Rogue with a Brogue (12 page)

“Thank ye fer dancing with me the other night, Lady Mary,” Arran continued, and her father froze in his retreat. “I know I must have surprised ye, but there's nae one of us who wants a truce broken over a fox mask.”

She nodded, trying to hide her approval. Was he actually attempting to … Heavens, she had no idea. To impress her father? To make it known that the MacLawrys were committed to the truce? Perhaps imply that there was no need to rush into new alliances? And now she had to say something, in front of her father and Arran's brother, that wouldn't cause the Penrose drawing room to erupt into open warfare. That would mean pride-driven death, and her pushed at Charles Calder. “You dance a fine waltz, Lord Arran.”

Her father gripped her arm hard enough to leave a mark. “This way, Mary.”

She had to go with him, or be dragged off her feet. When she managed a parting glance at Arran, he was looking right back at her. And smiling.

*   *   *

Mary had worn a deep violet gown that hugged her fine curves, and no amount of willpower could have kept Arran from lowering his gaze to her swaying hips as her father hurried her away. Her lovely autumn-colored hair was coiled into an intricate tangle of braids and beads, soft curls framing her oval face and bringing out the green of her eyes. She made him hungry, and for something more primal than food.

Ranulf grabbed his shoulder. “What the devil was that?” he murmured, moving around to face Arran directly.

Only an inch or so separated them in height—which was odd, because in his mind Ranulf had always been larger than life. But standing there before him was simply … a man. A big man, but then so was he. And Bear was bigger than both of them. He followed the law of the clan because Ranulf asked him to do so. But now for the first time, he found himself unsure that his brother was on the correct path. Did that give him leave to carve his own trail?

“I asked ye a question,” Ranulf hissed, his grip tightening.

“We have a truce,” Arran returned with a one-shouldered shrug. “Ye looked ready to pummel him, so I stepped in.”

“I'm nae talking aboot that. Ye thanked the lady fer the dance.”

“Should I have spat at her, then?”

His brother took a half step closer. “Ye told me that ye hunted her down the day after the masquerade and warned her nae to take ye fer a fool.”

Damn it all.
“Aye. I did. And now she and her father know we can be civil,” he returned, thinking quickly. Since when had his wish to see her rendered him blind and witless? “That's what we're aboot these days, isnae? Showing all and sundry that we're safe with their children and wee animals? That we're merchants and nae warriors now?”

“Why do I think what's best fer the MacLawrys has naught to do with this?”

“I dunnae, Ranulf. I shook the man's hand so ye wouldnae have to do it, so we look like we're keeping to the truce and ye can still be fearsome. Or ye and Fendarrow could've glared at each other till the moon sets.” He stepped backward out of his brother's grip. “It nae makes a difference to me.”

“That might suffice,” his brother returned, his voice low and level, “if I believed ye had naught else in mind. Ending a truce is the devil of a way to escape a marriage.”

Arran shook his head. “I've nae wish to fight the Campbells.”

“And why,
bràthair,
is that? A week or so ago ye were playing a different tune.”

Time, then, either to confess that he'd struck up a friendship with Mary Campbell, or to lie about it. “Ye're the clan chief. Ye figure it out.” If Ranulf hadn't unilaterally decided that they were to alter their way of life based on who his in-laws would be, Arran might have answered differently. As things stood, he met his brother's gaze squarely, his fists coiling for the inevitable brawl. Before one of them could throw the first punch, though, their uncle Myles stepped between them.

“Good evening, lads,” the Earl of Swansley said with a warm smile. “I wanted to warn you that Lady Penrose is particular friends with Lady Fendarrow, so the Campbells will likely be in attendance tonight. I seem to be tardy in that.”

Ranulf sent Arran a last, annoyed glance. “Aye. Next time ye might warn us
before
we agree to attend. Arran shook Fendarrow's hand.”

Myles lifted both eyebrows. “You—you did?”

“Aye. Ran says we're civilized now.”

