Rogue with a Brogue (20 page)

“I don't know Mary well, but she's always seemed very nice,” she breathed back. “And very prett—”

“I'm nae discussing it,” he said flatly. “Arran's marrying Deirdre Stewart.”

Father Gregory sent the marquis an uncertain look, then resumed droning on about the sins of excess. Charlotte took a breath, deciding that if Ranulf wanted an argument they would be better off waiting until they were somewhere more private. And with better insulated walls.

Jane leaned around the two MacLawrys, one petite and delicate, and the other mountainous and iron-muscled. “Elizabeth told me that Lady Mary left London at dawn two mornings ago,” she whispered. “And I saw the announcement in the newspaper this morning. She's engaged to that Charles Calder. He's her first cousin.”

“I ken who he is,” Ranulf growled. “No doubt Delaveer cried off—the MacAllisters are a squeamish lot. And her father was right to send such an ill-mannered lass away before she could cause more trouble.”

“But Arran likes her,” Rowena said, her own expression far less happy than Charlotte was accustomed to seeing. “And he said Charles Calder was a poor excuse for a hu—”

“I dunnae care what Arran said,” Ranulf broke in. “Another word aboot him, and ye can take yerself back to the Highlands, too.”

Rowena, her expression aghast, folded her hands in her lap and faced forward again. Jane did the same thing, likely more as a show of unity and support than because she thought her future brother-in-law could send her away, as well.

“That was mean,” Charlotte stated. If he thought he could banish
her,
he had another think coming. “Winnie loves her brother.”

She could practically hear his teeth grinding, his jaw was clenched so hard. “Do ye think I'd risk ye up at Glengask, knowing we'd stumbled from skirmishing into open war with the Campbells? Arran very nearly accomplished that, after only one bloody fortnight of peace. And that doesnae put me in a forgiving mood.”

Father Gregory cleared his throat. Loudly. For a moment Charlotte thought Ranulf would walk out of the church. Evidently he'd weighed the satisfaction of escaping the priest's nasal, nonsensical droning against the renewed rumors and whispers about his uncivilized behavior, though, because he sank back on the hard seat and sent the pastor an elegant wave of his fingers. “Go on, then,” he intoned. “‘The muddy waters of pleasure.'”

Somehow in the middle of all this he'd kept track of the sermon. She favored his still profile with a slow smile. “You're a remarkable man, Ranulf.”

His mouth softened. “If the priest knew what I was thinking right now aboot pleasure, he'd have an apoplexy.”

That left her nearly unable to sit still for the remainder of the sermon. Ranulf had been the one to teach her about pleasure, after all.

Finally they all recited the Lord's Prayer and Father Gregory dismissed them with the admonition to think of others before succumbing to self-indulgent pleasures. Ranulf stood to offer her a hand up. When he offered the same hand to his sister, Winnie took it, but let it go as swiftly as she could do so.

“May we go now?” she asked, looking everywhere but at her brother.

“Aye. I'm aboot out of patience, myself.”

As they left the church, heading for Ranulf's barouche, a horse galloped into the yard and skidded to a halt directly in front of them. Ranulf stepped between them and the horseman before Charlotte even grasped that they might be in danger.

“M'laird!”

To Charlotte's surprise, Owen, Ranulf's butler, leaped down from the horse and sprinted forward, unmindful of the other worshipers exiting the church yard. Every single one of them, though, seemed to turn and look at him.

“What is it, Owen?” Ranulf barked, meeting the servant in the middle of the yard. “The Campbells didnae hunt down Arran, did they?” His voice was tight and hard, a fairly equal mix of anger and concern.

“Nae, m'laird. I dunnae ken so, anyway. But ye need to get back to Gilden Hoose to find oot fer certain. They're there. The Campbells, I mean.”

Behind them, Rowena gasped. Ice shot down Charlotte's spine. Not now. Not when she'd finally convinced Ranulf that the Highlands didn't frighten her, that she would be safe there.

“Which Campbells?” Ranulf asked, striding for his barouche.

“Laird Fendarrow. And Charles Calder. I wouldnae allow 'em into the hoose, but they're nae too pleased to be left standing in the front drive. I decided to come fetch ye myself.”

Nodding, the marquis turned to take Charlotte's hand. “Can ye find another way home?”

