Rogue with a Brogue (21 page)

That was what she'd originally thought, of course, but the better she came to know him, the less sense all her reservations made. Yes, a lifetime of prejudice was a great deal to overcome. But marriage … A chance at something she never would have considered before she met him, but that now she couldn't stop thinking about. She wanted more time alone with him. More time when they weren't on horseback in view of anyone using the old, rutted roads. And definitely more time than they would find riding in the coach with Crawford glaring at him.

Arran took her fingers and kissed them. “I'll dance with ye, lass. There's nae a man alive who could stop me.” He sent a glance past her. “Or a woman.”

He excused himself to go talk to Peter, while Crawford sat at the rough wood table directly beside Mary. “Are you trying to fence me away again?” Mary asked, shifting closer to the end of the bench to give herself more room, only to have Crawford close the distance again.

“I am a lady's maid,” the servant returned. “If he ruins you, I become unnecessary.”

“I appreciate your diligence, Crawford. Truly. But you aren't going to keep me from talking to him. This isn't just an escape from Charles and clan Campbell's dictates; it's a chance at a different life.” An unexpected life.

Steely brown eyes returned her gaze. “He's a poor chance at anything, if you ask me. With both MacLawrys and Campbells likely after us, he'd make you a widow the moment you became his wife.”

“He's the only one interested in knowing what
I
wanted.”

“I'm certain that's none of my affair, my lady.”

No, it wasn't any of Crawford's affair. But it was hers. Discovering who truly cared about her circumstances and her well-being, people and things she'd taken for granted until they'd all been yanked out from under her—Mary needed to decipher all the pieces of the puzzle before it was too late to do so. Or perhaps she was overthinking everything, and she just needed to take a moment to look at what lay around her. Or rather, at who had just seated himself across from her and favored Crawford with one eye narrowed. “I've a question for you, Mother Graves,” he said, straightening as their host brought a loaf of fresh, warm bread to the table.

“And what might that be?” the maid asked tightly. Mary wasn't certain what the servant disliked more—being called Mother, or having to speak politely to Arran.

“You didn't dance at our wedding,” he said with a warm smile, reaching across the table to take Mary's hand, “what with your gout and all. But will you dance with your son-in-law tonight?”

“Ah,” Mr. Castleman intoned as he paused by their table, “it's a wise man who makes peace with his mother-in-law.” He placed some mismatched glasses on the table. “Mine kept trying to hire ruffians to rob the inn and shoot me.”

“Heavens!” Mary exclaimed, hoping he wasn't giving Crawford ideas. “She's stopped trying?”

“Aye. A woman had best think twice before keeping company with ruffians.” He sent her a broad wink.

“You're jesting!” she said with a grin.

“I can't lie to a lovely lady, Mrs. Fox. She's the one baked the bread.”

Arran laughed. And as excellent as his English accent was, for some reason his laugh sounded Scottish. Perhaps it was the fresh joy in it, or the complete absence of fear. Whatever it was, Mary liked it. She wanted to hear it about her always.

She chuckled, and their gazes locked. The two of them alone or in some clan or other, on ancestral land or somewhere new, the idea of keeping that laugh, that joy, in her life held a great deal of appeal.
He
held a great deal of appeal.

“Ye have a fine smile, lass,” he noted, as the innkeeper went to greet a new arrival. “It warms my heart.”

“No, I won't be dancing this evening,” Crawford stated, making Mary jump. Heavens, she'd nearly forgotten anyone else was there.

“Crawford, it's perfectly fine, you know.”

“No, it isn't, my lady. Not for you, either. A village assembly? You're the Duke of Alkirk's granddaughter.”

At least the maid kept her voice down. “Not tonight, I'm not,” she returned. “Tonight I'm Mrs. Fox. And you'd best stay in tonight to rest your foot, Mother.”

“What aboot me, m' … Mr. Fox?” Peter put in from beside Arran while Crawford continued to look daggers at the lot of them. “I'm nae part of this family, but I do like dancing a reel. Nae that we're dressed fer it, a' course. A man cannae dance a proper reel withoot a kilt.”