“Well. Speaking of which, Ranulf, I managed to arrange that meeting you wanted with Kerns-Stanley and Dryden. We're to lunch together on Tuesday, so if you can bring Allen to the table, we may have that agreement you've been after. The…”

Arran took the moment to slip into the mass of milling Sasannach. Ranulf would be safe with Uncle Myles beside him, and the two of them could discuss their strategy for befriending English bankers and anglicized Scotsmen to their hearts' content. There were basketfuls of other weak-chinned, round-shouldered Englishmen for them to flirt with tonight, if bankers weren't enough for them.

At least Rowena had had other plans; she and Jane Hanover had asked half of London's debutantes to Hanover House for an evening of dinner and charades. It sounded like a lace-covered nightmare. Even Ranulf had looked relieved when Charlotte had informed him that men were not invited.

Whether that would keep his brother from going out later and climbing the trellis beneath Charlotte's bedchamber window was another matter entirely. Privately he hoped it would keep Ranulf home, because he was growing tired of sleeping with one eye open so he could hear his brother slip out of the house. If Ranulf had known that his clandestine evenings were anything but a secret, much less that he was being shadowed whenever he left the house at night, he would have been furious. Disagreeing or not, though, they were brothers. And whatever else happened, he would still protect his brother with his last breath.

A footman edged his way by, a tray of drinks in his hands. Arran took one and downed it without tasting it. He wanted to go see where Mary might be, if her father was far enough away that they could risk a moment of conversation. It was ridiculous, of course; any of half a dozen lasses present tonight would be happy to find a private room with him. And none of them were Campbells.

Whatever madness had seized him, he didn't feel inclined to fight against it. He liked being in her company, and as far as he was concerned, he hadn't spent enough time there. A bit of a tease, a taste, every morning had only served to whet his appetite. Beyond that—well, no damned body seemed inclined to give him a moment to figure that out.

“Good evening, Lord Arran,” a soft coo of breath came, barely audible over the din of the room.

He tried not to flinch as he turned around. “Lady Deirdre,” he returned, inclining his head. Her dark hair was pulled up into a knot, her pale skin nearly translucent above a deep blue gown. “You look lovely,” he continued, forcing himself to stop searching the room for Mary.

She curtsied. “Thank you. I've heard there may be music later. Will you sit with me to listen?”

That seemed like one of Dante's lower levels of hell. Arran hid his frown. None of this was her fault. He supposed he owed her an attempt at congenial conversation. “What do you think of the two of us being pushed together?”

Large brown eyes almost met his, then lowered again. “You're very handsome, my lord, and of course we must do as our families think best.”

“Aye, but what about
you
?” he asked, emphasizing the last word. “Do ye have other wishes?”

She offered him a demure smile. “I wish to do my best,” she returned.

“At what?”

“At … whatever my family and my husband require, of course.”

Of course. And now he felt ready to stab himself with a fork. “Will ye excuse me fer a moment?” he bit out.

“Oh, certainly, Lord Arran.”

Good God. A mere five minutes of that could well kill him. A lifetime was unimaginable. For the first time it wasn't annoyance and frustration digging at him as he thought of being leg-shackled to that. It was dread, and a fair bit of horror. He turned around, making for the far side of the room.

Finally he spied Mary, standing with a small group of young people all chatting loudly about something, and the knot in his chest loosened. Unlike her friends, she wasn't gabbing. Instead, her moss-green gaze roamed the room like she was looking for someone. Looking for him, he hoped.

Snagging another drink, he rounded the fringe of the room until he was close by one of the windows overlooking the street below. A step behind him stood Mary, facing in the opposite direction. He took a breath. “This is nae what I had in mind fer tonight,” he murmured.

Silence. From her, at least; the room fairly vibrated with the cacophony of voices. He drew another breath, wondering how loudly he could speak to the window before people began to notice. Or if she
had
heard him, and decided she wasn't willing to risk anyone seeing them speaking to the air in the same vicinity.

“It's very crowded this year,” Mary's voice came softly, a sweet note amid the chaos. “Lord Penrose acquired a Donatello sculpture last month. I think he wants to make certain everyone sees and admires it.”

“So he's showing off? Do all these people know it?”

“Most of them do. But an invitation to this dinner is generally very difficult to come by. So when someone is invited, they accept.”

