Rogue with a Brogue (11 page)

And then she spied someone riding against the tide. A splendid black Thoroughbred sidestepped gracefully around a barouche and continued forward—toward her. And the man riding him didn't look as though he would willingly be a part of any prerehearsed pageant. Unruly black hair tossed by the breeze, sharp, light eyes that practically crackled with humor and intelligence, and a lean, strong jaw and steady gaze that simply radiated confidence and power and pride. Highlands pride.

While Liz and her sister stopped to chat with an acquaintance in a phaeton, Mary backed Alba around and turned the chestnut mare toward a thick stand of trees. She didn't hurry; that would certainly attract attention, and that was the last thing she wanted. The black changed course to intercept her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked in a low voice, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch.

“I'm observing the Sasannach,” Arran returned with a grin. “Ye look rather splendid this morning.”

Her cheeks heated. “Thank you. You look fine, yourself.”

“Do I? Winnie says I should wear a hat more, but I've never seen anything more useless than those tall, narrow-brimmed things the fops swear by.”

“It isn't just the fops,” she countered, but personally she agreed with him. Not that hats were useless, but that he looked exceedingly fine without one. For a MacLawry, of course.

“Tell me someaught,” he said, urging his black closer. “Is it just me?”

“Is what just you?”

“Us. Is it just me? Because when I woke this morning, the first thought that popped into my head was that it would be grand to see ye today.” He reached over and brushed a finger down her arm. “What did ye think this morning when ye woke?”

Considering she'd awoken from a dream that Arran MacLawry had been standing in a forest with her, kissing her senseless, she wasn't certain she should answer that question. But then he would be the only one with any courage, and she would be … well, just who she was supposed to be. “I thought it would be pleasant if I were to catch sight of you this morning,” she said aloud. “And that perhaps you might kiss me.”

Arran stood in his stirrups, leaned sideways, and captured her mouth with his. Heat rushed through her veins, exciting and heady. His very capable mouth molded against hers, making her think of things she was certain young ladies should not be considering.

“I'm beginning to wish you weren't a MacLawry,” she murmured.

He backed away from her a little, and for a moment she thought she'd insulted him. Then a slow smile touched that mouth of his. “We're only a Campbell and a MacLawry to the rest of the world, lass,” he returned in a soft, low brogue. “To me, ye're Mary. And if ye go riding tomorrow, I'll meet ye here again. And every day until I see ye at the dinner on Friday night.”

“And what about the … other people with whom we should be spending our time?” she countered, reluctant to speak of them at all, much less name them.

Brief frustration crossed his handsome features. “Are ye married yet, lass?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Neither am I. Ye keep answering that same way, and I'll keep kissing ye.”

She sighed, taking him in all over again. “Then I hope it doesn't rain tomorrow.”

It would likely be better for both of them if it rained, thundered, and hailed, but at the same time, what harm could a few delicious kisses be? Especially when they were wicked and forbidden and very, very arousing.

 

Chapter Six

“What kind of question is that?” Lord Fendarrow asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Mary sat back against the plump coach cushions, concentrating to keep the curious half-smile on her face. “It's been on my mind, with the truce and Roderick MacAllister. So do you know? How this feud began, I mean.”

Lady Fendarrow beside her husband folded her hands into her lap. “Speaking of Roderick, I heard that he had a jeweler call on him two days ago.”

A lump of coal settled into the pit of Mary's stomach. Of course everyone was in a hurry, determined to solidify alliances before the truce collapsed again. But she wasn't ready. She'd kissed Arran every day for a week now, after all, and it still wasn't nearly enough. Unless someone could remind her why she was supposed to hate him, she meant to kiss him again tonight, as well.

“Delaveer can purchase all the jewels he wants, but he'd best not give any of them to Mary until my father sends word that he's agreed to the terms we've set.”

“So … you've come to an agreement?” Mary asked, trying to keep her voice level.

