Rogue with a Brogue: A Scandalous Highlanders Novel Page 5

  “Hitch up a wagon and take it back.”

  Peter stared, clearly baffled, at the marquis. “Are ye mad, m’laird? If ye dunnae want to ruin the pelt, I’ll droon it fer ye.”

  Ranulf sent another glance at Arran. “Nae. Arran’s gone and named it Munro. We cannae kill it now.”

  “After yer own brother, Laird Arran?” Now the servant seemed concerned that at least one of the MacLawrys needed to be carted off to Bedlam.

  “Aye,” Arran answered, caught between surprise that Ranulf wasn’t suggesting he be hauled away and drowned, and reluctant amusement. “If ye please, take wee Munro back to where ye found him.”

  The footman sighed. “I’ll do it fer ye, m’laird, but I’d nae be yer true and faithful man if I didnae speak my mind.”

  The marquis nodded solemnly. “Say yer piece then, Peter.”

  “I think ye’ve been in London too long, m’laird. The madness of these Sasannach is seeping into yer brain.”

  “Ye may have the right of it,” Ranulf returned, sending a glance at Arran. “But I’ll nae leave here withoot Lady Charlotte. Ye’ll have to keep a close eye on us until we’re safely back to Glengask.”

  Peter drew himself up even straighter. “Aye, m’laird. I’ll see to it ye keep to the Highlands way.” With that he claimed the wastebasket and hauled it off in the direction of the stable.

  “And what is the Highlands way?” Arran asked, trying to decide whether attempting to slip the note from Ranulf’s pocket would be worth the additional scrutiny if he was caught at it. More than likely he’d explained it away well enough, and the next time Ranulf looked at it he would simply discard it rather than bring up the topic of Mary Campbell again. Best to leave well enough alone.

  “I dunnae. Kilts and brawling and nae saving badgers, I suppose.”

  “The badger didnae mean to end up at Gilden House with deer hounds nipping at his heels.” Arran looked over at Ranulf as they walked back to the house. “I dunnae see myself as the badger, ye know. I killed my share of men over in Spain and France, so I’m nae squeamish. Ye know I’ll hunt fer food, but I’ve nae eaten badger. The—”

  “You made a good point, Arran,” his brother interrupted. “I likely should have been the one to marry a Stewart. But I’ll nae have any lass but Charlotte. And there wasnae a chance fer an alliance anyway, until ten days ago.”

  “As ye say.”

  Owen held open the door as they entered the house again. From the look—and smell—of the morning room just off the foyer, the badger had visited there, as well. Several footmen and maids were in there already, removing torn couch cushions and sweeping up broken vases and candy dishes. The whole room was so … English that Arran tended to avoid it. The smell of badger piss might even make for an improvement.

  “Ye’ll be able to tell Rowena aboot it tonight,” Ranulf continued. “She and the Hanovers are meeting us at the theater.”

  Damnation. “All the Hanovers?”

  As he turned toward his office, Ranulf paused. “Jane thinks ye handsome and charming.”

  Arran narrowed his eyes. “Ye cursed me, didnae? All I said was fer ye to be certain ye wanted to bring an English lady to live in the Highlands.” He’d thought it a valid question, given the way their own lives had gone.

  “And all I said was that I hoped ye found a lass who agreed with yer every word and nae gave ye a moment of trouble. Mayhap ye should be grateful I found ye someone else.”

  It wasn’t an improvement. At the time it had sounded deathly dull. Now, after having firstly become the focus of eighteen-year-old Jane Hanover’s infatuation, and then having an equally bland Scottish lass thrown at him, the idea of being married to just such a creature gave him nightmares. Nightmares that would soon become real.

  “Ye’re nae a nice man, Ranulf,” he said aloud, as his brother would be expecting some kind of response.

  “A word of advice, bràthair: never advise a man nae to marry the woman he cannae live without.”

  “Is this Deirdre shite revenge, then?”

  “Nae. It’s survival.”

  As Arran went upstairs to assess the damage done to his bedchamber and wall, he had to admit to himself that what Ran had said truly surprised him. Not the last bit, but the part about Charlotte. Yes, he’d heard his older brother say he loved Charlotte Hanover, and heard her profess the same to him. But Ranulf was one-and-thirty, four years his senior. He’d become marquis and chief of the clan when Arran had been eleven.