“I didnae come here to see a piece of marble.” A lordling close by sent him a sideways glance, then abruptly found somewhere else to be when Arran looked back at him.

“There's a fish pond in the garden,” she returned, her voice barely more than a soft breath. “I'll attempt to take a stroll there after dinner.”

Thank God.
“Then ye'll find me there, as well.”

“I hoped you'd say … Your brother's coming. And, oh, dear, so is Lord Delaveer.”

“Go then, lass. There's naught fer ye to worry over.” He, on the other hand, had to fight the abrupt urge to punch mild Roderick MacAllister in the face. Shifting the curtains aside with his fingers, he took another drink. For the first time he realized the glass was vodka. He generally detested vodka. Whisky at least had some character.

“What's so interesting oot there in the dark?” Ranulf asked, stopping beside him.

“There's air oot there,” Arran replied. “More than I can find in here.”

His brother nodded. “Nights like this do make me long fer the Highlands.”

Arran faced him. “Then let's go home. Bring yer Charlotte with ye—all the Hanovers, fer that matter—and let's be gone from here, before someaught happens,” he returned, sudden desperation thinning his voice. Disaster loomed from every direction, and most especially from where he most wanted to turn. Toward a Campbell, of all people.

“I'm nae having this discussion here,
bràthair
. And I'll nae flee trouble.”

“What trouble? There's a truce. And we shouldnae be so far from Glengask when it ends.” And he had the distinct feeling that if they didn't leave London, hopefully tonight, he would be the one to end that truce. Because he couldn't seem to stay away from Mary Campbell, even after knowing her for only a week. Because he wanted more than kisses. He wanted her.

“I'm nae ready to leave yet,” his brother responded coolly. “If ye're homesick, then go. I dunnae need ye here if ye've nae a mind to do as I ask ye. But dunnae think that leaving excludes ye from yer duty to clan MacLawry.”

“Fer the devil's sake, Ranulf, have ye spoken to Deirdre?” Arran asked, sotto voce. “She has the brains of a rock. A wee rock.”

A gong rang at one end of the room, loud as the bells of doom. “Dinner is served, ladies and gentlemen,” Lord Penrose said grandly, as if no one had ever eaten before. “We do not stand on ceremony here, so take a seat where you like. The only rule is that you not sit beside a spouse or family member.”

For some reason the guests seemed to find that amusing. In Arran's limited experience with Sasannach dinners, though, it wasn't uncommon. Evidently at a to-do where everyone was supposed to be clever, laughing at the host's humor was a way to be invited again next year. He didn't plan to be in London next year whatever happened with the Stewarts, and he'd only come here tonight to see Mary, so he didn't bother to pretend a laugh.

As the guests flowed from the drawing room to the dining room with its yards-long table, Ranulf put a hand on his shoulder. “Dunnae even think of sitting near the Campbells,” he whispered. “I'll nae have ye making a stir to overturn this agreement with the Stewarts. A wee rock fer brains, or nae. Mayhap I'll inquire if the Stewart has a brighter niece fer ye.”

Arran shrugged free. “Mind yerself. There's more than one way fer a man to be a fool.”

“Ye and I are going to have a discussion when we get back to Gilden House tonight.” This time Ranulf's voice was flat and toneless—a certain sign the marquis was not amused.

“I look forward to it.”

Without a backward glance Arran walked around to the far side of the table and claimed a chair between a pretty blond lass and an ancient-looking lady with white hair pulled into a bun so tight its purpose seemed to be to keep her eyes open. Good. He didn't feel like engaging either his wits or his patience over roasted duck and summer pudding. All of his attention focused on the autumn-haired lass two-thirds of the way down the table and seated between a round, bald fellow and a hatchet-faced older man. If she'd been joined by Lord Delaveer he wasn't certain what he would do—but he knew he wouldn't have liked it. At all.

“Are we supposed to introduce ourselves?” the younger lass asked, her voice high-pitched and breathy. She actually lowered her head to gaze at him through her eyelashes.

“I shouldn't bother, dear,” the tight-faced woman replied, leaning her ample bosom in front of Arran to do so. “You're here to be gazed upon. Leave the cleverness to the ugly people.”