Rogue with a Brogue (5 page)

He nodded. “Then I'll see ye there at one o'clock tomorrow, Mary Campbell.”

Before she could either affirm that or come to her senses and claim she had a previous engagement, he left the milliner's and vanished back into the streets of Mayfair.

For the first time Mary realized that there were three other ladies in the shop, and that all of them had to have seen her with Arran MacLawry. He wasn't a man someone could set eyes on and not remember. How had these ladies escaped her notice? Yes, Arran was rather … compelling, but for goodness' sake. If any of her friends or family discovered with whom she'd been conversing, especially after last night, she wouldn't be able to go anywhere without an armed escort.

She'd seen Arran's sister on a handful of previous occasions, always from a distance, but that was how Rowena went about London—either with one of her brothers or an armed groom or footman or someone from their clan.

Since her entire childhood had been arranged so she could avoid needing that sort of protection, to call it down on herself now would be worse than ending locked in a cell somewhere. The care her parents and grandfather had used in keeping her well away from Highland politics and Highland rivalries had always seemed ironic, because even back then she'd known that whoever married her would be doing so in order to raise and solidify their standing in clan Campbell, or to ally themselves with the clan. This was the first time she actually felt like she was in the middle of something. It was exciting, really—or it would have been, if she hadn't known about Roderick MacAllister and that her future had already been decided.

But at this moment it was more important that she figure out in how much trouble she could be from the other shoppers. The first woman, three or four years older than herself, she didn't recognize at all. From her simple gown and very practical shoes she might well have been a lady's maid, come to pick up a purchase made by her mistress.

The second two were a mother and daughter, Mrs. John Evans and … oh, what was it? Flora? They attended some of the same parties, but she didn't think they knew anything about her family's politics. Thank goodness for that.

Before any of them could notice her staring, she returned to her perusal of baubles, selecting two more hair ribbons she didn't particularly need. There. Everything was as it should be, with no flirtatious encounters between rival clan members or any other such nonsense.

“My lady, do you truly wish to purchase the hat that … man favored?” Crawford asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“I'm purchasing the hat
I
favored,” she countered, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. “It's merely a happy coincidence for him that he liked it, as well.”

“But you're meeting him for luncheon tomorrow. I mean to say…” The maid flushed, her pale cheeks turning a blotchy red. “What I mean is, you say you don't care for his opinion, but you're spoken for.”

Mary forced a smile as they approached the shop clerk. “At this moment I'm being spoken
at.
Nothing's been settled. And I wasn't about to make a scene here,” she returned. “That wouldn't have benefited anyone.”

“I—yes, my lady.”

She knew perfectly well what Crawford wanted to say but didn't dare do so. That a surprise waltz was one thing, a surprise shopping companion another, and a prearranged luncheon quite a different matter entirely. “I'm aware of your concerns, Crawford,” she said quietly. “I haven't forgotten my duty. And I have a day to consider the wisdom of a third encounter.”

“Very good, Lady Mary.”

What Mary couldn't explain aloud, or even to herself, really, was why she meant to meet Arran MacLawry for luncheon, whatever anyone else's objection. The maid saw trouble, a mistress behaving contrary to her parents' well-known wishes. And
that
was the point of it all—partly, anyway. The devil MacLawrys had been flung at her practically since she was born. They were why she'd been cautioned not to begin an acquaintance with anyone until her father or one of her uncles or cousins deemed him or her acceptable. They were why her father had entered into talks with the MacAllisters, and why she would now be expected to marry Roderick.

Arran MacLawry hadn't looked or acted anything like she'd expected. He was different, not beholden to the Campbell or Lord Fendarrow, and that intrigued her more than she'd expected. They'd made a truce, so technically she supposed that in the strictest sense she was doing nothing wrong. Except that it felt wrong, and wicked, and very, very exciting.

The shop door flung open. “Oh, thank heavens!”

Her blond curls bouncing in time with her hurried steps, Elizabeth Bell crossed in front of the other, openly curious shoppers and hugged Mary. Returning the embrace, Mary frowned at the relieved expression on her friend's face.

