Rogue with a Brogue (32 page)

So much for niceties. “What's happened?” she asked, facing him directly. “Is it Father?”

A muscle in his cheek jumped. “No. The last I heard, His Grace was well.”

She nodded, swallowing. That couldn't have been sympathy she fleetingly saw on his face. More likely he was worried that perhaps he'd guessed wrong about his daughter's whereabouts and he'd come here for nothing. “Then why are you here? I've kept my word; I haven't left Manchester since we purchased this house, and Sean only went to London last year for business.”

“Stop prattling on, will you?” Walter pushed to his feet. “I'm going to ask you a question, and you are going to answer me completely and truthfully. If you lie, if you keep anything from me, I will know—and I will burn this house to the ground.”

“I will not be threatened in my own house,” Sean growled, taking a step forward.

“I'm not speaking to you,” Walter commented, his gaze remaining on his sister.

Sarah was fairly certain this scene would have played the same way even if they hadn't been hiding runaways in their closet, even if they had been genuinely surprised to see a dozen Campbell clansmen milling around her house. She put a hand out, stopping her husband's advance even as the two younger men in the room moved up to flank her brother. “Ask your question, then,” she said, her voice unsteady. “I have no reason to lie to you about anything.”

“I don't know about that, Aunt Mòrag,” the one who looked like a younger version of Walter said.

“Whose boy are you, then?” she asked.

“Your sister Bearnas's.” He sketched a lazy bow. “Charles Calder, at your service.”

“Don't bother introducing yourself, Charles,” Walter broke in, his scowl deepening. “You won't be meeting her again.”

“For heaven's sake, Walter, stop threatening us and ask your question!”

“Very well.” For a bare moment he clenched his jaw, but she had no idea if it was anger or embarrassment or worry. Given her own experience with him, she tended to believe it was embarrassment. “A week ago my daughter, Mary, was kidnapped by Lord Arran MacLawry. We came across their wrecked coach last night, not five miles from here. And so my question to you, Sarah, is: have you seen them?”

She put a hand to her chest. “Mary? Oh, no! That's horrible! I—No, of course I haven't seen her.”

“How would you know?” Charles Calder asked slyly. “You haven't seen her since she was two years old.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Sean broke in. “We've spent nineteen years here, looking at the same neighbors. The last stranger to come through here was that fellow selling Paris silks. What was his name? Something Chambers. And that was three months ago. And so yes, we would know if we saw a strange woman about.”

“For the last damned time, banker, I am not talking to you.”

Sarah stepped between her husband and her brother. “Sean is telling you the truth. If we'd seen anyone being dragged about by some man, I would certainly remember it.”

“So she didn't come to find you and ask for aid?”

“If she did, I certainly would have done what I could to help her. Whatever's happened between us, I have nothing against your daughter. And to be taken against her will—she must be terrified. Have you gone to see Robert Daily?”

“No, I haven't. The difficulty I have with this,” her brother said after a moment, “is that I don't see where else she could go but here. I daresay Mary would find it irresistible, especially after their coach rolled over. She would hope to find you sympathetic to her plight, and that you would harbor them until they could find other transportation.”

“And then there was the blood we found there. One of them is injured.”

She looked at her nephew, using every bit of wit she possessed to follow only the clues they gave her, to reach the conclusions she would logically come to given what they were saying. “I—This doesn't sound precisely like a kidnapping,” she said hesitantly. “I thought you meant she would come here to ask for my help in getting back home.”

Walter closed the distance between them and put a finger under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “It is precisely what I say it is. Now. Are they here?”

Sarah met his gaze squarely. “They are not,” she enunciated the same way he had, not having to pretend the uneasy quaver at the end.

“Then you won't mind if we look for ourselves.” Releasing her, he angled his chin toward the depths of the house.

Her nephew left the room and headed back toward the small kitchen, while the second young man none too gently set Levitt aside and opened the front door, whistling. Immediately another half-dozen men, some of whom she recognized as her own relatives or husbands of her former friends and allies, tramped into her house.

