Rogue with a Brogue (19 page)

Not that hers was unwanted; it had merely taken an extremely unfortunate turn. Or turns, rather. She glanced sideways at Arran, laughing easily at some tale spun by the village blacksmith. How odd that a MacLawry had both caused her troubles—with her own ample help—and had turned out to be the only one concerned with helping her escape them.

And how well he blended in here—much better than she did, Mary was certain. These people were well outside of Society. They were accustomed to looking after themselves, to driving their own carts and mending their own clothes. Her peers would look down on them as the unwashed, ignorant masses, but in a sense they had a freedom about them. A way of living in the moment that Arran himself seemed to embody. And it was very, very attractive to a lady who'd known her own role since … well, since forever, even if it had lately begun to chafe.

But this was about more than her indulging in fairy-tale dreams. Poor Thomas and Gordon were likely beside themselves back at the Giant's Pipe, and if Gordon had borrowed a horse rather than taking the coach, he might well have made it back to London by now. Her parents might be aware that she'd gone missing. Would they think she'd run away? That she'd been kidnapped? If she hadn't been so angry at the way they'd refused to listen to her explanation, at the way they'd used her one and only indiscretion as an excuse to hand her off to a clever, cruel bootlicker, she might have felt some empathy for them.

Instead, she sat beside Arran and chuckled at the tale Mr. Billings the farmer told about a very stubborn pig and his wife's turnips. She sang along to “Barbara Allen,” and listened to Arran's fine baritone when he joined in. Of course he knew it; it was a Scottish ballad, after all. Tonight it was a simple thing to believe that they belonged together.

Here she wasn't Lady Mary, or the Campbell's granddaughter, or even a Campbell at all. No one tried to gain favor with her or marry her off because of her birth, and when Mrs. Jessup the innkeeper's wife complimented her on her hair, she could believe it was meant sincerely.

Finally Arran stood and offered his hand to her. “We should head upstairs,” he said in his faux English accent. “We've an early day tomorrow. Shall we, Mrs. Fox?”

A low, excited tremor ran down her spine. “Certainly, Mr. Fox.”

Tonight she wanted nothing more than to feel his mouth and his hands on her bare skin—which did nothing at all for her resolve to resist his charms. If he asked, though, if they shared a bed as a husband and wife did, she knew she wouldn't be able to resist him.

Crawford rose from the table, as well. “Sleep with me tonight, my dear,” she said loudly, though she kept Mary between herself and Arran. “You know I don't travel well.”

“Oh.” Mary stumbled, not nearly as grateful for the rescue as she should likely have been. “Of course, Mother.”

With Arran close on their heels, they climbed the stairs to the first floor. Mary could feel the heat of him looming behind her as they stopped by the first door. Nobody seemed to want to make the first move, but they couldn't stand there all night glaring at each other, blast it all. Finally Mary reached past the maid and pushed open the door.

“Go on, Mother,” she said. “I'll be along in a moment.”

The maid still didn't move. “I'm here to preserve your reputation, my lady, and I intend to do my duty.”

Moving with that abrupt, deadly grace of his, Arran stepped forward, lifted the ample-sized maid off her feet as easily as if she'd been a feather, and set her down again inside the doorway. “There,” he said.

Crawford's face turned scarlet. “I will not be manhan—”

Arran pulled the door closed on her comment. “That female is trying my damned patience,” he said darkly.

The idea of being with him was just another fairy tale, Mary told herself. Nothing good could come of her being ruined, and certainly not by a MacLawry. Not even this one. “It's for the best, Arran,” she returned. “We—you—if we share a bed, then our choices become much more limited.”

Light blue eyes studied hers. “I'll nae touch ye unless ye wish it,” he finally murmured, lifting his hand to run a finger along her cheek. “Unless
ye
wish it. I dunnae give a damn what Crawford wishes. This is between ye and me, my bonny lass. So open whichever door pleases ye tonight. If the maid tries to interfere like that again, I'll tie her to the roof of the bloody coach.”

Serious as his tone was, the image of Crawford squawking on the roof of the shabby old coach made her snort. “She would die of mortification.”

