Rogue with a Brogue (8 page)

With another murmured apology to the rest of her box mates, Mary made her way to the curtain at the rear and slipped into the hallway beyond. A few other audience members wandered past her, outnumbered by footmen toting drinks and opera glasses and warm wraps—and even a small, fluffy dog.

Leaning back against the wall, Mary closed her eyes for a moment. Yes, she was one-and-twenty, and yes, even with her grandfather's indulgence she'd always known she would eventually have to marry according to the clan's will. But not yet. For goodness' sake, if anything the truce with the MacLawrys should have removed any urgency from her impending union, not created it.

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes again—then let it out with a barely stifled squeak as she spied the man topping the stairs and heading in her direction. He was not a footman, and he was not carrying a dog. He was, however, wearing a splendid kilt of black and white and red. Before he could approach her parents' box; she straightened and hurried toward him.

“What are you doing here, Arran?” she whispered, starting to reach for his arm and then stopping herself. They weren't friends; they were … they were new acquaintances who were never supposed to have met. And she happened to find him somewhat, barely, attractive.

“
Hamlet
seems a bit too close to my life,” he drawled in his deep, rich brogue. “And I keep wanting to yell at Hamlet to kill his uncle and stop all that lunatic talking to himself and the play-within-a-play nonsense.” Light blue eyes regarded her. “What sent ye fleeing, lass?”

“The same thing, I suppose. Too much subterfuge. I prefer the comedies.”

“Aye.” He glanced past her at the closed curtains of the Campbell box. “Calder wasnae blaming ye fer dancing with me, I hope.”

Had he come all the way around the theater into enemy territory just to see if she was well? “
You
blamed me for it, as I recall.”

That wicked grin touched his mouth again. “Ye're nae a shy lass, are ye?”

She edged closer, wishing he would lower his voice just a bit more. For heaven's sake, her cousin Charles was twenty-five feet away. And her almost betrothed, only twenty-seven. “I can be diplomatic. But I prefer to be direct. It makes for fewer misunderstandings.”

“Direct it is, then. Has Delaveer offered fer ye?”

Mary lifted an eyebrow. “Have you offered for Deirdre Stewart?”

“Nae.” He shifted his feet, glancing beyond her in the direction of her parents' box. “Between ye and me, lass?”

He was asking for her discretion. She should have been shocked and surprised, but she wasn't. The entire time they conversed was only for the two of them. “Yes. Just between us.”

“Then I'll offer fer her, once her father and uncle decide how much of their grazing land they'll return to their cotters, and Ranulf decides it's enough of a concession.”

“Do you want to marry her?” It was a stupid, silly question, but she asked it anyway.

“Nae. She's … pleasant, I suppose, but she's nae warm-blooded enough fer me.” He glanced down. “And Delaveer?” he continued, meeting her gaze again. “Ye didnae answer my question.”

“He and my father are negotiating,” she said slowly. “Along with his father and my grandfather.”

“Do ye want to marry him?”

“No,” she returned, in the same tone he'd used, realizing that there was no one else in the world with whom she could—or would—have this particular conversation. “He's not warm-blooded enough for me. If the Campbells and MacLawrys were still fighting it would be Charles Calder after me, though, and that would be even worse.”

Arran scowled. “Calder? That dog needs to be put down.”

Mary gazed at him. With the gray coat that couldn't hide his broad shoulders, the trim black waistcoat, and the bold MacLawry plaid of his kilt, he looked magnificent, no matter which name he carried. She wondered what he might be thinking about her. “I don't like Charles, but he
is
my cousin.”

Arran shrugged. “I ken who ye are. I also reckon I may have caused ye trouble withoot meaning to. And yet, I dunnae intend to apologize fer it.” He took a slow step closer. “What do ye say to that?”

“I don't know what to say. And I don't think it matters, anyway. We marry who we're told to marry, do we not, Arran MacLawry? For the good of our clans?”

He tilted his head. Then, before she could move, he closed the short distance remaining between them, leaned down, and touched his mouth to hers. He tasted of warmth and whisky, and sin. It was surprisingly delicious.

