Rogue with a Brogue: A Scandalous Highlanders Novel

by Suzanne Enoch

  Arran’s shoulders rose and lowered. “Aye. Howard, ye wait here with Duffy and Juno and the trunks. If we dunnae return, sell ’em and get yerself back to London, or wherever else ye wish to go.”

  “I know the plan.” Grimacing, Howard offered his hand to Arran. “Best of luck to you both. I’ll be here when you do return.”

  Peter clapped the hack driver on the shoulder. “Ye’re a good man, Howard Howard. Now let’s get on with it. Help me into the damned wagon.”

  Once Peter had seated himself and arranged his skirts, Mary handed him the bouquet of thistles and daisies they’d gathered. Arran climbed up to the driver’s bench and then leaned sideways to offer her a hand up. Keeping in mind that she was a spry, trouser-wearing young man, she stepped up and clambered onto the seat.

  “Are ye ready fer this, lass?” Arran asked her. “It’s nae a brilliant plan, but it’s the only one I can think of that doesnae have us trying to avoid the Campbells fer another three days.”

  “I’m ready. And I like your plan.”

  He grabbed her shoulder and kissed her. “And now I’m ready.”

  With a whistle he got the team moving and carefully maneuvered the wagon over the hill and back onto the faint road. Then they turned south for Gretna Green.

  Mary’s hands felt clammy, and she fought the urge to clasp them together. Instead she lowered the brim of her hat a little and slouched on the hard seat. She and her brother were bringing their mother to the church to lay flowers on their father’s grave, and to pay their respects to the pastor. And that was all.

  “Do we need names?” she asked abruptly.

  “If I ever have lads, I mean to name ’em Angus and Duncan,” Peter said from behind them in his oddly pitched voice.

  “Then I’m Angus Gilling and ye’re Duncan Gilling, lass,” Arran provided. “And ye’re Una Gilling, Peter.”

  “Ye named me after Laird Glengask’s dog, didnae?” the footman grumbled. “Una. Saint Bridget.”

  “It’s a fine Scottish name.”

  Mary knew what Arran was doing; with his usual good humor he meant to keep them at ease as long as possible. Considering that any weapons were likely to be pointed at him, she could only admire his courage—and do her damnedest to see that the plan succeeded.

  For all that it remained on the lips of every young pair of English lovers who felt the need to elope, Gretna Green was something of a disappointment in daylight. It barely qualified as a village at all, with perhaps a dozen houses along the lane, a single tavern, and a blacksmith’s forge. According to rumor the smith could also perform weddings, but she and Arran required the church.

  And then the quaint little building came into sight at the top of a gentle rise just above the village. The butterflies in her stomach turned into bats. And not just because they might well be driving into a trap. Choosing to marry Arran was the most momentous decision she would ever make in her life. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been as certain as she was, but she simply couldn’t imagine not spending the rest of her life by his side.

  “Three horses at the rear of the tavern,” Peter whispered.

  “I don’t suppose it could just be three men breaking their fast.” Mary kept her gaze straight ahead, even though more than anything she wanted to turn around and see if she recognized the horses.

  “Could be,” Arran said. “Two more horses under the trees up here. Two, nae, three men. Relax, my bonny lass. Ye can be curious of strangers. Dunnae pretend ye dunnae see ’em.”

  “Why are you so … proficient at this?” she whispered.

  He shrugged, keeping the team at their leisurely walk up the slope. “Anyone nae wearing yer clan colors could mean ye harm. I grew up with that.” With a sideways glance at her, he sent them past the waiting men and circled the wagon so they were facing back down the hill. “I also got myself caught behind French lines once,” he went on conversationally. “Had to steal a corporal’s uniform and pretend to be French fer three days.”

  “I never knew that, lad,” Peter said from behind them, his tone surprised and alarmed.

  “I didnae tell anyone. Ranulf … He had enough to worry over withoot adding that. Whoa, lads.” He pulled up the ribbons and set the brake.

  Good heavens, they were there. Twenty feet from the small, whitewashed church. And beneath the trees only ten feet farther away stood three men, all looking at them. Her breath caught. One of them was her cousin Arnold Haws. Oh, heavens.

