Rogue with a Brogue (15 page)

Crawford waited for her upstairs and helped her change out of her fine violet evening gown and into her night rail. The maid was clearly near to bursting with “I told you sos,” but Mary didn't give her the opportunity to use them. Of course she knew better. The risk had seemed worth it. It still did, actually.

She spent most of the night awake, half hoping that Arran would climb through her bedchamber window—not to ravish her or help her run away, but so she would have someone with whom she could discuss what had happened. So they could attempt to make sense of events and figure out what they needed to do to fix things.

He didn't appear, and then Crawford began throwing open curtains shortly before eight o'clock in the morning. “We need to hurry, my lady,” the maid said, pulling a rather plain green and brown muslin from the wardrobe.

“Why are we hurrying?” Mary asked, brushing the night's restless knots out of her hair. “No one will be out and about for hours.”

“I don't know, my lady. Your father the marquis said you were to come down to breakfast at once.”

So she would be spending the day being reminded of her ancestry and her duty and the history of the clan's rivalry with the MacLawrys. Or perhaps he'd managed to convince Roderick that the truce, more rickety or not, remained, and that the Campbells and MacAllisters still had an alliance. She frowned. Roderick. Yes, he was likely waiting for her just downstairs. After she'd kissed and chatted with Arran. A life of dull and mild, with a hundred might-have-beens up in the attic where she could dwell on them endlessly.

Even with all that, though, she couldn't regret meeting Arran. Without him she would have missed a handful of the most interesting conversations of her life. She would have missed the sensation that her feet weren't quite touching the ground when he smiled at her. She would have missed knowing him—and that would have been a tragedy even greater than the one currently opened at her feet.

“Oh, you have a letter,” Crawford exclaimed, making her jump. The maid produced a crisply folded missive from her pocket and handed it over. “I nearly forgot, with all the goings-on this morning.”

Mary frowned as she turned it over. “‘Lady Joan Crane,'” she read aloud, not recognizing the name. The address was a respectable one on Reeves's Mews, so with a shrug she broke the wax seal and unfolded the note.

“Dear Lady Mary,” she read to herself. “Though we aren't well acquainted, I would very much appreciate knowing that you are well. If for any reason you find your present circumstances untenable, please feel free to inform me.”

What the devil was this?
She opened the last fold of the short note, and a small scrap of yellow and white muslin fell to the floor.

Heat and understanding jolted through her. Swiftly she bent down to retrieve the scrap, and curled her fingers hard around it. Arran had kept this, from that morning at the hat shop. She hadn't even realized. And he'd managed to find a way to contact her. He was still thinking about her, still concerned about her—just as she was about him.

Almost immediately the chill of reality swept in to drive the warmth of those thoughts away. Because able to contact her or not, he was still a MacLawry. He was still leaving for Scotland by sunset, and she still had Roderick MacAllister awaiting her downstairs. And so she would write him via this Lady Joan, and tell him that she was well, that she wished … that she wished
him
well, and that this—whatever it might have become—was over.

Once Crawford finished pinning up her hair, Mary put the note and the scrap of muslin in the drawer of her writing desk and went downstairs to be lectured.

In the breakfast room doorway, though, she stopped dead. Her parents sat in their usual places, their expressions as grim and somber as she'd expected. But the reason she couldn't catch her breath was seated in
her
usual spot at her father's right elbow. And it wasn't Lord Delaveer.

“Good morning, Mary,” Charles Calder said with a smile.

The fact that he was smiling when he should have been plotting revenge against the blackguard MacLawrys horrified her. Because she could only think of one thing that would make him smile this morning. The MacAllisters had fled the alliance, after all.

“Have a seat, Mary,” her father said flatly. “We have some things to discuss.”

 

Chapter Eight

“Dunnae bother, Winnie. His mind's made up.” Arran threw the new pair of Hessian boots he'd acquired into the traveling trunk along with the ridiculous beaver hat the Sasannach required their men to wear out of doors.