Realizing she had a hand splayed against his chest, Mary swiftly lowered her arm, curling her fingers into her palm. “You … You just kissed a Campbell,” she whispered, her voice sounding husky to her own ears. “Lightning may just strike you dead.”

He shook his head, a lock of his wavy black hair falling across his brow. “I nae kissed a Campbell. I kissed
ye,
Mary.” With a half grin he backed away, then turned on his heel. “And I say, let the lightning come if it will. I'm nae married yet. And neither are ye.” Arran glanced over his shoulder at her. “I'll see ye fer luncheon tomorrow, lass.”

Mary gazed after him, then belatedly touched her fingers to her lips. He was a MacLawry, and she was a Campbell. They were
not
friends. But whatever it was they were, she was abruptly beginning to find it very interesting.

*   *   *

Ranulf met Arran on the front drive as he returned from his morning ride with the dogs and his quick-footed black Thoroughbred, Duffy. Though calling it a ride was somewhat of a stretch, since even Rotten Row had been packed with gentlemen seeking the morning air. Or to be seen in their fine riding gear. He wasn't certain which.

“Ye're going to have to wear someaught else to White's,” Ranulf said, taking Duffy's bridle. “They'll nae admit stableboys.”

As Arran dismounted, nearly as breathless as the dogs and the horse, he took a moment to study his brother's easy expression. However he felt about the chief of his clan—his own brother—marrying a Sasannach, Charlotte did make Ranulf happy. And he could be grateful for that. “I'm nae going to White's,” he returned. “I'm meeting Fordham for luncheon.” Or at least that was what his old army comrade would vouch, since he'd arranged for it during his ride.

“Have him join us. Charlotte's father issued the invitation, and Uncle Myles will be there. Allen's attending, as well. And Tollifsen. I'm attempting to show a proper front.”

“I have plans,” Arran repeated, with more heat than he intended. “Ye can be proper and English withoot me. And ye dunnae need me fer Allen until ye settle on how much land I'm worth.” He handed Duffy's reins over to Debny, the head groom Ran had brought down with him from Glengask.

Ranulf blocked his path to the house. “Allen and Tollifsen have good merchant contacts here in London, and they'll nae do business with men who're naught but dragon-wrestling Highlanders.”

“Who won't? The Stewarts, or the merchants?”

“Neither of them.”

“Well, it's yer good fortune, then, that ye've been turning yerself into a Sasannach fer the past two months, isnae?” Arran moved around his brother, stripping off his riding gloves as he did so. “I recall a few months ago when ye didnae care what the Sasannach thought of ye. And when the clan MacLawry was strong enough to stand against any family in the Highlands withoot bringing in pinky-lifting tea drinkers fer support.”

“Which tea drinkers? The Stewarts, or Charlotte's family?”

“Both of them.”

“Arran.”

“If ye want to prove ye're civilized, why dunnae ye have luncheon with the Campbell? Or Lord Fendarrow?”

“That's enough.”

He kept walking. “Then stop my flapping gums with yer damned fist, Ran.”

“It's nae yer gums I'm trying to convince, Arran. It's yer mind.”

“Then dunnae bother. I'm nae the chief. Do as ye will.”

If Ranulf wanted to disregard or excuse centuries of conflict with the English, excuse Highlanders being forbidden to carry weapons or wear kilts or play the damned pipes, or even being burned off their land by other Highlanders, he could do so. But at the moment Arran was the heir to Glengask—at least until Ranulf married Charlotte and she gave him a son—and he refused to let his brother forget who was paying the price for his new, proper ways. It seemed he wasn't going to be granted that luxury himself, and fair was fair.

Owen pulled open the front door as he reached it. “Did ye have a good run, then?”

“Aye, Owen. I very nearly kept heading north.”

The footman-butler chuckled. “If ye decide to do that, make certain ye take me with ye.”

So he wasn't the only one growing uneasy in London—though Owen had been there several weeks longer than he. Handing over his hat and gloves, Arran trotted upstairs. Yesterday afternoon he hadn't been certain Mary would actually meet him today. And then he'd defied his brother's orders and his own better instincts and not only sought her out last night, but kissed her.