Arran narrowed his eyes. “I'm trying to get ye in my bed, Mary, my lass.”

Oh, my.
“Crawford makes a very good point, you know,” she muttered, plucking at his sleeve, “regardless of whether she's overstepping or n—”

He backed her against the wall and tilted her face up with a hard, hot kiss. Good heavens—though heaven had nothing to do with the way he kissed. That mouth of his was made for sin, and she wanted to be a sinner.

A serving woman topped the stairs. Mary would have shoved Arran away, but he kept her pinned between his hard body and the wall. The woman chuckled and squeezed by them. As she went through a door farther down the hallway, Arran shifted to nibble at Mary's ear. “We're married, lass. I'll kiss ye when I choose.” His mouth drifted to her jawline. “And I choose to kiss ye now.”

Her knees began to feel wobbly. To keep from falling to the floor, she slid her arms around his shoulders.
Mm
. Every part of her felt … breathless. Tangling her fingers into his thick, black hair, she drew herself closer against him.

The door at her shoulder squeaked open. “This will not do!” Crawford gasped.

Arran freed one hand and pulled the door closed again. “Come to my room with me, Mary,” he murmured.

Oh, this was not the way to make a logical, informed decision about her future. Lust for him had already caused her to do things she would never have imagined previously. And it couldn't possibly solve any of her troubles now. “I should go in there with Crawford,” she whispered, hearing the reluctance in her own voice.

He tugged down the high neck of her gown to press his lips against the base of her throat. “Ye shouldnae.”

Uttering a half-hysterical giggle she ducked out of his grip, fumbled behind her back for the door handle, and pushed it down. “Good night, Mr. Fox,” she managed, and closed herself in the room before she could change her mind.

 

Chapter Ten

For a long moment Arran leaned his forehead against the cool stone that lined the hallway. He was a damned Highlander, for God's sake. A MacLawry. The day a petite lass and a maid could defeat him would be his last.

And yet Mary was there behind her door, and he was still in the hallway. Tonight those circumstances clearly would not change. Even though he'd chosen to risk his own future—and his life—for her. Even though in the space of ten days she'd turned his entire existence on its head. However much he wanted her splayed beneath him, however much he wanted to claim her for his own, tonight he would simply have to be patient.

He glanced down. “Next time,
caraid,
” he told his cock.

Neither of them seemed to be convinced, but he refused to stand in the hallway with a tent at his crotch. Uttering a last curse and trying to shake himself out of his lust, he took a half-dozen steps and opened the neighboring door. He wasn't a damned Sasannach, but he could be a gentleman. Whatever else happened, she'd needed assistance. And he would not ask a price for aiding her, whatever the final cost to himself.

“There ye are, m'laird,” Peter said, rising from the chair beneath the window. “I made doon the bed and found ye some clothes fer tomorrow. I'm beginning to think I'd make a fair valet.”

“Thank ye, Peter.” The last two sleepless nights beginning to press down on his shoulders, Arran sank onto the edge of the bed. “I know ye dunnae like any of this. I cannae even explain it to myself. But I willnae see her handed to Charles Calder.”

Peter plunked himself into the chair again. “I'm all fer saving a lass from a dastardly villain,” he said. “But ye said ye mean to marry her, yerself. Yer own
bràthair
is likely to murder ye fer that. He says ye're to wed Lady Deirdre.”

Arran could try to explain his own frustrations with Ranulf, but as of the moment Mary had trusted him enough to step into that coach, this had stopped being about anything but her. “He can marry Deirdre, then.”

“He'll nae give up Lady Charlotte.”

“And I'll nae give up Mary. Nae withoot a bloody fight. And he can give murdering me a go if he chooses to do so. But tell me someaught, Peter: have ye ever known me to do a thing withoot first thinking it through?”

The footman shook his head. “Nae. I havenae. And I expect that now ye'll tell me to trust ye. To which I say, I think ye've lost yer bloody mind, and if ye dunnae expect me to tell ye how much trouble ye're stirring up, ye've lost it twice.”

