Rogue with a Brogue (2 page)

“And why wouldn't a vixen like to hear that a fox admires her pelt?”

“Because ye're nae a vixen, any more than I'm a fox. Ye chose nae to wear a swan mask, which at least sets ye apart from a dozen other lasses here tonight, but I'm wearing a fox mask because my sister handed it to me. I reckon I'd rather be a wolf, truth be told.” Yes, the family generally called him the clever one, and Rowena had seemed pleased enough at the choice that he'd gone along with it, but it was a well-painted piece of papier-mâché—and nothing more.

“I wanted to be a vixen,” she said after a moment. “My father wanted me to be a swan.”

Now
this
was interesting. “And yet here ye are, nae a swan.” She also was a young woman, perhaps three or four years older than Rowena—the age he knew Deirdre Stewart to be—with an attractive mouth, lips that seemed naturally to want to smile, and shadowed green eyes that he imagined crinkled at the corners. If Arran hadn't had both hands occupied with the waltz, he would have been fighting the urge to remove her mask, so he could see the whole of her face, to know if the parts were equal to the sum.

Her lips curved again. “And
that
is a compliment, Sir Fox.” She tilted her head, the gold lights in her hair catching the chandelier light. “Or do you wish me to call you Sir Wolf?”

“I'd answer to Arran,” he returned, grinning back at her. She didn't react to his name, but then she likely already knew who he was. London Society didn't boast many lads fresh from the Highlands.

“Tell me why the swan—the one pretending not to gaze at you from over by the refreshment table—terrifies you, Arran,” the vixen said.

He shrugged. “She's my sister's closest friend, and my oldest brother is betrothed to
her
sister.”

“Ah,” the vixen returned, her lush gold and red gown swirling against his legs. “The moment she discovered her future brother-in-law had an unmarried brother, she began dreaming about a double wedding.”

“Aye. Someaught like that. I've nae wish to break her heart, but I'll nae end up marrying her to avoid seeing her pout, either.”

“You must be quite the dancer, if your waltz causes ladies to become spontaneously engaged. Someone should have warned me.”

“Tease if ye like, lass, but I'm nae here to get tangled into a debutante's fairy tale.” God and Saint Bridget knew there were more than enough bonnie lasses awaiting his pleasure in the Highlands, and none of them with silly Sasannach sensibilities about romance and danger. When Ranulf, the chief of clan MacLawry, married his English bride, the family would have more than enough gentle southern blood brought into the mix. And evidently he was to be aimed at a Stewart, anyway.

“If you're not here to marry, then what brings you to London? The mild weather?”

Arran snorted. “If it's nae someaught that can knock ye to yer knees, it's nae weather. I'm only here to keep an eye on my brother and sister. And to be polite.”

He sent a glance over where the big black panther waltzed with his owl. With Ranulf distracted by a pair of pretty hazel eyes and Rowena enamored of everything English, one of the MacLawrys needed to keep a wary eye open for Campbells. That was why he'd left their youngest brother, Bear, behind to see to Glengask while he rode down to London. Because William Campbell declaring that clan Campbell would recognize a truce with the MacLawrys was just words. Very fragile ones. Arran had seen enough bloody deeds to recognize the difference.

“‘To be polite'?” she repeated. “An … interesting goal. Are you generally not polite, then?”

It likely wasn't a coincidence that she'd several times now decided to comment on the most barbed portion of his various statements. She was needling him—and on purpose. He liked it. “I'm a very polite lad,” he said aloud, “except to those who dunnae deserve a kind word.”

Amused green eyes looked up to meet his gaze again. “And where do I fall in this hierarchy?” she asked.

Whoever this lass was, she was no timid flower. “Ye've some Highlands blood in yer veins, do ye nae, lass?”

She lowered her head for a heartbeat. “I do, at that. But what makes you say so?”

With a crescendo the waltz ended. Arran stood there for a moment, briefly wishing he hadn't named himself the designated watchdog of his family. Then he would have been free to continue this conversation somewhere more intimate. “Save me a quadrille or someaught, and I'll tell ye,” he offered instead.

She belatedly untangled herself from his arms. “I would, but there are enough men here that that wouldn't be … seemly. Another time, perhaps?”

“Aye. Another time. But at least tell me yer name, lass.”

A slow smile curved her attractive mouth once more, and this time the muscles across his abdomen tightened in response. For God's sake, he hoped she would say Deirdre Stewart. Then he could put this odd heightened awareness to instinct. Taking a step closer again, she put a hand on his shoulder and lifted up on her toes. “I think, Sir Fox,” she murmured, her warm lips brushing his ear, “that you should call me … Lady Vixen.”

With that she moved back, then turned and walked away. She sent him a single glance over her shoulder before she vanished into the sea of sparkling masks.
Hm
. Whatever the devil that had been about, he felt in need of a cold swim in the nearest loch. His nether MacLawry felt nearly at half-staff, just from having his ear nibbled on. In public. Striding to one side of the room, he captured a glass of vodka from a footman and downed it.

“Who was that, Arran?” his sister asked, appearing beside him to grip his left arm.

He shook himself. If Winnie was here, then Jane Hanover would be directly on her heels. “An old friend,” he improvised, inclining his head as the swan hurried up behind the peacock. At least he'd avoided waltzing with her. “Did anyone write his name on yer wee card fer this quadrille, Lady Jane? And do ye have a country dance left fer yer own brother, Winnie?”

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.