Rogue with a Brogue: A Scandalous Highlanders Novel Page 2

  Jane flushed beneath her ornate mask and yellow hair. “Well, I—yes, but—Actually, I … was hoping you—”

  If he didn’t stop her floundering, she was likely to injure herself. “Hand over yer card, then, and I’ll scribble doon my name,” he offered, trying to decide to whom he would say he’d promised the damned second waltz when she asked about it—and she would ask.

  With an audible sigh the younger Hanover sister handed him her card and pencil. She’d been claimed for nearly every other dance, he noted, including the second waltz. Thank Lucifer. No wonder she’d been in such determined pursuit of him earlier. Evidently he owed Lady Vixen more of a debt than he’d even realized.

  Stifling a sigh of his own, he wrote down his name and returned the card to her, then did the same with his own sister. Rowena still wore the excited smile she’d donned almost from the moment she’d handed him his fox mask yesterday. She had to know that he wasn’t interested in her young friend. Why, then, did she seem to be encouraging Jane’s pursuit of him? He was going to have to have a chat with her—and soon. The last thing he needed was two of his siblings throwing women at him, especially when he felt obligated to favor Ranulf’s selection.

  “I still don’t understand how she could be an old friend,” Jane said, her voice a touch shrill. “Winnie said the MacLawrys don’t like the Campbells.”

  Arran jolted back to attention. What was this? “What are ye talking aboot, lass?” he demanded.

  Jane took a half step backward. “The … your friend in the vixen mask. You said you were friends. You said it. Not me.”

  “I—”

  Winnie nudged him in the ribs with her sharp elbow. “Bràthair.”

  He ignored that. There was a time for him to be polite, and then there was the Campbells. “Do ye know who she is, Jane?”

  “Everyone knows that’s Mary Campbell. Her grandfather is the Duke of Alkirk.”

  Rowena gasped, but Arran clenched his jaw against the roar that wanted to erupt from his chest. The charming, intriguing Lady Vixen wasn’t Deirdre Stewart. She was a Campbell. And not just any Campbell, either. She was the granddaughter of William Campbell, the chief of clan Campbell. The Campbell.

  No wonder she hadn’t given her name.

  But she had danced with him, and jested with him. From her point of view, the petite thing likely thought she was making fun of him. She’d certainly made a fool of him.

  “What’s afoot?” Ranulf’s deep voice came, as he and Charlotte Hanover walked up behind them. “The Stewarts have just arrived. Who was the vixen, Arran?”

  Arran took a breath. “If ye cannae be bothered to be concerned over the Campbells,” he returned, unwilling to be called a fool by his brother, “ye leave it to me to keep an eye on ’em. The vixen was the Campbell’s granddaughter.”

  He’d rarely seen Ranulf surprised, but that did it. The oldest MacLawry sibling shoved his panther half-mask up over his forehead. The face beneath was perhaps more agreeable, but at least as fierce. Dark blue eyes narrowed, and he lifted his hand as if he meant to seize Arran by the lapel. “I told ye to behave,” he said evenly, his voice low and hard.

  Arran held his brother and clan chief’s gaze until Ranulf lowered his hand again. Neither of them was known for backing down, but this felt more like a mutual decision not to make a scene—another scene—in the middle of a Mayfair ballroom. “Ye told me to be polite,” he countered, “and so I was.”

  “I dunnae recall giving my permission for any of my kin to dance with a Campbell,” Ranulf retorted.

  And this from a man set on something at least as scandalous as dancing with a Campbell—taking an English bride into the Highlands. Yes, Charlotte Hanover had more spleen and wit than most Sasannach, but before this wee holiday in London, Ranulf would have burned his own bed before he’d share it with an English lass.

  “Ye’re the one who went and made a truce with the Campbells,” Arran pointed out, reflecting that a few short weeks ago he would have been choosing his words much more carefully. Evidently he owed Charlotte some thanks for improving his brother’s temperament, now that he considered it.

  “So we could stop killing each other, Arran. Nae so ye could waltz with one of ’em.”

  “And do ye know a better way to test the Campbell wind? Because I dunnae believe this peace’ll last the week, myself.”