“That's enough, Peter. I'm a Sasannach at the moment, if ye'll recall.”

The footman's brow furrowed. “Aye, I recall. I dunnae like it, though. I cannae talk like them.”

“That's why ye're my Scottish footman. And I'd prefer if ye'd stay here and keep a watch fer trouble.”

“That I can do, Mr. Fox.”

Despite the fact that the trouble he would be watching for consisted of her relatives and allies, Mary found herself relieved that someone was determined to help them whether he agreed with what they were doing or not. It was more than she could say about Crawford, certainly.

Once they finished dinner, Arran sent a meal outside for Howard, who'd insisted on sleeping in the coach tonight. Evidently he feared someone would make off with it—or her, as he referred to the vehicle. She wondered what the one-eyed coachman made of all this, but thus far he hadn't raised a note of complaint over their selection of less-traveled roads.

The round cook appeared from the kitchens and shed her stained apron to reveal a pretty yellow silk gown. Mary was abruptly grateful she'd gone back upstairs to don the deep green silk and lace gown Arran had somehow procured for her. It was far simpler than anything she would wear in London, but here in Wigmore, it was perfect.

“Let's be off,” Mr. Castleman said, and led the way outside and on down the narrow lane lined with spicy-scented summer roses.

With her hand wrapped around Arran's arm, his long stride shortened to match hers and the Castlemans', Mary couldn't help smiling. This was the sort of evening she might have been able to experience in the Highlands if she'd been permitted to spend time there. And being in this tiny, quaint place with a man who'd showed himself to be anything but an enemy made her feel light inside, as if her feet weren't quite touching the ground.

“A penny fer yer thoughts, my bonny Mary,” he murmured.

She shook herself out of the fairy tale again. “I'm not thinking anything worth that much.”

“Ye were smiling like moonlight.”

“And what does moonlight look like when it smiles?” she asked, deciding that talking was better than thinking.

“Mysterious, with a wee touch of magic,” he replied promptly.

And now he had her sighing again. It was unfair, to be pursued by a man as charming as Arran. How the devil was she supposed to resist him, whatever her best interest might be? “I do wish you weren't a MacLawry.”

He slowed a little more, putting distance between the older couple and themselves. “Are we back to that again? Campbells and MacLawrys?”

“It never left. Do you know what would happen to you if Charles and my other cousins catch up to us? Have you ever seriously considered it?”

“Mary, I've hated yer family fer my entire life, same as they've hated me. The rumor is that my own father was killed by Campbell allies. But from the moment I set eyes on ye, everything upended.” He put his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. “So to answer yer question, aye, I know what would happen if the Campbells tracked us doon. I reckon they'll try to kill me, in which case I will try to kill them back. And if the MacLawrys found us, I'd fight them off too before I'd let them step between us.”

He said it so matter-of-factly. For a long moment she gazed at his profile, at the nearly shoulder-length black hair lifting from his temple in the light breeze, at his self-assured step and his cool gaze that seemed to notice everything and still stayed focused on her. “You're not the least bit frightened, are you?”

His sensuous mouth curved upward at the corners. “Of yer kin, nae. Of ye finding some reason we shouldnae be together, aye.”

They resumed their walk, and a few moments later the church came into view in the moonlight, a dark shape with luminous tombstones surrounding it. The Castlemans crossed the edge of the cemetery, but Arran veered around the low stone border.

“Nae sense walking over some poor lad who's nae done a thing to us,” he said by way of explanation. “The innkeeper's likely related to 'em.”

“So angry spirits and I concern you.” Highlanders were a unique breed, indeed.

“Someaught like that,” he agreed, brushing his cheek against her hair.

The intimacy of the gesture warmed her to her toes—unless he was trying to distract her about something. “The men around me travel in packs, you know,” she said aloud. “Like wolves. They would never admit it, but they fear being caught out alone by a MacDonald or a MacLawry. And there you are, knowing that half a hundred Campbells could be looking for me—for us—and you're escorting me to a dance.”