“What's amiss, Liz?” she asked, patting Elizabeth's shoulder and taking a half step backward, guiding her friend away from the exceedingly troublesome onlookers.

“We expected you at Madame Costanza's nearly an hour ago!” her friend exclaimed. “What are you doing…” With a glance around her, Elizabeth stepped closer so she could whisper. “What are you doing here? Cyprians purchase their hats here, you know.”

Oh, dear.
How was she supposed to explain that she'd merely seen a lady's hat in the window and stumbled inside because she couldn't risk staying on the streets any longer? Not with her very large male companion attracting everyone's attention. “Do they?” She managed a giggle. “How scandalous!”

“Never mind that. We have to hurry. Kathleen is to wait until eleven, and then go alert your mother about your disappearance.”

Mary felt all the blood leave her face. “Where is she?”

“We're to meet up at the Biscuit House. Come along.”

If Mary hadn't been so concerned that her parents were about to discover to whom she'd been speaking just a few minutes ago, she would have been congratulating herself for deciding not to meet Arran tomorrow at the Biscuit House. The Blue Lamb would be much more discreet. Though of course the wisest course of action would be for her to remain at home for luncheon tomorrow. The question was, how wise did she wish to be?

 

Chapter Three

When Arran returned to Gilden House, the very proper Sasannach manor settled directly in the middle of Mayfair that his brother had seen fit to purchase, half the household was out on the front drive. Perhaps they'd discovered where he'd gone off to, and meant to thrash him for blatant stupidity. He might fight back, but he wouldn't blame them for it.

His second thought was that someone had set fire to something again. The new stable was half completed, but Ranulf was still betrothed to an English lady—and some of his Sasannach rivals still didn't like that.

He didn't smell smoke, though, and no one looked particularly alarmed. When he spied one of the footmen Ran had brought down with him from Glengask, he made his way over. “Owen, what's got the hoose emptied?” he asked.

“The dogs, m'laird,” the stocky former soldier and newly minted butler answered. “Peter took 'em oot fer a run, and they flushed a badger. The
amadan
brought it home fer the pelt, only it came to life again.”

Arran lifted an eyebrow. “So we've a badger and two deer hounds loose in the house?”

“Aye. The laird yer brother said we were making it worse with all the yellin' and running aboot, so he booted us all oot and said he'd see to it.”

So they'd left the chief of clan MacLawry, the Marquis of Glengask, alone in the house with a likely angry badger and a pair of excited, waist-high Scottish deer hounds. For a brief moment Arran wished his younger brother Munro wasn't still in the Highlands, so he could enjoy the fun, as well. Then he grabbed a broom one of the maids clutched and shoved open the front door, closing it firmly behind him.

The frantic barking of Fergus and Una echoed from somewhere upstairs toward the rear of the large house, so he headed up in that direction. “Ranulf!” he called, hefting the broom and wishing it were a wee bit more substantial. He'd never been bitten by a badger himself, but he'd seen it happen. They had jaws like a vise, and the temper of a demon.

“Block the north billiards room door!” his brother bellowed.

“Aye! Give me a moment! I'm still on the stairs!”

The second he stepped into the adjoining hallway a low, dark thing charged at him, snarling. With a curse he swept the broom out, turning the badger past him and toward the main hallway. A heartbeat later Fergus slammed into his left leg, twisting him sideways. When Una pounded into him with the next breath he went down, sprawling into a chair with dogs leaping over him. Then with a crack a chair leg gave way, dumping him onto the floor.

Ranulf strode in, sent him a disgusted look, and followed the dogs. The noise rambled down the hallway toward the rear bedchambers—including his own.
“Ya bas,”
he cursed, clambering to his feet. He'd spent four damned years in the British army. He was not going to be tossed into a chair and laughed at by a bloody badger.

Grabbing up the broom again, he followed the sounds of barking, Ran yelling, and things breaking. Of course the badger had made its way into his bedchamber. Arran sighed. It crouched in a corner, growling, while the massive dogs took turns trying to get past its formidable jaws.