Why, he wasn't certain, except that she'd looked lovely and sinful in scarlet and he'd wanted to do so. They'd found themselves in very similar situations, but that kiss hadn't been about commiseration. The actual truth would have to wait until he'd deciphered it. Because all he knew for certain at that moment was that he meant to keep his rendezvous at the Blue Lamb Inn, and that he'd lied to and insulted his brother in order to do it. All for a luncheon with a Campbell. All when he should likely be planning a luncheon with Lady Deirdre.

Still without a valet, he pulled off his sweaty riding clothes and stepped into the bath of cold water he'd requested. Chilly as it was, it still seemed less breath-stealing than a swim in Loch Shinaig. Then he dressed in a plain gray jacket, brown waistcoat, and buckskin breeches tucked into some impressively shiny Hessian boots. There. Suitably English, but not fancy enough to warrant a second glance. Or so he hoped.

“Hail me a hack, will ye, Owen?” he asked the butler as he headed back downstairs.

“Aye, m'laird. Do ye nae want one of the lads with ye, though?”

“Nae.” He took his gray beaver hat and set it on his head. Until last week he'd never worn such a useless thing. “We've a truce, didnae ye hear?”

“I heard. Dunnae believe it'll last, though.”

“Good. Ye keep that up, Owen.” He followed the new butler outside, waiting on the front steps as Owen walked to the end of the drive and signaled a passing coach.

A moment later he returned, the hack trundling up beside him. “Yer brother the marquis says to trust a wee bit more than we have been,” he said, as he pulled open the door. “The Sasannach, I mean.”

“Ye do that, then. I'll be keeping both my eyes open.” With a smile he didn't feel, Arran climbed into the short, narrow vehicle. “Crane House, on Madox Street,” he said loudly enough for Owen to hear, naming William Crane, Viscount Fordham's, address for effect. He'd hire another hack from there to take him to Ellis Street and the Blue Lamb.

If Ranulf learned anything about this, his brother would likely attempt to bloody his nose and put a boot in his arse, then order him home to Glengask to wait for his bride to be delivered. But Ran couldn't have it both ways; either they were the MacLawrys who trusted and relied on no one but themselves, or they were half-English lads making alliances and friendships with every Highlander who wasn't a Campbell and every Sassanach who wished them good morning.

And until the Marquis of Glengask decided who they were and when he was to marry a Stewart, Arran meant to do as pleased him. Since he'd kissed Mary Campbell last night, it pleased him to see her today. It was also necessary, on the chance she'd taken offense and told Charles Calder or her father. That would mean the end of the truce. If she hadn't taken offense, well, that would be much more interesting.

*   *   *

“I have no wish to be sacked, my lady.” Crawford wrung her hands together as they stood beside a stable yard, around the corner from the Blue Lamb Inn.

“You're doing as I ask. No one's going to sack you. I won't allow it.” She only half paid attention to the conversation; most of her was occupied with listening for church bells, waiting for them to chime one o'clock.

“It's not the doing as you've asked part that troubles me,” the maid returned. “It's the me not informing your parents that you're doing something dangerous. You're practically engaged to another man, Lady Mary.”

In ragged unison across London, bells began ringing in a single, discordant note. One o'clock. Her last chance to regain her sanity and return home. To be a dutiful, obedient daughter who would never have a carnal thought about a MacLawry—not even one as handsome as Arran. “‘Practically' means not yet. And I'm not doing anything dangerous, Crawford. Now please, go purchase something pretty for yourself. I'll meet you back here at half two, or you can come in and fetch me.”

The maid looked halfway to tears, but she nodded. “Very well, my lady. Please, please be careful.”

“I will be.”

She watched the maid cross the street toward the shabby shops lining the way. Crawford looked back over her shoulder every few feet, like some sad pup being told to leave home without supper. When she disappeared inside a milliner's, Mary took a slow, deep breath.

London—not the best part of it, of course—bustled around her, but for the first time in what may well have been ever, she gazed at it alone. The maid had told her to be careful, and here she actually needed to be so.

Perhaps she didn't generally have guards surrounding her, but she was never on her own outside of Mathering House. She should likely be nervous now, or even frightened. But she wasn't. What she felt most, in fact, was an unsettled anticipation.