Rogue with a Brogue (34 page)

Peter, seated beside Mary, handed her a platter of roasted chicken. “Ye'd best eat generous, my lady,” he said. “Ye'll need yer strength, and ye didnae get much rest upstairs.”

Uncle Sean stifled a cough, while Aunt Sarah made a choking sound. At her left elbow Arran threw a piece of bread, which slapped Peter in the side of the head. “Ye idiot,” he said, without heat. “Dunnae embarrass my bonny lass or I'll leave ye here to walk back to Scotland.”

“I apologize, my lady,” Peter said dutifully.

“That isn't necessary.” Mary took a large piece of chicken and passed the platter on to Arran. “I'm quite famished, actually.” She favored the footman with a grin.

They reviewed the plan Arran had set out once more, though Mary didn't think she would feel any calmer after a hundred rehearsals. She just wanted it to be over with—and she wanted not to have to go through it at all. Or rather, she wanted Arran not to have to go through with his part.

“I know you need to leave,” Sarah commented, “and I know why, but part of me still wishes you could stay.”

“I wish that, too,” Mary returned. “Perhaps when we're settled there will be some way you can come and stay with us.”

Sean nodded. “I would like that. And I know Sarah would. We have our friends here, but it's good to have family again.”

Mary knew what he meant. And even under the very best possible scenario, neither she nor Arran was likely to have any more contact with their families. They'd both turned their backs on arranged marriages and destroyed potential alliances, and they'd more than likely shattered a very delicate, flimsy truce. Sarah and Sean could well be all they had. And the odds of the two couples ever seeing each other again were actually very small. But since tonight they all seemed to be pretending that everything would be perfect and splendid at the end of this journey, she supposed she could say they would all spend Christmas together and everyone would agree.

At the end of the meal Susan came and cleared the dishes while Peter and Howard retrieved their luggage and brought it down to the kitchen by the back door. Nervous anticipation ran through Mary. It was time to go.

Arran shrugged into his heavy coat, pulled a pistol from the pocket and checked it, then returned it again. He'd said he meant to do his utmost not to kill anyone, and she certainly believed him. But her father and Charles and the rest of them were beyond angry, and she'd heard with her own ears that they meant to kill Arran. No matter what, that was not allowed to happen.

“I'd be happy to lend you a hand, Arran,” her uncle said slowly. “Waiting here and doing nothing doesn't sit well with me.”

“Ye'll nae be doing naught,” Arran returned, bending down to loosen the knife in his boot. “Ye'll make certain the lad on the hill sees ye down here so he knows it wasnae ye up there.”

“I understand. I still don't like it.”

“I ken yer meaning, Sean. But this is best fer all of us.” With a grimace he offered his hand. Sean shook it. “And ye, Mòrag. We cannae thank ye enough.”

Aunt Sarah smiled, then stepped forward to embrace the big Highlander. “Don't you dare thank me. When you find somewhere to stay, just send us your address. Please.”

“We will.”

With that, Arran and Peter headed to the back of the house. Mary followed; she couldn't not do so. “Arran.”

He stopped in the middle of the kitchen, then took a long step back to her. “Give me ten minutes,” he said, leaning down to kiss her. “Within five after that ye'll know if we got hold of him or nae.”

“How will I know if you didn't get hold of him?”

“He'll be bellowing fer help.”

She forced a smile. “Just please be careful.”

“Peter and I know what we're aboot, lass. This is one lad. Dunnae ye worry yerself.” He flashed his devilish smile. “I cannae die till ye've asked me to marry ye, anyway.”

She grabbed his lapels. “Then I'm not asking you yet.”

“Yet,” he repeated, touching her cheek, then slipped out the kitchen door and into the darkness.

That was that, then. Ten minutes to wait and listen for something to go wrong, and then she and Howard would be off to collect the horses, find the wagon Sean had arranged to leave close by for them, and then wait again for Arran and Peter to join them.

Squaring her shoulders, she walked back to the front of the house. In the sitting room her aunt and uncle hadn't waited, but were busily lighting every candle in the room and throwing more logs onto the roaring fire. “Not so much,” she said quickly, stopping in the doorway so her shadow wouldn't be added to the two already filling the room. “If it's too obvious that you're choosing this moment to be seen, Arran's plan won't work.”