“Ah, so now you're interested?” Her father sent her a cynical look.

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“You've spent nearly every day since I suggested the match out riding and shopping with your friends. I know Roderick called on you at least twice while you were out. Did you even bother to send him your regrets?”

She'd meant to. Putting pen to paper and writing his name, though, made the pending match seem too real. She much preferred the present daydream. “I will write him tomorrow,” she said aloud, to avoid any further argument on the topic. “But the feud? It's caused so much trouble, and I've realized that I really know nothing about how it began.”

The marquis narrowed his eyes. “You'd get a more thorough answer from your grandfather. Why don't you write him when we get home?”

Bother
. “I will. But you're making it sound as if you don't know.”

“Don't stick me with your needles, Mary,” he retorted, eyes narrowing. “There wasn't one argument or one slight that caused the feud, so I've no easy answer for you. Five or six hundred years of war and politics and kings and land caused what we have now. And be grateful you didn't live a hundred years ago, when the Campbells and MacLawrys went out hunting for each other instead of clashing when we accidently meet.”

“Haven't some of these things been resolved or forgotten by now?”

“We never forget.” Her father took a breath. “And as sure as the sun rises, an old argument is replaced by a new one. They have the largest standing army in the Highlands, you know. And they are constantly unsettling our cotters with their absurd ideas about providing schools and employment to their own.

“They make it sound as if we enjoy having to turn our ancestral lands away from farming and hunting. But England needs wool, and that is what England purchases—not heather and fish and bagpipes. And they try to hold themselves up as better than anyone else, when everyone knows they're all scoundrels and rogues. All of them.”

Perhaps she should have saved her questions for her grandfather, after all. Nothing in her father's voice or his words gave an indication that he would be willing to alter his opinion of the MacLawrys even if presented clear evidence that they were all saints. And they were far from being saints.

“I wish all of them had just stayed in the Highlands. Next thing you know, the giant one—Bear, they call him—will be down here, and none of us will be safe.” With an exaggerated shudder, her mother gathered the shawl she wore more tightly around her shoulders.

It was on the tip of Mary's tongue to defend the MacLawrys—or at least Arran. The Gerdenses, her own clan's kin and closest allies, had instigated at least two fights with the Marquis of Glengask over the past weeks. Someone had even burned down his stable, and as far as she knew not even his enemies thought he had done that to himself.

Over the past days she'd begun to wonder just how much of this feud was due to rumor and pride. She'd hoped—well,
almost
hoped—an actual, concrete event that had begun all this existed somewhere in the past. That it would be something so heinous that all her father would have to do was mention it aloud and she would immediately understand why the two clans detested each other. She would no longer think about Arran MacLawry at all, much less want to kiss him and enjoy the sound of his voice and his laughter. She would be proud and pleased to marry Roderick MacAllister and give the Campbells even more sway in the Highlands.

“The fact is, my dear,” the marquis finally said in a milder tone, “you are my father's favorite grandchild. You will be lavished with money and land when he passes on. That makes you very marriageable. It also dictates who, precisely, is in pursuit of your hand. The Campbells don't want your property to leave Campbell hands. But this truce provides us with an opportunity we don't mean to pass by.”

“Yes, the MacAllisters.”

“Yes. The MacAllisters. Otherwise it would be one of your cousins. You are
not
heir to my—or your grandfather's—title and fortune, but you
do
have a significance as part of the direct line of Campbells.”

She knew all this—because she happened to be female, the titles of Alkirk and Fendarrow and the clan leadership would go to one of her father's brothers, or her oldest male cousin, Gerard. For heaven's sake, she didn't want any of it; evidently she had just enough importance to warrant a miserable life with a man not of her choosing.

“Better Roderick than Charles, Mary,” her mother, always more matter-of-fact than her father, said briskly. “And better Charles than someone who gains us nothing. Or worse, you might go about with your friends until you're on the shelf, and no one will have benefited.”

