Rogue with a Brogue (31 page)

“I asked myself that at first,” Mary admitted. “In fact, I insisted that he agree to escort me to Alkirk solely to extricate me from my father's plans. But he … I don't want to live my life without him.”

“Forgive me, but while I've heard you extolling his virtues in several ways, I haven't heard you say that you love him. And given these circumstances I would think that important.”

Mary smiled a little. “I haven't used that word because I haven't said it to him, yet. And Arran should hear it first.”

“My dear, I cannot argue with that. Barring your father's arrival, I will see you in the morning.”

Kissing her aunt on the cheek, Mary slipped into the guest bedchamber and closed the door behind her. Then she gasped as a figure in a chair by the cold fireplace stirred.

“Come here, lass,” Arran's low brogue came.

Oh, thank goodness.
She hurried forward. “What are you doing? You should be lying down where it's safe.”

“I had to sit up to eat some stew. I even choked doon a glass of whisky. And I'll nae lie doon to sleep again unless it's with ye by my side.”

“Well, that's very romantic,” she murmured, putting her hands on the arms of the chair and leaning in to kiss him slow and soft.

“Aye. I'm a romantic fellow.”

Mary carefully sat across his lap, slid her arms around his shoulders, and kissed him again. The edge of uncertainty and uneasiness that had dogged her for the past few hours faded away in the warmth of his embrace.

When she settled her cheek against his neck and shoulder, Arran risked shutting his eyes again. He had the balance of a drunken sailor in a storm, but he was not going to hide in some priest hole while she faced uncertain allies. Aside from that, even with his eyes crossing, his ears worked just fine. And so he'd heard every word that she and her aunt had spoken outside the door. He wanted to ask her about it, but it wasn't the sort of thing he could prompt her to say. She either would of her own accord, or she wouldn't.

“Where are Peter and Howard?” she asked quietly.

“Our wee bairns are asleep in the hideaway.”

She snorted softly. “I thought our bairns would be less … hairy.”

Chuckling hurt his head, but he did it anyway. “I have a strong suspicion we'll nae be rid of Howard now that we murdered his coach.”

“I like him. He grumbles, but he hasn't failed us yet.” She stirred. “Now stop talking and let's get some rest.”

“My head pounds less when I'm upright. I thought I'd spend the night here. The chair has a fine, high back to keep my skull from falling off and rolling aboot the floor.”

“Well, I'm not sleeping in there with the lads,” she said, indicating the hidden room behind them.

“I reckon ye can sleep atop the bed,” he returned. “We can straighten up the covers if trouble comes calling.” He remained fairly certain that the only question was
when
trouble would arrive, but with the coach overturned and his head bashed in, Mary had done the only thing possible to gain them some time.

Moving with exaggerated care, as if she thought he might break, she stood again and walked over to the bed. “You want me to sleep here?” she mused, touching the quilted coverlet. “All by myself?”

“Lass, dunnae tease me tonight,” he protested, hoping that closing one eye would stop the room from spinning, then opening them both again when it didn't.

She regarded him for a long moment, her silhouette lined with silver in the moonlight. “I won't lie down to sleep unless it's with you by my side, Arran,” she said finally, and lifted the folded blanket from the foot of the bed. Then she dragged the other chair set on the opposite side of the hearth over beside his, curled into it with a sensuous grace that even a dead man would have appreciated, and pulled the blanket over both of them.

Well, it wasn't a declaration of undying love, but as she reached over to take his hand and twine her fingers with his, he decided that for tonight it was enough.

He awoke with a start, not certain what he'd heard, but knowing that something was amiss. Through the squint of his eyes he could see the first light of dawn edging into the east-facing window. Beside him Mary breathed softly. Ignoring the keen ache of his skull he held his breath, listening.

Then he heard it again. A horse whinnying, the sound immediately echoed by a second animal. The Campbells had caught up to them.

“Mary,” he whispered, pushing to his feet and grabbing onto both arms of her chair to keep his balance.

She awoke immediately. “Are they here?”

