clan had spent so long fighting against. And of course because he’d met Charlotte.
The idea had been that distance would make Rowena’s heart grow fonder—after all, she’d spent the total of her first seventeen years telling all and sundry that she meant to marry Lachlan, until she’d abruptly realized that she was the only one doing the pursuing. For Lucifer’s sake, he hoped this was one problem that would settle itself.
It was Arran who worried him more at the moment. Something was afoot, and he didn’t like not knowing what it was. Low as he’d stooped to convince Rowena to come and chat with the middle MacLawry brother, and as little as Arran had said, it did mean something that he wouldn’t confide even in his sister. Whatever it was that troubled him, it was serious.
And whatever did bother him, he couldn’t continue going about London without telling anyone his destination. Truce or not, Ranulf didn’t trust the Campbells or the Dailys or the Gerdenses any further than he could throw one of them. Arran could handle himself, and well, but the MacLawrys and their allies were badly outnumbered here. Arran certainly knew that, and yet he continued to vanish on a regular basis.
Was he trying to stir up trouble? That made no sense, unless he meant to escape a match with Deirdre Stewart by setting the MacLawrys and Campbells after each other again. They all knew that only a fool would ally himself with a clan in the middle of a centuries-long feud—and the Stewart was no fool. But that made no sense. Yes, Arran detested the Campbells, but he was also fairly logical. They needed peace, and they could certainly make good use of the Stewarts, both for their trade connections and to keep all the damned Campbells from attempting something unwise now that it looked like the MacLawrys would be spending more time in London.
The last resort would be to send Arran back to Glengask for his own safety, and make him wait there until Deirdre Stewart could be delivered. Before any banishment happened and caused a rift even Rowena couldn’t heal, he wanted—needed—more information. And as soon as possible, before one or the other of them said something they couldn’t forgive.
* * *
“Crawford, you know you look ridiculous,” Mary commented, turning her mare, Alba, in a tight circle around the maid. “You can’t think to escort me on foot.”
“I will be close b
y, at least,” the maid returned. “Davis will escort you.” She gestured at the groom, a few feet behind on one of the numerous horses Mary’s father kept in his London stable.
“Davis always escorts me when I go riding. I don’t even know why you’re here.”
She did know, of course. All the previous times she’d gone for a morning ride in Hyde Park, she hadn’t yet made the acquaintance of Lord Arran MacLawry. Now she had, and suddenly Crawford needed to be present. And Mary tolerated it, because at least the maid hadn’t tattled about her luncheon with him.
“Just enjoy your morning, my lady. I’ll be close by.”
Before Mary could decide whether it was even worth going out this morning with the maid traipsing after her, she spied Elizabeth Bell and her older sister, Annabeth. “Liz,” she called, waving, and urged Alba down the path.
“Good morning, Mary. Is that Crawford?”
Mary sighed. “Yes, she detests horses, but she’s decided to follow me, anyway.”
“You could just send her away, you know.”
“Yes, but then she gives me a look like a little lost puppy. And she means well.” She reined in to trot beside them.
The park was crowded this morning, likely because the weather was so fine. Within ten minutes her cheeks felt tired from smiling greetings at all her friends and acquaintances, from uttering admiring pleasantries to all the young bucks cantering about to show off their horsemanship and sterling riding attire. It was like a great parade, where each person knew their role and played it each and every time the weather was agreeable enough for the cavalcade.
And then she spied someone riding against the tide. A splendid black Thoroughbred sidestepped gracefully around a barouche and continued forward—toward her. And the man riding him didn’t look as though he would willingly be a part of any prerehearsed pageant. Unruly black hair tossed by the breeze, sharp, light eyes that practically crackled with humor and intelligence, and a lean, strong jaw and steady gaze that simply radiated confidence and power and pride. Highlands pride.
While Liz and her sister stopped to chat with an acquaintance in a phaeton, Mary backed Alba around and turned the chestnut mare toward a thick stand of trees. She didn’t hurry; that would certainly attract attention, and that was the last thing she wanted. The black changed course to intercept her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in a low voice, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch.
“I’m observing the Sasannach,” Arran returned with a grin. “Ye look rather splendid this morning.”
Her cheeks heated. “Thank you. You look fine, yourself.”
“Do I? Winnie says I should wear a hat more, but I’ve never seen anything more useless than those tall, narrow-brimmed things the fops swear by.”
“It isn’t just the fops,” she countered, but personally she agreed with him. Not that hats were useless, but that he looked exceedingly fine without one. For a MacLawry, of course.
“Tell me someaught,” he said, urging his black closer. “Is it just me?”
“Is what just you?”
“Us. Is it just me? Because when I woke this morning, the first thought that popped into my head was that it would be grand to see ye today.” He reached over and brushed a finger down her arm. “What did ye think this morning when ye woke?”
Considering she’d awoken from a dream that Arran MacLawry had been standing in a forest with her, kissing her senseless, she wasn’t certain she should answer that question. But then he would be the only one with any courage, and she would be … well, just who she was supposed to be. “I thought it would be pleasant if I were to catch sight of you this morning,” she said aloud. “And that perhaps you might kiss me.”
Arran stood in his stirrups, leaned sideways, and captured her mouth with his. Heat rushed through her veins, exciting and heady. His very capable mouth molded against hers, making her think of things she was certain young ladies should not be considering.