  Of course his argument only worked as long as Jane and Winnie didn’t blurt out that he’d had no idea who the vixen was. Shaking his head, he held out his hand to young Jane as the music for their quadrille began. Evidently he preferred being accused of doing something wrong to doing something foolish.

  At the same time, he truly didn’t think the truce would last. None ever had before now. And so he’d made a point of learning which of the Campbell men were about, their appearance, and their disposition. He knew their allies, and he generally knew when any of them was within twenty feet of his brother or sister. But then the trouble had come from somewhere he didn’t expect.

  And vixen, fox, wolf, or Campbell, tomorrow he meant to go hunting. Mary Campbell was not allowed to think she’d made a fool of a MacLawry. Especially not when he was in London to look after his family. Especially not when for a moment he’d thought her smile and her wit attractive. That was when he’d thought her someone else.

  “Where’s this Deirdre Stewart ye want me leg-shackled to, then?” he asked brusquely. “Let’s get on with it before blood begins spilling again.”

  “What?” Rowena asked, wincing as Jane made an abrupt sound like a wounded cat.

  “I didnae say ye had to marry her,” Ranulf countered, covering half his frown as he lowered his panther mask again. “Nae until I’ve a word or two with Viscount Allen, anyway. Go dance yer quadrille, and stay clear of Campbells while I go speak with the Stewarts.”

  At least Ranulf hadn’t said he should bare his legs or show his teeth so Lord Allen and his daughter could view him to best advantage. If the two clans required a marriage to seal an alliance he would give them one. But at the same time he wondered if waltzing with Mary Campbell and then tracking her down tomorrow would be the last independent act permitted him. That didn’t sit particularly well. As a man accustomed to action, he felt far more comfortable with the idea of giving Lady Mary a piece of his mind than with having tea with his little finger held out for Lady Deirdre’s benefit. But the clan came first. It always did.

  * * *

  “Your aunt Felicia even commented that you put all the other young ladies to shame last night, Mary,” Joanna Campbell, Lady Fendarrow, said with a smile, as she strolled into the breakfast room. “Even with her own Dorcas attending. Thank heavens I convinced your father that a swan mask would never suit you.”

  Smiling back, Mary tilted her cheek up for a kiss as her father joined them. She didn’t recall that particular conversation, and likely neither did Walter Campbell, the Marquis of Fendarrow, but if her mother wanted credit for such a small thing, she, at least, was quite willing to let her have it. “It was a grand evening,” she agreed.

  Her mother paused at the sideboard. “That’s all you have to say?”

  Mary busied herself with pouring her father a cup of tea. “What else should I say?”

  “Well, for instance, who was that tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with whom you waltzed?”

  Drat. “Do you mean Harry Dawson? You know him, Mother.” She sipped at her own cup.

  Her father sat at the head of the table and leaned forward to pull his tea closer. “She means the man in the fox mask. Arran MacLawry.”

  The tea she swallowed went into her lungs. Mary began coughing, choking, trying to draw in a dry breath until Gerns the butler came forward to pound her between the shoulder blades. Her mother stood frozen, a slice of toast held delicately in a pair of tongs, while her father coolly sipped at his own tea.

  “Thank you, Gerns,” she rasped, motioning the butler away again.

  “Of course, my lady,” he intoned, return
ing to his station at her father’s shoulder.

  “MacLawry?” the marquis prompted.

  “He … surprised me,” she finally managed, still sputtering.

  “Hm.”

  Mary scowled at her father. “He did surprise me. I was crossing the room to see Elizabeth, and he ran into me. When he asked me to waltz, I couldn’t refuse him without … insulting him.”

  “You could easily have said you already had a partner,” her mother countered, slight color returning to her generally pale cheeks. “I daresay your father or any of your cousins would have been pleased to dance with you if you’d so much as wiggled a finger at them. And what about that handsome Roderick MacAllister? You know your father expressly wanted you to dance with Lord Delaveer.”

  “I did dance with Roderick. I dance with him quite frequently.”

  “A country dance. That barely signifies.”

  “And I certainly have no qualms about insulting a MacLawry,” her father put in. “Particularly in favor of a MacAllister.”