  “Help me with Mama, will ye, Duncan?” Arran said, hopping to the ground with that easy grace of his.

  Yes. She was Duncan … something. Gilling. Duncan Gilling. Escorting his mother to the church to see the pastor and lay flowers. Swallowing, she climbed down, trying not to look too ungainly.

  The men, five of them now, moved closer, but from what she could hear of their low-voiced conversation it was mostly snide comments about dirty peasants and ugly Lowlands women. Poor Peter.

  Moving around to the rear of the wagon, Mary allowed herself a curious glance or two from beneath the brim of her hat, glad she’d let Arran rub some dirt on her face. She lifted a hand to Peter, and with Arran at his other arm the footman descended clumsily to the ground.

  “Are those Sasannach?” Peter asked in Gaelic, his voice still not quite feminine.

  “Are they, Angus?” Mary seconded when Peter squeezed her arm. He’d been a soldier too, she remembered. Two warriors, two Highlanders, both ready and able to protect her.

  “I dunnae, Duncan. They’re none of our affair.”

  With Peter between them, holding one hand around her arm and the other gripping the flowers, they walked in what she hoped was an unhurried manner up to the church door.

  “Can we talk to them?” she heard herself ask, and she glanced over her shoulder at the group. No Charles Calder, and no sign of her father. Perhaps their luck was holding out.

  “Nae,” Peter answered. “I dunnae want ye learning their ways, Angus. Into the church with ye, and be polite to the Father.”

  “Aye, màthair,” she answered.

  And with that they walked through the Gretna Green church doors and closed themselves inside.

  Peter kept her by the door while Arran strode forward, checking all the pews and then walking through the side door into what must have been an office or a vestry. “What if the priest isn’t here?” she whispered, her stomach clenching at the thought.

  “If he’s nae here, I’ll marry ye myself,” Peter stated.

  To her immense relief, Arran returned a minute or so later, a tall, thin man with cloud-colored puffs of hair above either ear in tow. “This is Father Leonard,” he said, gesturing at the black-robed man. “He’s agreed to marry us.”

  The pastor stopped just beside the first row of pews, his very high forehead furrowing in a frown. “We see a great many couples here,” he said, Scots in his voice, “all eager to begin their new path together. Some marry for love, and others for wealth. And no offense to you, madam, but I need to ask why this strapping young man has chosen to be wed to you.”

  Mary blinked, then realized how they all must appear to poor Father Leonard. She stepped forward and pulled off her hat, then pulled the pins from her hair. “It’s me the strapping lad is to marry, Father,” she said.

  The pastor looked relieved. “Ah. Now it makes sense. Come forward, child. And though it’s not my place to ask, I assume you two are marrying against at least one of your family’s wishes?”

  “Aye,” Arran answered. “And Peter, remove yer bonnet. We’re in a church.”

  “Begging yer pardon, Father,” the footman said in his normal voice, untying the bonnet and pulling it off to set it on one of the pews beside Arran’s and Mary’s hats.

  “Good heavens,” Father Leonard said faintly, staring at the stocky man with his worn face and ample bosom. Then he shook himself. “Well. To each his own, I suppose. You’ll be the witness then … sir?”

  “Aye. But I’m nae a sir. Gilling’s the name, Father.
Peter Gilling.”

  “Very well. Let’s begin then, shall we?”

  Mary started up to the front of the church, then stopped, surprised, when Arran held up one hand. “Just a moment, if ye dunnae mind, Father. The lady’s nae asked fer my hand, and I’ll nae be swayed until she does.” He folded his arms over his chest, eyes dancing in the light cast through the stained-glass windows.

  The bats in her stomach became giant geese. Part of her hadn’t even expected they would reach the inside of the church. She’d completely forgotten that he wanted a proposal from her. Clearing her throat, she stepped forward, her boot heels tapping on the hardwood floor.

  “I’m not feeling very eloquent at the moment,” she said, looking up at his face and very aware of Peter and Father Leonard standing well within hearing.

  “I didnae ask fer eloquence,” Arran returned softly, reaching out to touch her cheek. “I just want to hear ye say the words and know ye mean them as much as I do.”