“I’m beginning to wish you weren’t a MacLawry,” she murmured.
He backed away from her a little, and for a moment she thought she’d insulted him. Then a slow smile touched that mouth of his. “We’re only a Campbell and a MacLawry to the rest of the world, lass,” he returned in a soft, low brogue. “To me, ye’re Mary. And if ye go riding tomorrow, I’ll meet ye here again. And every day until I see ye at the dinner on Friday night.”
“And what about the … other people with whom we should be spending our time?” she countered, reluctant to speak of them at all, much less name them.
Brief frustration crossed his handsome features. “Are ye married yet, lass?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Neither am I. Ye keep answering that same way, and I’ll keep kissing ye.”
She sighed, taking him in all over again. “Then I hope it doesn’t rain tomorrow.”
It would likely be better for both of them if it rained, thundered, and hailed, but at the same time, what harm could a few delicious kisses be? Especially when they were wicked and forbidden and very, very arousing.
Chapter Six
“What kind of question is that?” Lord Fendarrow asked, lifting an eyebrow.
Mary sat back against the plump coach cushions, concentrating to keep the curious half-smile on her face. “It’s been on my mind, with the truce and Roderick MacAllister. So do you know? How this feud began, I mean.”
Lady Fendarrow beside her husband folded her hands into her lap. “Speaking of Roderick, I heard that he had a jeweler call on him two days ago.”
A lump of coal settled into the pit of Mary’s stomach. Of course everyone was in a hurry, determined to solidify alliances before the truce collapsed again. But she wasn’t ready. She’d kissed Arran every day for a week now, after all, and it still wasn’t nearly enough. Unless someone could remind her why she was supposed to hate him, she meant to kiss him again tonight, as well.
“Delaveer can purchase all the jewels he wants, but he’d best not give any of them to Mary until my father sends word that he’s agreed to the terms we’ve set.”
“So … you’ve come to an agreement?” Mary asked, trying to keep her voice level.
“Ah, so now you’re interested?” Her father sent her a cynical look.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’ve spent nearly every day since I suggested the match out riding and shopping with your friends. I know Roderick called on you at least twice while you were out. Did you even bother to send him your regrets?”
She’d meant to. Putting pen to paper and writing his name, though, made the pending match seem too real. She much preferred the present daydream. “I will write him tomorrow,” she said aloud, to avoid any further argument on the topic. “But the feud? It’s caused so much trouble, and I’ve realized that I really know nothing about how it began.”
The marquis narrowed his eyes. “You’d get a more thorough answer from your grandfather. Why don’t you write him when we get home?”
Bother. “I will. But you’re making it sound as if you don’t know.”
“Don’t stick me with your needles, Mary,” he retorted, eyes narrowing. “There wasn’t one argument or one slight that caused the feud, so I’ve no easy answer for you. Five or six hundred years of war and politics and kings and land caused what we have now. And be grateful you didn’t live a hundred years ago, when the Campbells and MacLawrys went out hunting for each other instead of clashing when we accidently meet.”
“Haven’t some of these things been resolved or forgotten by now?”
“We never forget.” Her father took a breath. “And as sure as the sun rises, an old argument is replaced by a new one. They have the largest standing army in the Highlands, you know. And they are constantly unsettling our cotters with their absurd ideas about providing schools and employment to their own.
“They make it sound as if we enjoy having to turn our ancestral lands away from farming and hunting. But England needs wool, and that is what En
gland purchases—not heather and fish and bagpipes. And they try to hold themselves up as better than anyone else, when everyone knows they’re all scoundrels and rogues. All of them.”
Perhaps she should have saved her questions for her grandfather, after all. Nothing in her father’s voice or his words gave an indication that he would be willing to alter his opinion of the MacLawrys even if presented clear evidence that they were all saints. And they were far from being saints.
“I wish all of them had just stayed in the Highlands. Next thing you know, the giant one—Bear, they call him—will be down here, and none of us will be safe.” With an exaggerated shudder, her mother gathered the shawl she wore more tightly around her shoulders.
It was on the tip of Mary’s tongue to defend the MacLawrys—or at least Arran. The Gerdenses, her own clan’s kin and closest allies, had instigated at least two fights with the Marquis of Glengask over the past weeks. Someone had even burned down his stable, and as far as she knew not even his enemies thought he had done that to himself.
Over the past days she’d begun to wonder just how much of this feud was due to rumor and pride. She’d hoped—well, almost hoped—an actual, concrete event that had begun all this existed somewhere in the past. That it would be something so heinous that all her father would have to do was mention it aloud and she would immediately understand why the two clans detested each other. She would no longer think about Arran MacLawry at all, much less want to kiss him and enjoy the sound of his voice and his laughter. She would be proud and pleased to marry Roderick MacAllister and give the Campbells even more sway in the Highlands.
“The fact is, my dear,” the marquis finally said in a milder tone, “you are my father’s favorite grandchild. You will be lavished with money and land when he passes on. That makes you very marriageable. It also dictates who, precisely, is in pursuit of your hand. The Campbells don’t want your property to leave Campbell hands. But this truce provides us with an opportunity we don’t mean to pass by.”
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