“Aye. I think so, anyway. Wake up Peter. Stay back away from the windows.”

She rose with an ease that made him slightly jealous and moved quickly and quietly into the storage closet. Arran gathered up the blanket and refolded it before he set it back across the foot of the bed. His head felt clearer, but his left eye remained blurry. If they had to flee either on horseback or in a coach, he would likely find himself unconscious again. Thank God Mary had thought to seek out her estranged aunt.

“Do we bring oot the weapons?” Peter asked, tucking in his rough-hewn work shirt as he emerged from the closet.

“Nae. First we'll try Mary's way.” He sent her a quick smile as she glided back into the bedchamber, then returned his gaze to Peter. “Move the chair back across the hearth, will ye? Quietly.”

“Aye.” The footman lifted Mary's chair and carefully carried it back where it belonged, even placing the feet back into the divots left in the blue carpet laid out there.

“Is everything else inside?”

Her green eyes wide with obvious worry, Mary nodded. “Along with some bread and water. Hurry, Arran. If it's my father, he
will
search the house for us.”

Downstairs a door opened and closed quickly. As much as he preferred a straight-up fight to sneaking about, this way held much less risk for the woman he loved. And he wasn't precisely at his best this morning. With one last look about the room, he motioned them toward the storage closet. “Let's go, then.”

Going down onto his hands and knees to crawl through the absurdly wee opening made his head pound all over again, but he clenched his jaw and did it anyway. If nothing else, having a coach whack him on the skull would discourage him from drinking too much in the future; this particular aching head was not something he cared to repeat, no matter how fine or plentiful the spirits.

Once they were all inside, Mary nudged him out of the way and leaned out to pull the stack of hat boxes in front of the opening, then quietly lowered the door, closing them in. Even with the lantern lit it seemed dim, but he wasn't willing to risk any light being seen through some crack in the wall.

Sitting back, he shook the still-snoring Howard until with a sputtering curse the coachman sat upright. Arran favored him with a pointed look, and he subsided. “Bloody Campbells,” he muttered. “Begging your pardon, my lady.”

Evidently Howard was part of their clan, now. “From here on, we're quiet as church mice,” Arran murmured, then took Mary's arm to draw her up against his side. With a slow breath, sending up a quiet prayer that everything would go as they hoped, he leaned sideways and blew out the lantern.

Settling in as comfortably as he could against the unfinished wall, he put his left arm around Mary's shaking shoulders. “I'll nae let anything happen to ye, lass,” he breathed against her hair.

“I'm more worried about you,” she returned almost soundlessly.

“As long as no one falls asleep and begins snoring, we have nothing to fear, I reckon.”

In the past his family had once—or more than once—been accused of being Jacobites, of supporting James and then Bonnie Prince Charlie's claim to the throne of England. Some of his ancestors
had
been Jacobites. Because of that, most of the houses in the Highlands boasted so-called priest holes for hiding Scots being sought after by Sasannach soldiers. And now they were in a half-Sasannach household hiding away from the clans, including his own.

With his free right hand he reached into his coat pocket for the pistol he'd placed there. No, he didn't want to harm her father or any other Campbell, because that would hurt her. Neither, though, was he surrendering Mary. Not to anyone—Campbell, MacLawry, or Saint Bridget and all the heavenly angels.

 

Chapter Sixteen

Sarah Mallister sat on the edge of her bed and waited to be surprised.

As much as she would have preferred to be dressed in her finest gown with her hair pulled up and blush on her cheeks, the sun hadn't yet shown the merest sliver over the eastern hills. Under normal circumstances she and Sean would have remained in bed for at least another hour.

“Sean, don't pace,” she whispered.

Her husband stopped halfway between the bed and the door. “Have you considered that perhaps we should be hiding ourselves behind that wall?”

“They've known for nineteen years where to find us. And frankly, I'm more looking forward to this than I'm worried about it.”

Stepping more quietly, he moved over to sit beside her. “If we can manage it, I'd like to punch Fendarrow in the nose, myself.”