His brother had a pistol in one hand, and a rapier in the other. “What, no claymore?” Arran said, frowning. “This hardly seems sporting.”

“So says the fellow knocked to the floor by the wee beastie.”

“That wasnae the badger. It was yer elephants there that nearly killed me.” He edged closer, trying not to alarm the animal into fleeing—or emptying its bowels. “And dunnae shoot it in here; ye'll get badger all over my bed.”

Ranulf sent him a sideways glance. “And yer suggestion would be…”

Arran looked about the room, then went over to empty the brass wastebasket that sat by his small writing desk. A silver tea tray lay on the floor just outside the door, broken teacups scattered around it. Handing the tray to his brother, he hefted the wastebasket and slowly advanced again. “Call Fergus back, will ye?” The dogs would listen to him, but not while Ranulf was there.

“Dunnae get eaten,” his brother said cynically. “Fergus, off. Here, lad.”

Lowering his tail, the larger of the two dogs slunk backward and then padded over to sit beside the marquis. Edging closer, Arran waited until Una had the badger's full attention. Then he lunged forward over the edge of the bed, scooping up the animal and shoving the wastebasket hard against the wall. After a surprised second of silence, the badger began thrashing, thudding into the wall and the round sides of the brass bucket.

Kneeling down, Arran leaned into the container, keeping it hard against the wall. “Are ye going to stand there and look pretty, or hand me the damned tray?” he grunted at his brother.

Silence. At least from Ranulf—the dogs and the badger were making enough racket to give a banshee a fright. Shifting to keep his weight against the wastebasket, he looked over his shoulder. Ranulf stood close by the writing desk, one hand gripping the tea tray, and the other holding a wrinkled scrap of paper.

Arran frowned. There'd only been one or two things in his damned wastebasket—and one of them was the note he'd made this morning when he'd cornered the rag and bone man and asked him if he knew where the Campbells resided.
Bloody hell.

“Ran?” he prompted, deciding to feign ignorance until forced to do otherwise. “The badger'll be through the wall and into the sunroom in aboot a minute.”

The marquis lifted his gaze from the paper. “Why do ye have the Marquis of Fendarrow's address here?”

“Is that what it is?” Inside the wastebasket the badger must have lunged backward, because the container nearly ripped out of his hands. “Fer Saint Bridget's sake, Ran, bring me the damned tray!”

His brother didn't move. “I know this is Mathering House, because I made a note of all the places I'd nae tread, and this one was at the top.” His brows lowered. “Ye went to see the lass, didnae? Mary bloody Campbell?”

Inwardly Arran squared his shoulders. Had the question come from anyone else, he would have simply refused to answer. But Ranulf was not only the head of his family, he was the chief of the entire clan. And he would have an answer. At the same time, as Arran didn't wish to be ordered back to Glengask, he was going to have to lie. And he didn't like that, either. His siblings were the only immediate family he had, except for their uncle, Myles Wilkie, but the Earl of Swansley was a Sasannach.

“She made a fool of me,” he returned, shoving back at the bucket. “I wanted to be certain the lass knew that I knew who
she
was, and where I could find her.”

“And so ye told her all that?”

“Aye.” More or less, anyway.

“Did ye happen to consider what might've transpired if Fendarrow or any of his brothers or nephews were aboot? I'm attempting to make a new alliance, not have ye trample a truce that's nae a month old.”

“I'm nae a fool,” Arran retorted. “I waited until I could speak just to the lass.” And at least that part was true.

“And if she tells her dear papa that ye hunted her doon, ye idiot?”

He drew a hard breath, surprised at his abrupt reluctance to speak. Clan first. Not an enemy lass he barely knew. Not even if what he needed to say didn't particularly benefit her. “She'll nae say a word, or she'd have to explain how we discovered her family wants to marry her off to Roderick MacAllister.”

Ranulf regarded him for a moment, eyes narrowed and ignoring the growling and barking and jumping going on all around him. “Dunnae venture into Campbell territory alone again. Truce or nae truce.”