  All the younger siblings knew their brother to be iron-willed, independent, and unwavering. To hear him say he couldn’t live without Charlotte—it spoke of a need, a vulnerability, that Arran hadn’t expected. In a sense, it was even unsettling. They’d all become so accustomed to relying on Ranulf, who relied on no one but himself. And yet after only a few weeks in England Ran had found an outsider, a Sasannach lass, and declared that he needed her.

  Shrugging off his disquiet, if not his frustration, Arran shed his jacket. He pulled a few coins from his pockets, and then a piece of pretty yellow and white muslin. Mary’s walking dress. For a moment he looked at it, turning the fabric over in his hands. He could discard it if he still had a wastebasket, but considering what had already happened with that, keeping it someplace safe would likely be wiser. With a glance at his half-open door he went to his wardrobe and tucked it beneath a pile of cravats. He wasn’t being sentimental. Not over a Campbell. He was merely being cautious.

  That done, he sat down to write Munro. Bear, as he’d been known since their father had prophesied that he would grow to be the size of one, had remained at Glengask to oversee the estate and the clan. He hadn’t wanted to do so, but being the youngest brother—and the youngest sibling excepting Rowena—had to have some sort of penalty attached to it. Considering that Ranulf had thrown Deirdre at the nearest brother, Bear should count himself lucky that he’d stayed behind.

  As he reported about the progress of Ranulf’s engagement, his own soon-expected betrothal, and their luck thus far in keeping Rowena from falling for the charms of some weak-chinned Sasannach lordling, he left out any mention of Mary Campbell. Mary was … interesting, and she could possibly give him some insight into the Campbell clan. And that, he told himself, was the beginning, middle, and end of it.

  Finally Owen knocked on his door. “Ye’re to leave fer the theater in an hour, m’laird. Do ye wish help dressing?”

  If he’d learned one thing about the English during his sojourn in the army, it was that they changed clothes every time they changed seats. “Nae, Owen. I’ll see to it.”

  “Ye know Laird Glengask gave me leave to hire ye a valet.” He scowled. “I’m certain that Ginger fellow valeting fer the marquis knows some others like himself.”

  Arran grinned. “I’ll manage. And ye may as well get accustomed to Edward Ginger. We’ll have Lady Charlotte in the hoose, and ye can nae have only one Sasannach. They multiply, like toadstools.”

  The old soldier laughed, then abruptly glanced behind him and sobered again. “I’ll see the coach readied then, m’laird.”

  “Thank ye, Owen,” Ranulf’s voice came, and the butler fled. As Arran cursed beneath his breath, the marquis stopped in the bedchamber doorway. “Toadstools, are they?” he asked, folding his arms over his chest.

  “Ye ken that I still have behind me twenty-seven years of hating everyone south of Hadrian’s Wall, do ye nae? Whatever happened to change yer mind hasnae happened to me.” There. He was damned tired of walking about on eggshells where Charlotte Hanover was concerned.

  Ranulf stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. “I’m nae asking ye to love the Sasannach. I’m telling ye that Charlotte is now a MacLawry, and so are her parents and her sister. Ye’ll treat them as such. And if ye dunnae like that, ye’ll still behave in a way that nae gives any of them—or me—any idea of that fact. Is that understood?”

  He’d be a fool to disagree. “Aye,” he said aloud. “The Hanovers are a part of clan MacLawry.
And so will the Stewarts be, I assume.”

  “They make sense fer us, especially with Fendarrow going after the MacAllisters.”

  “I ken, Ran. I dunnae like it one damned bit, but I ken.”

  With a nod, his brother pulled open the door again, then hesitated and shut it more quietly. “I rely on yer counsel, Arran. Dunnae let me down. The times … everything is moving forward fast as the wind. We need to understand that, and to make the changes that help us survive.”

  Evidently one of these changes was Ran falling for an English lass, while him dancing with a Campbell lass was not ever going to be acceptable. It all seemed hypocritical in the extreme, but Arran inclined his head. “As ye say, Ran.”

  His brother didn’t look convinced. “I never know what’s rattling aboot in that clever head of yers, but fer my sake, know Charlotte better before ye decide she willnae do fer me. Ye’ve only been here a few weeks.”

