Rogue with a Brogue (14 page)

“Damn you, Arran MacLawry! Get your bloody hands off my daughter!”

*   *   *

Arran set Mary on her feet and stepped between her and the voice before he even consciously noted who was shouting. One hand moving toward the knife in his boot, he faced the Marquis of Fendarrow—and the pistol in the marquis's hand. The truce was broken, then. Thanks to him. Slowly he straightened. With the way the marquis's hand was wavering, Mary might be injured by accident.

“Mary,” Fendarrow hissed, motioning at her with his free hand, “come here. Now.”

“Father, please put that down before something terrible happens,” she said, her voice tight. Arran felt her palm touch his shoulder then abruptly drop when her father flinched.

“Lass, ye need to move away,” he said calmly. Or he hoped he sounded calm; his mind flew through a dozen different possible outcomes, several of which ended with him dead in a fish pond. “Nae need fer both of us to get shot.”

“There's no need for
anyone
to get shot. Father, for heaven's sake, put that pistol away! Why do you even have one here?”

The lass did move, but only to stand directly beside Arran. He appreciated the united front, but at the same time she likely wasn't helping matters. This wasn't the part her family wanted her to play. When shouting began on the carriage drive, Arran clenched his jaw. The only thing worse than being discovered by her father would be adding his brother into the mix. For a brief moment he considered making a run for it; Fendarrow likely hadn't shot at anything but grouse for years, and that wasn't done with a pistol. But that would leave Mary to face this mess alone. And a MacLawry didn't run from a fight.

“Arran!” Ranulf bellowed, skidding into the garden with Uncle Myles on his heels. The entire guest list trotted and skipped and waddled out of the house behind him, Lord Allen and Deirdre with them. And Lord Delaveer.
Bloody wonderful.

“What's all this?” the Earl of Penrose demanded, their host's stern tone somewhat undercut by the way he stopped several yards away from the fracas.

“Put that damned pistol doon, Fendarrow!” Ranulf ordered. Unlike their dinner party host, he moved directly into the line of fire. His gaze moved from Arran to the Campbell's granddaughter and back again. “Arran,” he murmured, “ye bloody f—”

“Get yerself back, Glengask,” Arran interrupted. “This has naught to do with ye.” By himself, he could likely disarm Fendarrow before the marquis had a chance to pull the trigger, but Ranulf would jump in if he moved—and he damned well wasn't going to risk his brother's life. Although as he'd just trampled their fragile little truce, he'd already put Ranulf in danger.

“I don't give a damn about either of you,” Fendarrow growled. “Mary, come here. Now.”

“I'm so sorry, Arran,” her soft whisper came from behind his shoulder. “I don't know wh—”

“Go to your
athair,
lass. We cannae settle anything here tonight,” he murmured back, keeping his hands well away from his sides and his gaze steady on her father. Abruptly he wished he knew more about the man; once a Highlander left the Highlands for England's softer ways, though, the MacLawrys tended to ignore him.

Slowly Mary moved around him and walked toward her father. Arran had read about scandals similar to this one in the London newspapers that had made their way up to the Highlands. They all ended with either the father shooting the rogue who'd tried to despoil his daughter, or a quick marriage between the two parties concerned to quash any further scandal. The latter would never happen. Not between Mary and him.

He risked a glance at Mary's straight, stiff shoulders. Because he'd been unable to think straight, or in fact to ponder anything beyond having her in his arms and hearing her clever laugh, he'd put them in this position. And now the best he could do was try to salvage enough peace that Roderick MacAllister wouldn't withdraw from the negotiations.

“Do ye mean to murder my brother now, in front of all these witnesses?” Ranulf demanded, in the same tone that had once sent an armed Adam Daily rolling backward down a hill rather than confront him.

Fendarrow lowered the pistol, then shoved it into his pocket. “No,” he said clearly. “Nor do I want this … aberration to affect our dealings. In return, however, I want
him
”—and he jabbed a finger in Arran's direction—“gone from London.”