“After what they've done to you, Sarah,” Sean roared, his face flushing, “I will not have these … Campbells in my house!”

She turned around to face him, not certain how much of his anger was feigned. Not much of it, she would guess. “Sean. Let them paw through our things. It's the only way they'll go and leave us be.”

“Yes, it is,” her brother agreed.

“And I hope
you
realize,” she continued, facing the Marquis of Fendarrow again, “that I would never do anything—
anything
—that would give you reason to appear on my doorstep.”

“Perhaps not.” The second young man returned to the sitting room, and Walter walked over to the doorway. “And perhaps you would leap at the chance to cause me harm. Either way, Donnell here will keep you company while I go see what sort of life you've made for yourselves. At the least I imagine it will be amusing.”

And yet you're the one whose daughter has run off with a MacLawry,
she wanted to say, but kept her mouth shut. Instead she grabbed her husband's clenched fist and pulled him over to sit on the couch beside her. “I suppose we should be flattered that he thinks we're so clever,” she muttered, knowing Donnell could hear her.

“I'd be flattered if he fell down the stairs and broke his bloody neck,” Sean grunted.

She snorted. “If I ever had any doubts that I chose the right man to give my loyalty to, this has answered it. I really do hate the Campbells, you know.”

“As do I. All but one of them.” Slowly he uncurled his fist and grasped her hand in his.

“Thank you for that, but I happen to be a Mallister.” And hopefully soon the one other Campbell for whom she had very recently developed a surprising affection would be a MacLawry.

*   *   *

If she'd had a pocket watch, Mary wouldn't have been at all surprised to see that four or five or six hours had passed since they'd taken refuge in their little hole in the wall. She didn't think she'd ever sat so still for so long in her life, but it still didn't feel like enough. She slowed her breath, tried to slow her heartbeat—which was quite difficult considering that the entire right side of her body touched Arran.

He hadn't moved, either, but she would never mistake his stillness and silence for helplessness. Danger and ready anger fairly radiated from him. She knew he had a pistol, and she knew he was listening for any reason to strike. The fact that he'd been unconscious twelve hours ago didn't seem to concern him, though she didn't think she would ever be able to forget the image of his still, pale face. And how … lost she'd felt at the idea of being without him.

It was as if she'd just discovered the sun with all its light and warmth, and then been faced with the prospect of never seeing it again. She needed to tell him that, but not here. Not now, when it might seem that all she wanted was his protection.

“… think she'd actually come here?” Charles Calder's voice came from only a few feet away. She jumped, and Arran's arm tightened across her shoulders.

“That depends,” her father's deeper voice returned. “If that blood belonged to Mary, they're likely nowhere near here. If it's MacLawry who's been injured, well, I expected to see her sitting by the road considering the best way to apologize for all this. She's a clever thing, but she's not about to carry MacLawry about and risk taking responsibility for shaming me and betraying the clan.”

So that was what her father thought of her. And a few weeks ago, his assessment would likely have been correct. She had become an expert in avoiding complications. What he hadn't taken into account was Arran, and how brave he made her feel. Yes, she'd come here for assistance, but she hadn't chosen to ask the help of her aunt because it was a way out of all this. She'd come because they needed a safe place to rest for a few days.

“I'm assuming I'll still be marrying her once we straighten this out.”

Mary made a face in the silent dark.
Not bloody likely,
she thought to herself.

“The announcement's been printed, my boy. As far as most of London is concerned, she's at Fendarrow waiting for us to arrive for the wedding. I insist that you marry her. If she won't make an alliance for us, I will see that she doesn't make any further trouble.” The marquis's voice came from nearer by; he must have been in the doorway to the storage closet.

“That's all I ask. Well, except for one other small matter. In all the rush to catch up to them, you haven't said what you mean to do about MacLawry.”