Mary chuckled, though she didn't feel much amused. “Well, we can't have that.”

“No, indeed. You might as well marry a … a MacLawry!” The marchioness shuddered. “Can you imagine the uproar? Goodness.”

Before she could even begin to decipher a way around all this mess, the coach stopped and a red-and-black-liveried footman handed her down to the cobblestoned street. All the windows of Penrose House glowed with yellow-orange light. The earl's—or rather, his wife's—idea of an intimate dinner party didn't precisely fit the dictionary's definition, but it remained exclusive enough to still make the invitation a coveted item.

Given Lord Glengask's reputation for brawling at Society to-dos, she was rather surprised he and his brother had been invited, but then Penrose—not his wife—did have a penchant for welcoming the company of “interesting” persons. And even her father would have to acknowledge that Glengask was interesting. His brother, in her opinion, was even more so.

They entered the house and climbed the wide staircase to the first floor where the drawing room and formal dining room blazed with the light of still more candles. Mary found herself wanting to smooth her violet gown and find a mirror to check the tumbling, twisting knot of her light brown hair, but she resisted both urges. Arran would either be there or he wouldn't, and in either case she wouldn't be acknowledging him. In fact, it was entirely possible that she wouldn't be able to say a single word to him all evening—even if her father didn't make the family's excuses and bundle them home again once he realized the MacLawry brothers were in attendance.

This year at least sixty well-dressed aristocrats crowded into the large drawing room and spilled into the hallway outside. As she squeezed her way in among the tightly packed guests, Mary began to wonder if she'd be able to even see her own feet, much less anyone more than an arm's length away from her. Their hostess, the Countess of Penrose, used a footman to push her way through the crowd so she and Mary's mother could carefully hug without causing any wrinkles or out-of-place hairs. The two women began chatting, as they usually did, about the latest Paris fashions. They'd had luncheon together three days ago so Mary didn't know what new innovations could possibly attract their interest, but she fixed a smile on her face and stood there, trying not to be trampled.

Neither Kathleen nor Liz would be in attendance tonight, but several of her other friends would be. As would Lord Delaveer. And more than likely, Lady Deirdre Stewart. Wondering just how many conversations about fashion any one person could listen to before her head fell off, she turned around—and looked up to see dark blue MacLawry eyes gazing down at her.

“Lord Glengask,” she said, swallowing her surprise. The marquis and Arran were clearly brothers, but Arran's face was leaner, the lines and angles less … hard. As to which brother was more handsome, that had been a subject of much debate this Season, but it was an argument that for obvious reasons mostly took place out of her hearing. If anyone had asked, she would have placed her wager on Arran.

“Lady Mary Campbell,” the marquis said in his deep-voiced brogue.

A hand touched her shoulder, pulling her backward a step. “Glengask,” her father's voice came, clipped and cold.
Oh, dear
.

If anything could be worse than one clan coldly shunning the other, it was an open argument between them. These two men were not going to talk about fashion. They both stood not quite square, but right side slightly forward, duelists but for their empty hands. Being attracted to Arran was difficult enough. This could make things so much worse.

“Lord Fendarrow,” a more familiar brogue drawled, and Arran stepped around his brother. “I dunnae think we've been introduced.” He offered his hand. “Arran MacLawry.”

Mary held her breath. Her father was not a rude man, but he
was
a Campbell. One day he would be
the
Campbell, the chief of the clan—as Glengask was the chief of his. Arran kept his gaze steadily on her father, but she looked at him, at his calm expression, the slight, open smile on his face. At this moment he didn't look at all like the rogue he was reputed to be. What he looked like was a Highlander, tall and strong and fearless.

After a hesitation that everyone within sight had to have noticed, her father reached over and shook hands with Arran. “MacLawry,” he grunted, letting go and lowering his hand as swiftly as he could do so without looking like he found the deed distasteful. “Come along, Mary,” he continued, wrapping his fingers around her arm. “Your mother is looking for you.”