She smiled, nervous anticipation running through her. “I don't think a little suspicious hostility would be out of place. He's never bothered to come calling before, after all.” Sarah took her husband's hand. “Just remember that this isn't about us. It's about protecting our young guests.”

Of course her niece had only come calling because their coach had overturned and Lord Arran had been injured. They had literally had nowhere else to go. But they
had
come instead of waiting about to be caught, and she'd made the acquaintance of a brave young lady she would otherwise never have met. And a MacLawry. For goodness' sake, she wasn't certain even she would have had the courage to fall not just for a member of clan MacLawry, but for
the
MacLawry's younger brother.

Susan's knock came at the door, more strident than usual. “Come in,” Sarah called, and the door cracked open.

“Mrs. Mallister,” the housekeeper said a trifle unsteadily, “you have a caller.”

“At this hour?” she asked, sending the servant an encouraging smile. She wasn't certain whether they could be overheard or not, but it was a small and quiet cottage, and so she would assume a visitor could make out every word she spoke. “Is it Mrs. Lester? I asked her to send me word when Sally went into labor.”

“No, ma'am. It's … It's Lord Fendarrow.”

“What?”

“That's the name he gave me. And there are at least a dozen men with him.”

“Good heavens!”

“Fendarrow? What the devil does your brother want of us?” Sean demanded.

“I have no idea,” Sarah returned, not having to feign the trepidation in her voice. “Do you think something's happened to my father? Why else would he come here, Sean? It's been nineteen years!”

“We'd best go find out. Tell him we'll be down in a moment, Susan. I'm not meeting him in my nightshirt.”

The maid curtsied. “Should Levitt offer them tea?”

“Not until I find out what he wants,” Sean said loudly, offering her a reassuring smile.

Susan shut the door again, and Sarah let out her breath. “I'd nearly forgotten that I don't actually want to see him,” she muttered, standing and hurrying for her wardrobe.

Her husband strode over to take her arm, turning her to face him. “Just keep in mind why he's here,” he whispered, and kissed her. “I, for one, have no intention of allowing him to do to someone else what he did to you.”

With a smile she kissed him back. “What he did to me doesn't matter, because he couldn't separate us. Now stomp angrily into your boots, and let's get this over with.”

They hadn't had a chance to warn their guests that trouble had arrived, but Sarah hadn't heard as much as a squeak coming from down the short hallway. All she could do was presume that they knew, and that they'd closed themselves into the hidden room. The rest would be up to her and Sean.

Her hands shook a little as she shed her night rail and donned a plain green and yellow muslin, then brushed out her hair and pinned it into a simple knot. Sean dressed in his dark, conservative banker's clothes, and then together they left the bedchamber and descended the stairs.

Levitt hovered in the front entry, looking annoyed that he'd only had time to don his trousers with his night shirt hastily tucked into the waist. If given the choice the butler would have remained dressed all night, poised to greet their visitors. That, though, would have raised far too many suspicions, at a moment when they couldn't afford any at all.

“Mrs. Mallister, Lord Fendarrow is in the front room,” he said. “Two other gentlemen are in there with him. Another nine are in front of the house, watering their horses.”

“Horses?” Sarah repeated, frowning. “He didn't come in a coach?”

“Not that I could see, ma'am.”

She squared her shoulders. “Well. Let's go see what's brought Walter Campbell all the way to Manchester on horseback, then.”

When she stepped into the sitting room her gaze went to the sharp-faced man with the slicked black hair who stood by the far window. The resemblance to a young Walter was striking. For a moment she felt like the eighteen-year-old girl who'd begged her older brother not to allow her to be cast out of the family. Sarah shook herself. This man might resemble the Walter she'd last known, but he wasn't her brother. A nephew, more likely. Perhaps the nasty Calder that her niece had described. She turned her head.

“You look older,” a dry, precise voice said. Seated in Sean's favorite chair, a lean, gray-haired man crossed his ankles and gazed at her over steepled fingers.