  She captured his hand, holding it tightly in hers as she faced him. His fingers shook a little, she realized; he was not as calm about this as he pretended. That actually bolstered her somewhat. She blew out her breath. She didn’t need to be flowery or effusive or dramatic; he would say yes. All she need do was ask.

  “Arran.”

  “Aye, m’love?”

  She gazed into his eyes the blue of Highland mornings, and everything simply faded away. No one else in the church, no trouble waiting outside. Nothing but Arran and her, holding hands in the multicolored sunlight.

  “I should never have met you,” she began slowly. “We should certainly never have conversed. But we did. And from that moment you made my life adventurous, terrifying, amusing, and all the other emotions that had never touched me before. Just for that, I would love you. But you also saved me, not just from a marriage I didn’t want, but from a life I found perfectly comfortable, perfectly ordered, and perfectly dull. You are my friend and my love, and I don’t want to spend another day without you.” She wiped a tear from her cheek with her free hand. “Will you marry me, Arran?”

  His blue, silent gaze seemed to see all the way to her soul. “By God, lass,” he finally murmured. “I only expected that last part. Ye are my beating heart, and every other part of me that keeps me on this earth. Aye, Mary. I’ll wed ye. I’d like to see anyone try to stop me.” He took her other hand. “And I’ll ask ye the same question, my bonny lass; will ye be my wife?”

  “I will. Happily.”

  Father Leonard blew his nose into an embroidered handkerchief. “I don’t generally get to witness that part,” he said briskly, then motioned them to stand before him at the altar.

  “Where do ye need me, Father?” Peter asked, handing Mary the bouquet and then using the hem of his gown to wipe his eyes.

  “Where you are is fine.” He cleared his throat. “We are gathered here today in the sight of God to unite these two souls in holy matrimony. The Good Book says—”

  Shouting erupted outside. And it didn’t sound friendly. Oh, no.

  Beside her Arran was as still as granite. “Father, I’d be grateful if ye’d get to the meat of this ceremony and have us sign yer register.”

  “I … Is that ruckus about you?”

  “More than likely. Peter, block the door.”

  “Aye, m’laird.” Hiking up his skirts, the footman hurried to the rear of the small building. “Dunnae worry. I can still witness ye.”

  “If ye please, Father Leonard.”

  “Oh. I—very well. Do you…”

  “Arran Robert MacLawry,” Arran supplied.

  “MacL … Oh, dear.”

  “Father,” Mary put in, as the shouting and yelling and angry talking grew nearer and louder. “Please hurry.”

  The pastor closed his eyes for a heartbeat. “Do you, Arran Robert MacLawry, take … Mary to be your lawfully wedded wife? To honor and—”

  “Aye. I do. Forever.”

  “Ah. And do you, Mary…”

  “Mary Beatrice Campbell,” she said.

  Father Leonard turned gray. For a moment she thought he meant to faint. And then what would they do? “Good heavens. Do you, Mary Beatrice Campbell, take Arran MacLawry to be your lord and husband?” He leaned closer. “Shall I forgo the rest?”

  “If you please. And I do, with all my heart.”

  “Then by the power vested in me by God and the Church of England, I pronounce you husband and wife.” He glanced toward the line of windows. “Saints preserve us all. Kiss your bride, lad.”

  With a slight, fond smile Arran cupped her cheek, then leaned down and touched his mouth to hers. The soft, gentle gesture made her ache to her toes. “You’re mine now,” she whispered.

  “And ye’re mine. The father skipped the ‘let no man put asunder’ bit, but no one will sunder us, Mary Beatrice MacLawry.”

  She kissed him back, holding his face in both hands. “No, they will not.”

  “You’d best come sign the register,” Father Leonard said, his tone uneasy. She couldn’t blame him for his worry, now that he knew the MacLawrys and Campbells were involved.

  Inside the vestibule first Arran and then she signed the thick book, and then Arran traded places with Peter so the footman could make his mark as their witness. Once Father Leonard had added the date and his own notation and dusted the ink with sand, she shook his hand.

  “Thank you, Father Leonard.”