As angry as Ranulf likely was, being ordered to do something that concerned his own family wouldn't sit well with him. Especially when the order came from the Campbell's oldest son. Arran braced himself, ready to step between the two men.

“I'm agreeable to that,” Ranulf said with a curt nod. “He'll be gone by sunset tomorrow.”

Arran stared at his brother's profile. Jaw clenched, fists clenched, eyes narrowed and icy, the Marquis of Glengask didn't look inclined to concede anything, much less banishing his own brother at a Campbell's request. And yet not even a Sasannach could have misunderstood his words.

Fendarrow grabbed Mary by the arm and yanked her back toward the house. They headed in Delaveer's direction, as if the marquis meant to hand her over to Roderick right then and there. The viscount, though, shook his head and walked away.
Damnation.
Now it was worse. Mary's already pale cheeks went even grayer, but she didn't fight her father's grip. Instead, her pretty, moss-green gaze fixed on Arran's face, she backed away from the garden.

Once she went through the door into Penrose House, he would never see her again. He knew that with an ice-cold certainty that made his lungs feel like they were filled with sand. It would have happened soon enough anyway, but not yet. He wasn't ready. “Ranulf.”

His brother faced him. “I dunnae want to hear another damned word from ye,” he snarled. “I dunnae even want to look at ye. Get in the coach and go back to Gilden Hoose.”

“Ran—”

“Now.”

With a curse Arran turned on his heel and strode for the stable yard and the street beyond. He passed by the coach, ignoring Debny's attempt to catch his attention, and continued down Hill Street. If he sat in the coach like a naughty lad sent to his bedchamber for poor behavior, he would combust.

As he turned the corner another coach trundled by, the horses under the whip. The Campbell coat of arms glinted on the door panel in the lamplight. Mary had been sent home as well, to take responsibility for … for whatever it was they might accuse her of. His first instinct was to charge after them and claim responsibility for whatever ill deeds they chose to fling in his direction. If he showed his face at Mathering House, though, he would be doing more harm than good.

And realistically, what would he do, anyway? Promise he wouldn't make more trouble so she could be wed to dull Delaveer, after all? He didn't want her to marry the viscount. He didn't want her marrying anyone—at least not until he'd figured out what the devil
he
wanted, himself.

Damn it all
. So much for his reputation as the “clever” MacLawry brother. Even Bear had never been caught by a lass's parents. And the worst part of it was that for the past few days, and especially tonight, he felt like something had begun, like they'd been on the precipice of something that could have been—would have been—extraordinary, if only she hadn't been a Campbell and he a MacLawry.

Now, because beneath everything else he was Ranulf's brother and heir to clan MacLawry's chief, he would take the thrashing he was handed, and then he would go home. Go north to the Highlands, return to Glengask. The incident finished and if not forgotten, then never to be discussed again. Ranulf the master negotiator would make some additional concession to the Stewarts, and he would still have his alliance. The remainder of his own life would be filled with the dull prattle of Deirdre Stewart. Mary, however, was likely to be confronted with something even worse. And it was all his own damned, arrogant fault.

Scowling and half hoping some thug would accost him, Arran reached Union Street, hesitated, and then turned north when he should have turned south. If he was wrong about what would be in store for Mary, he was about to cause even more trouble for himself. But he needed to know. He needed to know she would be well.

And so he kept walking. Turning another corner, he climbed the steps to the modest-sized house in front of him and swung the brass lion's head knocker against the door. He hadn't precisely been full of good ideas this evening. And he could only hope this would be the exception. Or it could be the first—or last—nail in his coffin.

The door swung open, an elderly, liveried man moving into the opening. “Lord Arran,” he said, inclining his head. “Was Lord Fordham expecting you? He isn't in this evening, I'm afraid.”

Arran nodded, still attempting to gather his thoughts into something coherent. “I wondered if I might write a note oot fer the viscount.”

“Certainly, my lord.” Stepping aside, the butler ushered him into the morning room. “You'll find paper and pen in the writing desk. May I bring you some tea?”

What he wanted was whisky, but he was going to need all his wits over the next few hours. “I'd thank ye fer some tea.” This was going to take some time he likely didn't have, but at the moment he was finished with weighing regrets. And taking action weighed less than leaving all his questions and hopes unanswered.