  “I do, Walter. The MacLawrys are dangerous beasts. Didn’t you see that brawl they caused at the Evanstone ball? They nearly killed Lord Berling. Your own cousin.”

  “My second cousin,” Lord Fendarrow amended. “And a fool. But yes, you are correct, my dear. You didn’t need to insult him, but you shouldn’t have danced with him, either, Mary.”

  Mary nodded. “There is a truce, though, is there not? Arnold and Charles and all my other cousins aren’t going to murder Arran MacLawry for dancing with me, are they? Because I don’t think he had the slightest idea who I was.”

  And she’d rather enjoyed that, actually. To him she’d been Lady Vixen, and they’d simply chatted. Yes, she’d needled him a bit, but then he was a MacLawry. He hadn’t become flustered or annoyed or defensive at her barbs, though. Rather, he’d shown more wit and humor than she’d expected—after all, she’d grown up on tales of the goat-faced, hairy-knuckled MacLawrys.

  She wished she could have seen more of his face, because his mouth with that cynically amused quirk of his lips, the way the lean fox visage seemed to fit his features—he didn’t seem remotely goat-faced. In fact, he intrigued her, just a little.

  “To be perfectly clear,” her father said, shaking her out of thoughts of black, wind-blown hair and a lean, strong jaw, “you aren’t to dance with Arran MacLawry or Ranulf MacLawry, or Munro MacLawry if he should venture down from Glengask. Nor are you to befriend Rowena MacLawry. Or the Mackles or Lenoxes or MacTiers or any other of their clan or allies.”

  “I—”

  “I know you’re aware of your place, Mary,” he continued over her interruption. “I know you’ve been told a hundred times that as my daughter, as your grandfather’s granddaughter, you have a value to both allies and enemies. It wasn’t as … vital when the MacLawrys kept to the Highlands, but they’re here in London now. And simply because my father decided we should at least pretend some diplomacy with the Marquis of Glengask doesn’t mean you need to do so.”

  “I understand, Father,” Mary said hurriedly, hoping to avoid being bombarded by the entire speech. Because she hadn’t heard it a hundred times; she’d heard it a thousand times. “Truly.”

  “Good. Because the present circumstances have provided us with an opportunity we don’t mean to let pass by.”

  “An opportunity that hinges on you,” her mother put in, finally taking a seat. “Even though I was married by one-and-twenty, it seems your … stubbornness and your grandfather’s indulgence have now actually benefited us.”

  “Indeed,” the marquis resumed. “Your previous reluctance to marry hasn’t helped ease any clan tensions. But your grandfather agrees that this truce can be used to our advantage.”

  So far it didn’t seem to be much of an advantage for her, except for one waltz with a man she would otherwise have been forbidden to look at through a spyglass. Then she realized just which opportunity they must be referring to. “You’re setting me after Roderick MacAllister,” she stated, her heart bumping into her throat.

  “This truce won’t last,” her father returned matter-of-factly. “The Campbell’s favorite granddaughter marrying the MacAllister’s son will give us the numbers to challenge the MacLawrys, and the MacAllisters wouldn’t make that bargain, sweet as it is, without this cease-fire. We must strike now.” He leaned forward, putting a hand over her teacup before she could lift it for another sip. “And that is why you are not to risk upending this truce by waltzing with Arran MacLawry.”

  Ice trailed down her spine. Yes, she could have avoided a dance with a MacLawry—if she’d wished to do so. When she’d realized he had no idea who she was, she’d felt … excited, as if she were doing something forbidden and dangerous. As opposed to something … disquieting. Roderick MacAllister was pleasant enough, and she supposed at the back of her thoughts she’d known he was one of her beaux, along with every male cousin in the Campbell clan. But that didn’t erase the fact that there had been something stirring about waltzing with a rogue.

  Her father released the cup of tea and sat back again. “We likely should have had this conversation three years ago when you had your debut.”

  “We did,” the marchioness countered, a fine line appearing between her brows. “But who would ever have expected the MacLawrys to come down from the Highlands? Not I, certainly.”