He'd arrived in London four weeks ago in such a hurry that he hadn't packed anything but a clean shirt. Everything going into the trunk now had been purchased here. More than likely he'd never need any of it again, but perhaps the church in An Soadh could make use of the clothes if they ever put on an English play.

“But he's arranging his wedding,” his sister countered, tears skittering down her cheeks. “We'll all be heading home in a few weeks. Ran would be better off with you here.”

Arran held up a small porcelain fox that had somehow found its way onto his dressing table. “Is this from ye, or Ranulf?” he asked.

“Me.”

“Thank ye, then.” He wound it into the small pile of cravats he'd also acquired, then tucked it into one corner of the trunk.

“Couldn't you simply apologize?” Rowena insisted. “Tell him you were spying on the Campbells for us, to see if they truly mean to honor the truce.”

He shook his head, setting aside the thought that he'd considered telling that very lie just so he would have an excuse to be seen in Mary's company. If that tale had ever had its moment, it had now passed. “Nae,
piuthar
. It's only Ranulf who can decide to make peace with an enemy because he wants a woman. The rest of us wed who and when we're told. So watch yourself, Rowena. I hear the Cameron has an unmarried son. And he's naught but fifty-seven, only twenty-nine years yer senior.”

“You shouldn't say such things, Arran. Especially about Charlotte. And the Hanovers are very nice, too.”

“Aye, they are. And I have no quarrel over a friendship with the Hanovers. It's Glengask shaking hands with all the Sasannach and all the Scots who've fled the Highlands that grinds my teeth. But he can do as he wishes. I cannae, obviously.”

“This is ridiculous!” she argued, stomping one foot. “Just talk to him! We are family. We don't send each other away.”

“Ye have that wrong, Winnie,” Arran returned, waiting until his sister's back was turned before he slipped a pistol into the pocket of his hanging jacket and set the other one into the trunk. However he felt about Mary, he was not popular with the Campbells at the best of times. By now the lot of them were likely frothing at the mouth to be after him. “Ran banished Uncle Myles fer three years fer being pleasant to the Donnellys.”

“Because it ended with Bear being shot. This isn't the same. And he forgave Uncle Myles.”

“Aye, he did. The moment Ranulf needed him to navigate through the Sasannach.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “So you're just leaving London. You're running away like a scalded dog.”

Arran walked around his bed and sat on the edge of it to face his sister. “Whatever anyone thinks, I dunnae want trouble with the Campbells. I didnae intend fer this to happen. So aye, I'm leaving. Like a scalded dog.”

“I don't like this.”

Frequently Arran had been put into the position of being the diplomatic MacLawry, the one who soothed over some of the more radical of Ranulf's decisions. Like when he'd decided to build schools in the two villages on Glengask land, and require every child under the age of twelve to attend them. Well, with the mood he was in, Ranulf could be his own diplomat.

“The only one who's allowed to like the way of things is Ranulf. Dunnae ye see that by now? Do ye think I'd be aboot to marry Deirdre Stewart if I had a choice? Saint Bridget. I've had more interesting conversations with a hammer.”

Rowena furrowed her brow, dark gray eyes searching his. “Arran, you aren't in love with Mary Campbell, are ye?”

Since her brogue kept slipping into hearing she must have been truly surprised, and truly distraught. On another occasion he might have teased her about it, but this morning he didn't feel amused. He wanted to know that Mary wasn't paying an even higher price than he was for this disaster. That was the only thing that would make leaving London acceptable—if by doing so he was helping her. Of course helping Delaveer
to
her didn't sit nearly as well, but he was a better choice than Calder.

He'd done what he could when he'd had Fordham forward that letter to her. Answering it would be up to her. And if she didn't respond, he would never know if she was simply relieved that the decision of what they would do next had been removed, or if she felt as at sea as he did. Milling currents, muddled feelings, that sense of loss without ever having grasped what it was they might have had.

“We'll never know now, will we?” he said aloud, knowing his sister expected some sort of response. “I'm pledged to Deirdre. Or near enough.”

“But did ye tell Ran? If he knew, he might—”

“Who do ye think ye're talking to, Rowena? Now go downstairs and be nice to our
bràthair
before he decides ye need to go home, as well.”