“Oh, dear.” Aunt Sarah swiftly blew out half the candles. “How do we do this without it looking intentional, then?”

Mary thought for a moment. Arran hadn't mentioned any of that. “You should dance,” she decided.

Sean lifted an eyebrow. “Beg pardon?”

“Yes. Do a few turns of a waltz, then just … be there together. Be happy that your house is back in order and the Marquis of Fendarrow didn't burn it down.”

It wasn't only that they needed to appear relaxed and at ease, but she wanted a last moment to see them happy. Because if they could still be content and in love after nineteen years on their own, then so could she and Arran.

“And what about you, my dear?”

Mary wiped a sudden tear from her eye. “If you could spare a moment to come here and embrace me, that would be very good.”

“I can do that.” With a damp smile of her own, Sarah left the sitting room to hug her tightly. “You write to us,” she said fiercely. “Let us know how you're getting on.”

“I will,” Mary promised. “I'm so glad that I met you. Both of you.”

“Likewise, my dear Mary.” With a last squeeze Sarah let her go and returned to the sitting room.

If Mary had needed any proof that she and her life had changed over the past weeks, the smile that touched her face as her aunt and uncle moved into the center of the room answered it. Sean hummed an off-key waltz, and the two of them began to dance. The realization that such small things could make a paradise was so odd, and yet so very, very vital.

She backed away slowly, then turned to head down to the kitchen. “Are you ready, Howard?”

“If you can take that satchel, my lady, I'll pull the other trunk outside.”

She slung the satchel over her shoulder and followed him out the door. It was her turn, now.

*   *   *

Arran crouched behind a half-buried boulder and waited. Down below the cottage sitting room lit up like morning, then dimmed to a more normal glow. He didn't know if someone had knocked over a candle and set a chair on fire, but the light did catch the attention of the Campbell seated on the ground two dozen feet from him.

The lad couldn't have been more than eighteen—a wee bairn who shouldn't have been left on his own, much less looking for the trouble that Arran MacLawry represented. Damn Fendarrow. Wherever Mary had gotten her nerve and her wits, it hadn't been from her father.

The spyglass rose, pointed down at the cottage for a long moment, then lowered again. As he risked another glance down the hill, Arran abruptly stilled. With the repaired curtains hanging partly open, the sight of Mòrag and Sean Mallister twirling in a slow waltz made him smile. The dance had likely been Mary's idea, and he couldn't conjure any image that spoke more of ease and contentment.

He waited another minute to be certain Peter was in position on the other side of the stand of trees, then began moving forward. After a lifetime of hunting deer and grouse and rabbit and then four years of killing Frenchmen, the instincts of stealth and silence were second nature to him. But this time he didn't intend to kill. And the only reason for that was somewhere in the dark below, waiting for him.

When he was close enough to share the lad's cold leg of mutton, he launched forward. Grabbing the fellow around the neck, he lifted and shoved, planting him flat on his face in the dirt. “Good evening,” he drawled, setting his knee into the middle of the lad's back.

Peter appeared, grabbing up a rifle and pistol from beside the tiny fire and stomping on the spyglass. “That was nicely done, m'laird.”

“Thank ye.”

“MacLawry,” the lad gasped, his voice muffled against the ground.

“Aye. MacLawry. Now ye tell me what the devil ye're doing up here, when I saw the rest of the Campbells ride oot two days ago.”

“I'm … I'm watching the cottage,” he squeaked, no note of the Highlands in his unsteady voice. Another Sassannach-raised Scotsman whose blood had thinned to water.

“The cottage.” He gestured. “That cottage? Why?”

“Why?”

Arran ground his knee between the lad's shoulder blades. “I've been hiding in some fellow's barn fer three days, so I'm nae in a mood fer ye nae to answer me. Why are ye watching that cottage?”

“It's—he—Fendarrow's sister lives there. He thought Lady Mary might have brought you here.”

“A Campbell lives there? And Fendarrow thinks I'd set foot in a Campbell hoose? I'd sooner burn it to the ground. Ye're all daft. The whole damned lot of ye.”

Peter produced a length of rope and made a show of uncoiling it while the young fellow squirmed like a spit fish. “I'm Fendarrow's nephew,” he squealed. “If you … If you kill me, you'll be breaking the truce!”