  That, at least, seemed fair. “I said I would, Ran, and so I will.”

  “Good.” The marquis opened the door again. “Get yerself dressed, then. I expect ye’re the only one who’ll enjoy Hamlet tonight, anyway. Damned Danes.”

  It was clearly meant to be a jest, so Arran forced a grin. Once Ranulf left, he dropped the expression. He’d always, always supported his brother and his vision for the clan. Schools, farms, mercantile to be sold to Highlanders who’d been pushed off their lands all the way to America—it had all been about bettering the clan and staying out from under the thumb of the English.

  Their own mother had been English, and she’d swallowed poison rather than live on in the Highlands with four children. For years after that they’d never even mentioned her; to this day Ranulf referred to her as Eleanor rather than as his mother. The rest of them followed suit.

  And now Ran had changed the rules because it suited him to do so. That was his prerogative as the clan’s chief. But it served to make Arran feel not a whit of guilt about going to luncheon with Mary Campbell tomorrow, and not telling another soul about it.

  Chapter Four

  “Were your parents furious?” Elizabeth Bell whispered, sitting beside Mary and taking her hand. Behind them two sets of parents chatted, evidently highly amused that their daughters had claimed the front seats of the box—as if they hadn’t been encouraged to sit there all along. They couldn’t show well from the dark rear of the theater box, after all.

  “Yes,” Mary returned in the same tone, and sighed as she tried to push back against her increasing cynicism. Whatever was wrong with her, she wasn’t certain she liked it. “I explained that Lord Arran surprised me and that I was trying to avoid a scene, but they still wanted to yell.”

  “You can hardly blame them. What if your cousin Charles had realized with whom you were waltzing?”

  She’d thought about that, actually, and in a brawl she wasn’t certain which of the two men would have emerged victorious. Charles had a certain sharp meanness about him, but Arran MacLawry seemed very … capable. And extremely confident. Or at least he’d been so both last night and this morning.

  Not even Liz knew about him accompanying her to the milliner’s, though, and she’d sworn Crawford to secrecy. Because while he’d surprised her with his presence twice now, she could easily have declined to spend time with him this morning. And she couldn’t explain at all why she’d agreed to meet him yet again tomorrow.

  “I told you crimson was your color,” Elizabeth pointed out, gesturing at the heavy, embroidered silk gown Mary had chosen to wear tonight. “You look very dramatic.”

  “Thank you. Mother thinks it makes me look forward, but as no one’s allowed near me without a half-dozen people’s approval, that hardly signifies.” And aside from that, the gown made her feel decadent. If she was to be forced to wed Lord Delaveer, she wasn’t likely to have another chance to indulge herself.

  Liz giggled. “No wonder everyone’s in a panic about you running across Lord Arran, then. He couldn’t possibly be on the approved list.”

  Yes, they were in a panic, and that was why she’d done her best to be tolerant of it. If not for the niggling thought that her family was more concerned that she’d done something scandalous than they were worried she’d been in danger, she would likely have been a great deal more understanding. Of course the clan came first—but she was part of the clan, for heaven’s sake. Why had she been chosen as the Campbell sacrifice? Because her grandfather didn’t think she was a drooling half-wit like he did most of his other grandchildren?

  Elizabeth squeezed her hand, shaking her back to the present. “Oh, look! The Duke and Duchess of Greaves. I didn’t even know they were in Town. And the Earl of Westfall. The new one. It was so sad that his brother was killed in that silly duel.”

  Mary sat forward, looking across the theater at the opposite row of boxes. Since Greaves had married a commoner, he and his wife spent most of their time in York. Sophia Baswich had flaming red hair and a reputation for speaking her mind, and she’d reportedly once worked at The Tantalus Club—a gambling club for gentlemen and staffed solely by females. Mary wondered how in the world the two of them had managed not only to meet and to fall in love, but to have the courage to marry. Even with half the theater staring at them, they looked happy, sitting close to each other, her arm tucked around his.

  As she looked at the rest of the boxes, her breath caught. In the fourth box from the stage the Marquis of Glengask stood greeting the pretty blond woman she knew to be Lady Charlotte Hanover. Mary didn’t know her well—she was four years younger than the earl’s daughter, after all—but to marry Lord Glengask, the chief of clan MacLawry, seemed exceedingly daunting.