*   *   *

“I should have him arrested, is what I should do,” Lord Fendarrow snapped, pacing a tight line in his office.

Mary and her mother sat in the chairs facing the desk, the marchioness following her husband's stalking with her head, and Mary doing her best to keep her gaze on her folded hands. It was the only way she could keep them from clenching, and the only way she could keep from doing something as stupid as stomping her feet and shouting that if anyone would just take a moment to listen, they might understand.

“Accosting
my
daughter,” her father continued, the pitch of his voice rising as he ranted. “The Duke of Alkirk's granddaughter! Rogues, all of them! I'm sending word to Alkirk. This will mean war.”

“No!” she broke in, all the blood leaving her face. “You can't do that, Father! I was kissing him just as much as he was kissing me, for heaven's sake! I told you that.”

“That's enough, Mary!” her mother said sharply. “He is the man; this is all his responsibility. He tricked you. He led you astray. You are very nearly betrothed. This is … inexcusable.”

“Mother, y—”

“That's it, isn't it?” her father took up, snapping his fingers. “The end of the truce. That's the MacLawrys' aim. Why else would Glengask have sent his brother after you? And why would he have arranged for me to discover you at so opportune a moment and at so crowded an event? He doesn't want the Campbells allying with the MacAllisters.”

“Father, I—”

“They may have men in place, just waiting for word that we've broken the truce so they can murder us all.” He stalked to the window, peered outside, then pulled the curtains closed as if he feared assassins could be lurking in the shrubbery even now.

“Arran and I stumbled across each other, and we've become friends,” Mary insisted, raising her voice when her mother tried to hush her again. “There's a truce, so what's the difficulty?”

“The ‘difficulty,' as you call it, Mary, is that you are Lady Mary Campbell, for God's sake. Why do I need to state that you do not kiss random men? Especially men from a rival clan?” The marquis snapped his mouth shut. “You only kissed him, didn't you? You're not despoiled? By a MacLawry?”

“
What
? Of course I haven't—we've only been acquainted for a week!”

“Which is evidently long enough for you to embarrass us and put all of our futures at risk. Roderick wouldn't even look at us as we left the dinner, and what do you think Charles is going to say when he hears that Arran MacLawry kissed you?”

Mary began feeling ill. Not because of what she'd done, but because they'd stopped her. Because Charles Calder had clearly endeared himself to her parents more than she'd realized, in case of just such a fiasco. Because Lord Glengask had said that Arran would be on his way back to Scotland by tomorrow night, no doubt with Deirdre Stewart on his heels.

She couldn't even explain it. For goodness' sake, she was one-and-twenty. He was not Romeo, and she was most certainly not Juliet. This wasn't love at first sight. But there was something. They'd begun something, touched something, she and Arran. They'd said they would end it when the time came, but given the way she felt at this moment, she wasn't certain how she would have parted from him.

“Go up to bed, Mary,” her father finally ordered, pausing his pacing. “For the world at large I blame MacLawry. Privately, I am most disappointed in you. And some things are going to alter. This indulgence we've shown because of your grandfather's fondness for you stops. Clearly you cannot be trusted not to act in ways that weaken this family.”

That sounded even more ominous. Protesting now after she'd already stated that she'd become friends with Arran would only make her father more furious. With a stiff nod she stood and walked to the office door. “Good night, Father. Mother.”

They didn't answer. In her entire life she'd never seen them so angry. Certainly she'd never given them cause to be disappointed or even annoyed with her before. But this
was
her fault. She couldn't say she was proud to be a part of clan Campbell, because she'd never truly felt challenged about it. She was proud of her grandfather and how well respected he was, and she was proud to be his granddaughter. For the most part her parents did as he requested, which made them seem almost like an extension of him. Would the Campbell be as angry as they were? Was he truly the one who'd pushed the alliance with the MacAllisters? What would he say now that she'd ruined it? Would he not wish to see her or write her letters or send her bits and baubles from the Highlands any longer?