Rogue with a Brogue (18 page)

So she didn't wish to acknowledge that he meant to marry her. Perhaps that was burning one too many bridges even for her. “We've been raised to be suspicious of each other, lass. And ten days is fairly slight when weighed against that. Luckily, though, I'm a patient lad.” And she was a rather practical lass with a sharp mind and a logical bent to her thoughts. If he needed to seduce her into deciding that marriage to him was the best solution to their troubles, he was more than willing to do so.

Arran shook himself. However much the maid flapped her gums, he couldn't afford to ignore her out of hand. “Is Crawford talking oot of her arse, or will yer people alert the army before they get word to yer
athair
back in London, do ye reckon?” Because if armed soldiers were going to be riding them down before nightfall, he needed to alter some of his plans.

“No, I don't think they will. First they'll search the inn and the land directly around it themselves. Since Crawford's missing too, they'll likely have no idea what's afoot. Thomas will eventually send Gordon—the driver—back to London to inform my father that I've gone missing.”

“And your poor mother will be beside herself with worry,” the maid put in. “As will your father.”

“Hush, Crawford. They agreed to have me marry Charles, even knowing what sort of man he is. Yes, I embarrassed them. But I'm also their daughter. And so I'm not feeling terribly sympathetic.” She returned her attention to Arran. “Father will ride out to the inn and search there himself. When he doesn't find any trace of me he'll likely send word north to the Campbell.” She paused, for the first time looking concerned. “They will likely suspect that you're involved. And then my father will call on your brother.”

That was the one thing that had made him hesitate. He'd spent his entire adult life protecting and defending his family. The idea that he would be the one everyone blamed for breaking the first truce between the MacLawrys and Campbells in a century haunted him. But at the moment he could blame Ranulf for driving him to it. And given his own choice between clan and family, Lord Glengask would likely do what was necessary to protect his new way of life.

“Ranulf's nearly disowned me as it is,” he said aloud. “I imagine he'll curse me and say he has naught to do with any of this, then send word to Munro up at Glengask that I'm nae to be allowed back on MacLawry land. And to the Stewarts aboot someaught.” And for Bear's sake he hoped Ranulf wouldn't try to match their youngest brother with Deirdre. They might tease Munro about his thick skull, but he was not a fool. And it would take a fool to tolerate that lass.

“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.