  Nor were they alone in the box. Charlotte’s parents, Lord and Lady Hest, had joined them, and so had the other daughter, Jane. Next to her sat Lady Rowena MacLawry, moving her hands animatedly as she chatted about something with the fourth young lady present. Mary frowned. With her dark hair and pale skin, there was no mistaking Lady Deirdre Stewart. Her father, Lord Allen, was there, as well, speaking with Glengask. What were the Stewarts doing with the MacLawrys? That thought, though, vanished as he left the gloom at the back of the box. Arran MacLawry.

  Where his brother had a certain mountainous presence, Arran seemed more like a wolf than a lion—sharp, predatory, and alert for weakness. Except that he’d been charming and clever at the masked ball and even this morning, after he’d learned who she was. Yes, she was wary in his presence, but if she’d been truly frightened, truly concerned for her safety, she would have made her entire family aware of his activities. And she never would have agreed to meet him tomorrow.

  At that moment he turned, meeting her gaze. From across the theater she couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, though she knew them to be a light blue. Nor could she see any details of his expression, but a warm shiver ran down her spine, regardless. If he’d been other than a MacLawry, she would have called herself intrigued, and interested.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Liz whispered from beside her, shaking her out of her thoughts. “Lord Glengask. And he’s seen you, I think. Lord Arran has, I mean.”

  “Well, he’s not likely to attack from over there,” Mary returned, deliberately and with some difficulty turning her gaze toward the stage at the front of the large room. Quite likely it was only the fact that she’d been ordered to stay away from him that left her so conscious of his presence. It made him a dangerous rogue, and what woman wouldn’t notice someone like that gazing at her? Or inviting her to luncheon?

  “The Stewarts, eh?” her father muttered from behind her. “So the MacLawrys don’t have any more faith in the truce than I do.”

  “The Stewarts must be desperate for MacLawry resources if they’re willing to hand their prettiest gem over to Glengask’s brother,” an additional voice said from behind Mary, and with a carefully hidden scowl she turned to look. The son of Malcolm MacAllister stood there shaking hands with her father and Mr. Bell, and complimenting the two mamas. Oh, dear.

  �
��Thank you for inviting me tonight, Fendarrow,” Roderick MacAllister said warmly.

  Then she noticed the man standing slightly behind him, and her frown deepened. Charles Calder, the son of her father’s youngest sister, smiled at her as well, though the expression didn’t quite fit his face.

  That wasn’t her cousin’s fault, she supposed, since Charles had simply been born narrow. Narrow shoulders, lidded eyes, thin lips—they’d all called him Otter until he’d turned sixteen and bloodied his older brother Adam’s nose over it. Which made him narrow-minded, as well. Still, if he’d wanted to distance himself from the nickname, he likely should stop slicking back his straight, black hair and wearing nothing but black clothing.

  “You know you’re always welcome to join us, Roderick,” her father returned. Lord Fendarrow glanced at her, his smile too rushed. “I know you enjoy a good Hamlet, so we’ve saved you a front row seat.”

  So that was why her father had suggested she would be able to see better from the middle seat of the three in the front row. So Lord Delaveer could sit beside her. At least he wasn’t trying to match her with Charles. She certainly didn’t view Roderick … romantically, but at least she didn’t feel the need to bathe after speaking with him. In fact, she didn’t feel much of anything. Was that because she’d only seen him as part of the pack of potential beaux? If she set her mind to it, could Roderick stir her pulse as … Oh. No, no, no. That … No. She wasn’t smitten with Arran MacLawry. That feeling was only nerves, because she wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near him.

  Roderick took the vacant seat beside her, and she jumped. “Good evening, Mary, Miss Elizabeth.”

  “Hello, Lord Delaveer,” Elizabeth returned, smiling. “I didn’t know you enjoyed Shakespeare.”

  “I enjoy the company.”

  “I enjoy Shakespeare,” Charles put in from directly behind Mary. “Especially the tragedies.”

  The light, mostly absent brogue in his voice annoyed her. Previously she was certain she’d barely even noted it, but tonight it sounded as though he couldn’t decide whether he was English or Scottish. “What an odd thing to say,” she returned.