Her father made a disgusted sound. “This wardrobe wouldn't look out of place in a barn,” he commented.

“Well, it was purchased on a banker's salary,” Charles said smoothly, amusement in his voice. Good heavens, he was a sycophant. Mary had known that before, but she hadn't actually listened to what a toady he was until now.

The marquis chuckled, and the stack of hat boxes fell over.
No, no, no
. She felt Arran shift ever so slightly, and knew he'd moved the pistol into his hand. If that wall panel moved, someone was going to die.

“But MacLawry?” Charles pressed, his voice close enough that she could likely reach out and touch him.

“You heard his brother. Glengask is so anxious to keep this tattered little truce that he's ready to disown our large Highlander. It would be even easier if Arran simply vanished, don't you think? His family could invent tales about how he escaped to the Colonies to begin a new life.”

“You're not suggesting we let him go, I presume.”

“No, Charles, I'm not. I'm suggesting we tell everyone he chose to flee to America when we cornered him. And then the MacLawrys remain the aggressors, and the Campbells look both honorable and reasonable.”

“Will Mary keep her mouth shut about it?”

“You'll be her husband. She couldn't say anything against you even if she chose to. Which she won't. That would make her responsible for ending the truce. Mary's too proper to want blood on her hands.”

“You've been thinking about this quite a bit, haven't you, Uncle?”

“Since we broke Crawford out of that inn, yes, I have.”

This was not her father. This was not the man who'd purchased her hats, who'd danced the quadrille with her at Almack's, who'd said he was relieved that Glengask and her second cousin George Gerdens-Daily had arranged for a truce between their clans.

Whoever this man was, he'd speculated about whether or not she was injured only in terms of strategy. He promised again to give her to a man he knew to be nothing more than a social-climbing killer. And he spoke about murdering a man—the man she loved enough to flee her old, safe life—as if the only inconvenience was the fact that they would have to hide the body.

“Turn over the mattress, Charles. I wouldn't put it past them to hide under the bed.”

Still chatting about the best way they could do away with Arran and get her to a church with the fewest people possible knowing anything had gone amiss, the voices faded toward the master bedchamber. Other than the sheer cold-bloodedness of the conversation, she was struck by their supreme confidence in the fact that they would catch her and Arran.

“Was that bastard your father, Lady Mary?” Howard muttered in his gravel-rough voice.

“Silence,” Arran whispered in response, so quietly the word almost seemed to drift on the air. “They're nae alone.”

Did he mean there were more men in the house? Or that there were men waiting silently in the room, listening for them? Mary shivered, her muscles already tight and aching. What if her father decided to stay the night? What if he slept in the room a dozen feet away from where they were hiding? They could be trapped there in the dark, unable to move for fear of making a sound, for days.

Warm lips brushed her ear. “When they dunnae find us, they'll have to move on,” Arran breathed. “Your father has to catch us before we reach the border.”

Evidently Arran MacLawry could read her thoughts. Not daring to speak herself, she settled for a silent nod. What he said made sense. If her father didn't find them here, he would have to assume they'd slipped away north again.

After what felt like another hour but must have been ten or fifteen minutes, the chair in which Arran had spent the night shifted and creaked, and booted feet left the room for the stairs at the front of the hallway.
Goodness.
How had Arran known? Had he heard an extra set of footfalls when the men first entered the room? Was there someone else still inside?

Farther away male voices mingled, her aunt Sarah's higher-pitched response cutting in every so often. Glass broke, but the conversation continued. How odd, that a woman Mary had met only fifteen hours earlier could hide and defend her when her own father couldn't be bothered to do so. And how surprising that a man she'd known only a few weeks had become more precious to her than her own clan. Than her own family.

A door downstairs shut soundly. Shortly after that, she was certain she heard hooves pounding down the hard-packed front drive. Was it over, then? Or had her father left someone behind to keep watch?
Oh, dear
. That was what she would have done.