While it would have been nice to have someone agree with him, Arran hadn't actually expected it. Not from another Highlander who'd spent his entire life hating Campbells. “I cannae argue with that. Just swear to me ye'll help me keep her safe.” He paused. “Even from me, I suppose. I'll nae see any harm come to her.”

“That, I can promise ye. As long as ye dunnae expect me to turn my back on ye to do it.”

Arran doubted Ranulf would be as reasonable. “Agreed.”

With a nod, Peter pushed to his feet. “I'll be off, then. The groom said there's a blanket in the stable fer me. Hopefully it isnae too close to Howard. He has an odor aboot him, that fella does.”

Stifling a grin at the man's pitiful tone, Arran held out one booted foot. “Help me get these things off and I'll give ye half the bed. I'll nae be needing the space tonight.” And at this point he supposed that half an ally was better than none at all.

In the morning he rose before everyone else, had Duffy saddled, and rode up the hill to the tiny village of Crowley. If he'd known when he left Gilden House that he would be paying the travel expenses of four people, he would have brought more ready blunt with him. He could send bills on to Glengask or back to London, of course, but then finding him—them—would be a simple matter.

Still, if they were careful, they would manage. He spent a few quid on dresses and a hairbrush and most of the other items on the list Crawford had written out for him. The pretty bay mare at the stables, though, would take most of the blunt he had to hand. He could forgo purchasing it and take himself out on Duffy when he couldn't tolerate Crawford any longer, but truth be told, he wanted Mary close by him. A man couldn't convince a lass of anything if he couldn't even manage a word or two with her.

Finally he hit on a solution, and had the bill for the animal sent to William Crane. Lord Fordham would pay it without question, and then Arran could reimburse his friend when he was able to do so. And when news of Mary's disappearance reached Ranulf's ears, hopefully his brother wouldn't think to call on William and ask about bills.

When he returned to the Twice-Struck Oak, he carried his two sacks of purchases upstairs and knocked on Mary's door. It cracked open, and one baleful eye looked out at him. “Mr. Fox.”

“Mother Graves,” he returned. “I've brought ye some things. Have Mary doon fer breakfast in thirty minutes, if ye can. I'd like us to make an early start.”

“Lady—I mean, Mrs. Fox—cannot possibly be dressed that quickly. I'm certain none of these things will fit her adequately, anyway.”

“I'll be down in thirty minutes,” Mary's voice came from farther back in the room. “Thank you.”

“Ye're most welcome.” He returned his gaze to the maid. “I bought ye someaught, too, but dunnae go thinking that means I've a yen fer ye.”

“Humph.” The maid snatched the sacks and shut the door again.

“Old bat,” he muttered beneath his breath, then returned to his own room to wake Peter and get his own things packed.

It was far too early to declare their escape a success, but they'd survived the first night without being run down by a herd of angry Campbells or MacLawrys. And to himself he swore that tomorrow morning it wouldn't be a footman in his bed. He meant to convince Mary they belonged together. He knew one certain way to demonstrate that they were, and it wasn't by sleeping in separate rooms.

*   *   *

Lady Charlotte Hanover sent her fiancé a glance, at least the fifteenth one with which she'd favored him this morning. Ranulf MacLawry was not a man who went about with a grin on his face, but he had been known to smile a time or two—particularly at her. Not today, though. Not for four days, now.

“You didn't have to come with me, you know,” she finally said, keeping her voice pitched well below that of the priest standing behind the pulpit several feet in front of and above their seats.

“A civilized man attends church, doesnae?” he returned in the same tone.

“Yes, he does. But I believe I informed you that a sermon from Father Gregory was more akin to torture than anything else.”

“Hush, Charlotte,” her mother whispered from her left. On the far side of Ranulf, his sister and hers were making even more noise, but then Winnie and Jane weren't betrothed to a Highlands devil.

“I'm looking fer some insight into forgiveness,” Ranulf continued, lowering his voice still further.

Of course she immediately knew to what he was referring; she doubted there was anyone in London who hadn't heard about Arran MacLawry being discovered at the Penrose dinner party with the Marquis of Fendarrow's daughter on his lap. At first she hadn't even believed it. Not of sensible, logical Arran. But Ranulf had confirmed it, himself.