  “I’m … You’re welcome, my lady. May God protect and keep you. Truly.”

  Back in the main part of the church Arran had his back pressed against the door, his arms outspread. “Lass, do ye want to be a boy again, or shall we assume they’ve found us oot?”

  Swiftly she pinned her hair up again and handed Peter his bonnet. “We make them earn it,” she said, the steel in her own voice surprising her. “I’m not simply surrendering.”

  He nodded at her. “I’d nae go against ye, my fierce lass,” he returned, putting Howard’s hat back on his head. “Together?”

  She took one of Peter’s arms, and he took the other. “Together.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Arran shoved open the church’s double doors. The two men standing just outside stepped back, startled.

  He likely would have been wise to cut them down before they recovered. Instead he put his arm around Peter, as if protecting the old woman the footman was pretending to be. “Step careful, màthair,” he said, not quite able to bring himself to apologize to the two men.

  “What are they yelling aboot?” Mary asked, in a fine imitation of his own brogue.

  “I dunnae ken, bràthair,” he answered truthfully. If the Campbells were certain they’d found their quarry, stealth from them would have seemed the better choice. He eyed one of the men as his troop maneuvered around them. “What’s amiss, then?”

  The man frowned, actually taking another step back. “I…” He sent a glance at his companion. “John?”

  With a disgusted snort Peter urged them forward, and the clearly baffled men let them pass. Surprised they’d made it even that far, Arran kept the three of them at a slightly accelerated walk toward the waiting wagon. If he could get them back north through the village, they had at least a slim chance of returning to their hiding place by the stream.

  “Stop them, you halfwits!” came from farther down the hill.

  Everything happened at once, but at the same time Arran seemed to have the clarity to make note of every moment, every action. The Marquis of Fendarrow topped the rise, spurring his horse as he caught sight of them. Another, larger group of riders charged up from the east, scattering Campbells as they came. In fact, they wore MacLawry colors.

  Bear, he realized, even as he moved forward to put himself between Mary and the weapons that seemed to be appearing everywhere. He might have been relieved to see his mountainous younger brother, except if Ranulf had sent him, they weren’t allies. Not any longer.

  “Stay back!” he bellowed, pulling a pistol from each pocket
and leveling them at the nearest group.

  The Campbells skidded to a stop, but didn’t lower their own weapons. Peter produced a blunderbuss from somewhere Arran didn’t care to contemplate, and the footman swung it around to gain them some room on the other side. No one had yet opened fire, but it would happen—and it would happen soon.

  “Back to the church,” he growled.

  “Father Leonard just barred the doors,” Mary said from directly behind him. He felt her hands at his back, and then she had his spare knife in her grip.

  “Against the wall, then,” he amended, “so they cannae come at us from behind.”

  “Arran!” Bear called, leaping from his big gray gelding and bowling over three Campbells as he strode forward.

  Cursing, Arran shifted one of his pistols, aiming it at his brother and praying that hotheaded Munro wouldn’t press the issue. “No closer!”

  “What the devil do ye think ye’re aboot?” Munro demanded, barely slowing his approach.

  “Stop, Bear! I will shoot ye!”

  His brother finally stopped, a look of baffled anger on his face. “The hell ye will, Arran.”

  “You damned MacLawry, get away from my daughter!” Fendarrow swung down from his horse but approached much more cautiously than Bear had. There was no sign of Calder, and that troubled Arran.

  “And I’m telling ye to stay away from my wife!” he snarled back.

  The pushing and shoving around them changed to a roar. They were watching the resumption of a full-out clan war, he knew, MacLawrys against Campbells. And the first man to die would signal the last moment of peace he and Mary would ever find in the Highlands.

  Abruptly Mary moved up beside him. “You’re too late!” she yelled, flinging off her hat and shaking out her hair. Thank God she’d done that; he didn’t want anyone mistaking her for a lad and shooting her by accident.

  “Come away from there, Mary! Now!” her father shouted back.

  “No! Arran and I are married. You can’t kill him and pretend it never happened, because all these men know it now!” The point of her knife flashed as she gestured.

  “We dunnae want to hurt anyone,” Arran took up. “But by God I’ll nae let anyone between us!”