  “Not to argue,” Mary said slowly, “but if we are attempting to keep this truce with Lord Glengask and his clan, should we not be more … friendly toward them? Perhaps with a dance or two we can avoid any future bloodshed. Surely that would be worth the risk.”

  “Didn’t you hear your father? If Charles Calder or Arnold Haws sees you partnered with a MacLawry, you’ll be causing a fight. If you’re seen favoring that rogue over Lord Delaveer, you will be jeopardizing the most significant alliance of the past hundred years.”

  There had already been a fight—several of them, actually—between the Campbells and the MacLawrys this Season. In fact, she had no idea how Lord Glengask and her second cousin George Gerdens-Daily had managed to converse long enough to decide they should attempt to avoid killing each other. But they had, and now no one seemed to know quite what to do. Or rather, her family had decided to use the few moments of peace to nearly double their strength in anticipation of when the truce fell apart. And she was the linchpin.

  She pushed to her feet. “So I am not to dance with a MacLawry, and not to be rude to a MacAllister. I believe I can manage that.” Mary came around the table to pat her father on the shoulder. “I’m off to find a new hat, then, and I will be going to luncheon with Elizabeth and Kathleen.”

  “Oh, give my best wishes to Kathleen for her mother, dear,” the marchioness said. “I do hope she’ll be recovered enough to attend the Dailys’ recital on Thursday.”

  “I’ll tell her.” Mary kissed her mother’s cheek, then made her way out to the foyer to collect her maid, Crawford, and the blue bonnet that matched her walking dress.

  “Are you certain you don’t want to take the coach, my lady?” Gerns asked, as the butler helped her with her matching blue shawl.

  “We’re only walking to Bond Street,” she returned with a smile, deciding she could use a few moments to clear her head. Because if her parents couldn’t stop talking about one silly waltz with Arran MacLawry, her friends would wish to discuss nothing else.

  Of course she knew that logically she shouldn’t have danced with that lean, dark-haired fox half-mask. But for heaven’s sake, to say that she wasn’t allowed to waltz with a gentleman she’d never even met before simply because some man she hadn’t yet agreed to marry might be angry? Ridiculous.

  Of course marrying her would be a political coup, a way into clan Campbell’s higher echelons. She’d known that for what seemed like forever. Just the same way she knew that her male cousins and the potential Campbell allies paid her special attention because of her bloodline and not because she was particularly charming or lovely. But Arran MacLawry had danced
with her for the simple reason that they’d worn matching masks. It was utterly … mad that everyone had begun roaring and stomping because of a coincidence of costume.

  Perhaps next her father would decide she couldn’t waltz with anyone dressed in blue. Or black. Or would it be her husband who dictated that? For heaven’s sake. She hoped she would at least have the chance to chat with Roderick before her family dragged her to a church. All she knew about him at the moment was that he danced tolerably and had a weakness for stinky cheeses. There was a vast difference between amiable chatting and attempting to discover whether a man would make a husband.

  “Lady Mary, are we late?” Crawford panted from beside her, her skirts clutched in one hand.

  Mary immediately slowed her pace. “I’m so sorry, Crawford. My mind was elsewhere.”

  “Was yer mind on a masquerade ball, by any chance?” a deep, rolling brogue asked from off to her left.

  Starting, she whipped around. “Arran.”

  He leaned against a tree trunk, calm and still as if he’d been there for hours. A predator waiting for his prey. Black hair lifted off his temple in the light breeze. With the fox mask on, his parts—jaw, mouth, shadowed blue eyes—had hinted at a handsome face. Without the mask, adding in high cheekbones, a straight nose, and slightly arched eyebrows, he was a dream—a dark Highlands prince who likely ate wildcats for breakfast.

  “Aye. Arran MacLawry,” he affirmed, finally straightening. “And how do ye do this fine morning, Mary Campbell?”

  Chapter Two

  Finding Mathering House, the Mayfair residence of the Marquis of Fendarrow, had been a simple matter even for a relative stranger to London. It stood large and white and proud on the corner of Curzon Street and Queen Street, directly across from the even larger Campbell House. Arran briefly wondered if the Campbell’s eldest son and heir enjoyed seeing what he would one day inherit, or if he resented that the Campbell showed no sign of being ready to turn up his toes.