“Yes, for the others. But I'm going with you.”

“Ye are, are ye?”

“Yes, I am. If they intend violence, having a witness there will give them something else to consider.”

“I'm coming, too!” Winnie announced, moving around them to climb into the barouche and towing Jane with her.

“Nae. I'll nae have ye in danger. None of ye.”

Charlotte's father stepped forward to hand his wife into the barouche. “You've made us a part of your clan, Glengask. And I prefer to learn of any trouble firsthand.”

With a curt nod Ranulf helped Charlotte into the vehicle, as well. “So be it, then. I've nae time to argue with ye.”

The driver, Debny, rushed them up the street at far too fast a pace, but it still seemed too slow. The newspaper's betrothal announcement about Lady Mary Campbell had named Charles Calder as the groom. However Calder had ended up in that position, had he taken exception to Arran kissing his betrothed? Had he hunted down Ranulf's sharp-witted younger brother?

Charlotte's heart pinched. If something had happened to Arran, it would destroy Ranulf. He could be angry enough at his brother to spit, but they were still brothers, and the closest of friends. And that meant everything to him.

Two men on horseback waited on the Gilden House drive as the barouche turned in. She immediately recognized the pepper-haired Lord Fendarrow and the sleek, black-clothed Calder. They were alone, but she had no idea if that was a promising sign or not.

“Fendarrow,” Ranulf said crisply, stepping down from the open carriage. “What brings ye to my door?”

The older marquis dismounted. “Not out here.”

“This is my clan. I've naught to hide from them.”

“Where's your brother then, Glengask?” Calder asked. He stayed mounted, presumably so Ranulf would have to look up at him.

“He's nae here.” Ranulf took a slow step forward. “Fendarrow and I've made our agreement, and I kept to it. That business is nae yers.”

“It is mine,” Calder snapped, his horse fidgeting beneath him.

“My daughter and her party stopped at the Giant's Pipe Inn afternoon before last,” Fendarrow broke in, his usual swagger missing. “She and her maid did not return to the coach.”

Charlotte's breath seized, but Ranulf only narrowed his eyes. “I'm nae acquainted with yer daughter, but I did read aboot her engagement. I thought Delaveer was after her. Did she want to marry ye, Calder, or did ye weasel yer way in at an opportune moment?”

Finally Calder swung to the ground and stalked up to Lord Glengask. That was something of a mistake, because Ranulf was both taller and more broad-shouldered. “That business is not yours,” he growled, mimicking Ranulf's words.

“My brother left here at sunset three days ago, just as I said he would. I sent a man with him to see that he stays safe and heading north. If yer daughter's missing, I'll help ye look fer her, but it has naught to do with us.”

“I don't require your help, Glengask,” the Duke of Alkirk's son stated. “I already have men searching for her. All I ask of you is your honesty.”

“And that's what I've given ye.”

Fendarrow nodded, then climbed back into the saddle. “I won't defy this truce,” he said, “yet. But if your brother is involved with my daughter's disappearance, the Campbells will fall upon you like thunder.”

With that he and Calder clattered back down the drive. Winnie's face had blanched to gray, and Jane looked ready to be ill at any moment. Then again, she had had a tendre for Arran. On Thursday she'd even wept at his departure. Charlotte's parents looked as troubled as the girls did—but then they'd seemed to think being adopted by clan MacLawry was quaint. They likely didn't think that any longer.

“Ranulf?” she said quietly, unable to decipher his still expression.

He stirred. “I'm nae troubled by thunder,” he drawled, signaling Owen and Debny to approach. “It's naught but noise.”

“Aye, m'laird?”

“Debny, go fetch Myles,” he instructed, naming his uncle. “Owen, find me a messenger I can send north. A fast one.”

The men scattered, and Ranulf strode for the house. Gathering her skirts, Charlotte hurried after him. “What are you going to do? Do you think Arran's involved? Should we ask the Stewarts for their assistance? They have more clan in London than we do.”

He turned in the doorway to face her. “I do like when ye say ‘we,'
leannan
.”

“Don't sidestep the question, Ranulf.”

“Och, but ye're a fierce lass. We'll nae be sending fer the Stewarts. If Arran
is
involved, I dunnae want them knowing yet that he's thrown over the arrangement with Deirdre.”