“They'd nae expect that strategy, ye have to admit,” he drawled with a swift grin. Slowly his expression sobered again. “I'll tell ye true, Mary. I'm concerned. I'm concerned they'll find us and drag ye back to marry Calder, and that he'll be worse to ye because of what I've done. I'm afraid ye'll listen to Crawford and nae yer own heart. And I'm terrified that when we reach the Highlands ye'll still ask me to take ye to the Campbell and ye'll nae choose to stay with me.” He took a breath, shrugging. “Am I afraid of the Campbells? Nae.”

A door opened a short way in front of them, light flooding the evening and the sound of music filling the air. It seemed almost symbolic. If she went inside with Arran, there would be no turning back. It meant something. It meant that she could do as he'd already done, and choose the two of them over her own clan. If she went back to the inn, then she could still claim her old life, whether or not it would include Charles Calder or Roderick MacAllister. But returning to her old life meant that she would have to accept whatever her family decided for her. And whomever her family decided she should wed.

Or she could set all that aside in favor of the utter unknown. Mary tightened her grip on Arran's arm and stepped into the noise and joy of the assembly.

 

Chapter Eleven

Peter Gilling looked up from his seat in the inn's tavern as the large woman slipped into the nearly empty common room. If he'd been a gentleman he supposed he would have stood up and invited her over for a pint, but firstly he wasn't a gentleman, and secondly he didn't like the way she looked down her nose at Lord Arran. The MacLawrys could trace their ancestry back before Hadrian, back to the Vikings and the blue-faced Celts, and the maid sneered at Lord Arran for taking the lass he wanted and making off with her.

Of course he'd chosen a Campbell, which was both daft and dangerous, but Peter meant to follow Lord Glengask's instructions: protect Lord Arran, and see him safely back to the Highlands. Everything else was secondary. Well, almost everything else was. If he'd had a way to inform the marquis about both Lady Mary being stolen away and the route they were taking he would have done so, but he couldn't send the information without telling someone else the words to write down. And Lord Arran was adamant that no one else know what they were about—for good reason.

He finished his beer as Crawford left the tavern and returned upstairs. It was time he went back outside to watch the road for Campbells and Gerdenses and Dailys, as well. Moving past the wide bar, he waited until the one serving lass turned away. Then he reached over to pick up the letter Crawford had left for the morning's mail coach.

He put it into his coat pocket as he left the inn. What the letter said he had no idea, but he could guess. And whether or not he found a way to contact the chief of clan MacLawry, he wasn't about to tell the Campbells where they were, or allow anyone else to do so. Not while he had anything to say about it.

*   *   *

From the way Captain Evers from the local militia kicked up his feet for the country dance, Arran thought the lad might have had some Scottish blood in him. Whose and which clan he had no idea, so he kept as much distance as he could between the half-dozen red coats in the ballroom and himself.

“Mrs. Fox comes from money, I think,” Mrs. Castleman noted from several feet away. “I paid Mrs. Noland a shilling to braid up my hair, and it isn't near as fancy as that.”

Arran put a smile on his face and turned away from watching Mary dance with the village's baker. “She and her mother were both lady's maids,” he said conversationally into the murmur of gossiping, trying not to sound stiff with the stiff Sasannach vowels. “Her mistress didn't allow servants to marry, so here we are.”

This seemed to be the best gossip Mrs. Castleman had ever heard, because she closed in to seize Arran's right arm. “That's horrid!” she exclaimed with obvious delight. “Did you work for the family, as well?”

“In a roundabout way,” he returned, actually pleased he'd been able to use the tale he'd constructed during their ride today. “I was employed as their solicitor.” In tiny villages like Wigmore, the solicitor was frequently the wealthiest, most educated man about, and he'd needed to explain two horses, a coach, a driver, and a footman. As long as no one asked him to solicit anything, he figured the story would suffice. And it was far enough from the truth that it would hopefully do nothing for any pursuers but cause more confusion.

A tall, bony woman clutched his other arm. “Which family was it?” she asked, batting brown eyes up at him. “The Morrisons, I'll wager. Lady Ludlow once chased one of her daughter's suitors down the street with an axe. Or so I heard.”