Arran cocked his head. “Didnae ye get word, lad? I kissed yer cousin. The truce is already broken.”

“No it's not! I mean, there's some confusion about that. No blood's been spilled yet, I don't think.”

That was something, anyway, though he imagined it was only a matter of time. A very short time, if Fendarrow had his way. “And yet ye were sitting here with a rifle beside ye,” he said aloud. “Were ye hoping we'd ride doon the road so ye could blow my head off? Or Mary's?”

“Not Mary's! She's not to be hurt.”

“Ah. But I am, eh? Dunnae ye think that would break yer truce?”

“He's an
amadan,
fer certain,” Peter put in. “So are we hanging him?”

“God's sake! No!”

Arran sighed, winking at Peter. “What's yer name, Campbell?”

“Fergus. Fergus Campbell.”

“My brother has a dog named Fergus.” With a last shove between the shoulder blades, Arran stood. “Let's string up the dog, Peter.”

“N—”

Arran hauled him upright and cuffed the lad in the face. He'd told Mary he wouldn't kill, but the idea of this bairn pointing a weapon in their direction, of what might have happened to Mary if he'd missed his shot, dug a hole of worry into his gut.

“M'laird?”

Shaking himself, he gave Peter a quick nod. Together they bound Fergus Campbell's feet together and hands to his sides. Then Arran threw the end of the rope up over a sturdy-looking oak branch. The lad looked ready to wet himself, but Arran didn't have much sympathy for him.

He stepped in front of the boy. “When ye next set eyes on Fendarrow, ye tell him someaught fer me.”

“What … What shall I say, then?”

Stating that he wasn't so easy to kill would have been supremely satisfying, but it also might remind the marquis of the conversation he'd had with Calder in the cottage. Arran wasn't about to risk the Mallisters' safety over a boast. “Ye tell him that his only grandchildren will be half MacLawry, and ask him if that's reason enough to make peace.”

“I—”

Arran shoved a rag into Fergus's mouth before the lad could finish his bleating and tied it in place. “Now. We're going to haul ye up into that tree. I'll…” He looked around as Peter ransacked the small camp. “I'll throw that shirt of yers over ye so if ye're lucky Fendarrow's sister will see ye up here and come get ye doon. And ye remember what I said. And that I could've killed ye and I didnae.”

He tucked one of the lad's spare shirts into the rope so the white material would flap about in the breeze, and then he and Peter hauled him a good fifteen feet into the air. “Can we spin 'im?” the footman asked. “He's the reason I had to sleep with a sow and piglets fer three days.”

“Nae. If he spews sick he'll likely choke to death on it.”

Once the rope was tied off around the trunk he and Peter gathered up the lad's things and destroyed any items that would help him on his way. “Do we take his horse west with us?” Peter asked.

Arran stifled a smile. For a fellow who couldn't read a word, the footman had a grand memory and quite a sense of the dramatic. “Nae. I'll nae be called a horse thief on top of my other sins. Leave it here. But cut the cinches on the saddle. I dunnae want him deciding to ride us doon. If I shoot him, Mary'll frown at me.”

The figure in the tree began making sobbing sounds. Saint Bridget, Fendarrow leaving him here had been like leaving lambs to guard for a wolf. It was a very good thing for young Fergus Campbell that this wolf was in love with his cousin.

He hoped the lies he'd spun would be enough to protect the Mallisters. There wasn't much else he could do except force them to join his little troop, and that would hardly be doing them a favor. He found himself wishing he could talk to Ranulf to arrange a way to make their lives easier. His brother was no longer an ally, though, as mad as that notion even seemed.

The name MacLawry had made him enemies. It had also granted him power and respect. While he'd had the clan at his back, no one would have dared enter his house and destroy his possessions. Now, though, he had no clan. And except for the fact that he was bigger and younger and more physically imposing than Sean, he and Mary would be just as vulnerable as the Mallisters.

His dream of making a home in the Highlands with her lay directly before him now, nearly close enough to touch. He was strong and capable—he knew that. But no one man save perhaps William Wallace himself could stand against every Campbell and MacDonald and MacLawry and their allies. Was he leading Mary into nothing but a nightmare, then?