Charlotte gazed at him intently, attempting to decipher what he might be thinking. “What will you do if Arran
has
taken Lady Mary?”

“I'll kill him before the Campbells get a chance to do it.” With a dark curse he disappeared inside the house, leaving the rest of them standing on the drive.

Of course he didn't literally mean he would kill Arran—or so she thought, anyway—but the alternative would likely be just as painful for all of them. He'd banished his uncle, Myles Wilkie, from the family for three years for the crime of talking to the Donnellys. If Arran had made off with Mary Campbell, the consequences would be much, much worse.

Rowena hurried into the house after her brother, but Charlotte's parents stayed in the drive. “We should go,” Charlotte said, so they wouldn't have to do so. “He needs to figure out what to do.”

Her father nodded, handing the marchioness back into the carriage. “Well said. I'll send over a note later asking if he requires my assistance. Jane?”

Janie uttered a stifled sob. “I didn't want Arran to marry Deirdre, but this is so much worse! Why couldn't he have liked me?”

“You wouldn't want all this on your head, Jane,” Charlotte replied in her most matter-of-fact tone. “Everything will end as it should. You'll see.” She sent a fond smile back toward Gilden House. In the past weeks she'd become a great believer in happy endings. And as she also happened to believe in the idea of someone finding a perfect match, she couldn't help hoping that something miraculous would occur to save them all.

*   *   *

“Good evening, Mr. Fox, Mrs. Fox,” the innkeeper said with a jowly smile. Either he was naturally jovial, or visitors were rare enough in Wigmore, Herefordshire, that their arrival late this afternoon—or that of Arran's coin—was cause for celebration.

“Thank you,” Arran replied in his very fine faux accent. “I've heard that the roast beef ribs here are exceptional.”

Mary kept the smile on her face, despite the fact that for a moment she wondered if he lied about everything as smoothly as he did about inn meals. They hadn't even known what the place was called until they stumbled across it.

The innkeeper, though, was patting his belly. “If I say so myself, Mrs. Castleman—that's my wife—does make a fine roast rib. And a better roast turkey.”

“What do you reckon, Mrs. Fox?” Arran asked, looking sideways at her with amusement dancing in his eyes. “Ribs or turkey?”

“The turkey sounds splendid.”

“Aha! Grand choice. Sit yourselves close by the fire; we'll have a chill wind coming up tonight. Mark my words. If you're here for the assembly, you'd best take a wrap with you, Mrs. Fox.”

Arran's brow lowered a little, and she could practically hear him saying they would be too tired to attend a dance. She stepped forward. “Oh, an assembly! Are you certain they wouldn't mind strangers there, Mr. Castleman?”

“No, no! The more the merrier. It begins at nine sharp. And I'll tell you what: I promised Mrs. Castleman a dance, so we'll escort you over. The hall's a bit hard to find in the dark, with it being behind the cemetery.”

“We happily accept,” Mary returned, ignoring Arran's arm tightening beneath her hand.

The innkeeper chuckled. “Excellent. We could stand to see some fresh faces around here.”

He waddled off to place the request for their dinner. Clearly Arran was about to disagree with her decision, so she released his arm and faced him. “Yes, I know it would be safer and wiser to stay hidden and then leave at dawn. I would like to dance with you.”

Arran opened his mouth, then closed it again. “If we're caught, then we're caught,” he finally said, a slow smile dancing into his sunrise-blue eyes. “At least I'll have ye in my arms one way or another.”

“I thought you would deem an assembly gathering strategically unsound.”

“This whole venture is strategically unsound, lass. That doesnae mean it shouldnae be attempted.”

Behind them Crawford and Peter descended the stairs, and she stifled a sigh. Yes, Crawford did lend a certain respectability to their group—something which could come in very handy if Mary found herself on her grandfather's doorstep. At the same time, having the maid present made it more likely, she knew, that she would end this adventure at Alkirk rather than in Arran's arms.

For the past two days Crawford had lain in wait like a spider, pouncing out at every opportunity to remind her of everything she would be losing if she continued on this journey. It said something for Arran's patience that he hadn't resorted to tying the maid behind the coach with their mounts, but the constant bombardment had to be weighing on him, as well. For the moment Crawford had a part in this play, but Mary didn't precisely need to be told that going directly to her grandfather and keeping Arran at arm's length would be … safer.