That evidently made an impact on her, because after favoring him with a tight, damp hug she fled his bedchamber. Arran blew out his breath, then stood to resume packing. He might have been more positive, more circumspect, he supposed. He might have offered his sister some hope that he and Ranulf would reconcile.

Except that he didn't think they would. Ranulf hadn't spoken a word to him since they'd parted at the Penrose dinner. But more than that, this trip down to London had changed the marquis. Whatever it was, Arran didn't understand it, he didn't like it, he didn't see a reason for it, and he didn't think it was in the best interest of clan MacLawry, no matter who else they brought into the fold.

Finally he shut the trunk and buckled the leather straps to keep the lid locked down. Every ounce of will he possessed fought against the desire, the need, to go to Mathering House and discover for himself how Mary fared. But he'd arranged for her to get his note. If he went to see her in person, several people would likely end up dead.

“M'laird,” Owen said from the doorway.

“Aye. Come in.”

The butler stayed in the hallway, as though he were worried he might catch the plague if he stepped into the room. “I'm to tell ye Debny's hitching up the heavy coach fer ye, and that ye're to be gone in thirty minutes. He'll drive ye home.”

“I sent Peter oot to hire a coach fer me. I'll nae take that monster with the MacLawry crest on the panel. And I've nae need of bodyguards.” Arran furrowed his brow. “I'm lyin' in the bed I made.” Of course soon enough he and Lady Deirdre would be lying in the bed Ranulf had made for them.

“I— As ye say, m'laird. I'll inform Lord Glengask.” The servant nodded, then cleared his throat. “Ye've a letter from Lord Fordham, as well.”

Arran just resisted launching himself at the door and snatching it out of Owen's hand. “Aye? I left him a note last night to tell him I was leaving London.” Walking up to the door, he held out his hand. “Are ye allowed to give it to me, or do ye have to get Glengask's leave first?”

Owen straightened. “I'm only supposed to catch notes ye send oot.”

Ranulf didn't trust him not to make more trouble, then. He wasn't surprised, and he was more thankful than ever that he'd stopped by William Crane's house last night. Arran took the missive from the butler's fingers, then retreated to his writing desk to read it, intentionally leaving the bedchamber door open as he did so.

Taking a breath, telling himself his hands shook from anger, he opened the letter. Across the top of the page in Fordham's distinctive handwriting, he read, “This arrived at 2:17 this afternoon. And write me when you're safe at Glengask, you idiot.”

The rest of the note had been written in a different, more elegant hand. For a heartbeat he shut his eyes. Mary had sent him an answer, and he had no idea what he hoped it would be. Or rather, he did know what he wanted to read, but there was no way in the world any good could come of it.

He opened his eyes again. “Dear Lady Joan,” he read to himself, hearing her voice in his head, “I regret to tell you that I won't be in London to better our acquaintance, though I dearly wish that wasn't so. My parents have decided it is time I marry. I will be leaving Mathering House first thing in the morning, and returning to Fendarrow in Wiltshire by the main road. There, in two weeks' time, I am to be wed to Mr. Charles Calder, my cousin.”

Arran stopped reading. Anger pulsed through him. The MacAllisters were out—and that was his fault. Even if he hadn't known about Mary's dislike for her cousin, Charles Calder was a clever, cruel man whom he wouldn't want to see wed to his worst enemy—which he supposed Mary was. She didn't feel like an enemy, though. And unless in the next few lines she could convince him that she'd made her peace with the idea of marrying Calder, he was not going to allow it to happen. The strength of that thought actually surprised him. But he bloody well meant it.

He looked down again. “If you have any words of hope or wisdom for me, Lady Joan, I would welcome them. And please know, I do not blame you for the fact that we are not better acquainted. Indeed, our friendship was just begun, and as far as I'm concerned, our friendly sentiments were mutual. Or so I choose to believe.”

“Damnation,” he muttered, his jaw clenched. “Damn, damn, damn.”

“I have no expectations from you, but as you asked after me, I wanted to answer completely and truthfully. Yours in fond, fond recollection, Mary.”