Rogue with a Brogue (35 page)

“M'laird?” Peter said, dropping the remains of Fergus Campbell's saddle beneath the weeping tree.

“Aye.” He shook himself. “Let's fetch Mary before the dog unties himself.”

They headed back down the hill and turned east up the road. This was the course he'd set. If it meant living a smaller, more cautious life, then he would adjust to that. Because with Mary at his side, he didn't
feel
smaller. He felt ten feet tall on the inside. But that was feelings. What mattered was whether he could keep her safe. And happy.

A mile down the road he spotted the light wagon with its well-worn team, Duffy and Juno tethered behind it. Howard had pulled them off the road into the deep shadows of a stand of elm and pine. London hack driver or not, the man had a good instinct for survival.

As they approached, Mary climbed down from the wagon seat and ran toward him, her skirt hiked to her knees. Sweet Saint Bridget, she was lovely. And he wanted her to have a happy life. “Mary,” he breathed, and pulled her into his arms.

“Is everything well?” she asked, embracing him.

“Aye. Young Fergus Campbell is now a flag of surrender.”

“Fergus? What in the world was my father thinking, to bring a nineteen-year-old boy along for a murder?”

“I'd rather ask what yer father's doing planning a murder with his daughter so close to danger.”

She looked up at him, her expression curious and her light green eyes silver in the starlight. “If you ask that, I would ask if you think his daughter is so simpleminded and weakhearted that she doesn't realize what she's doing and what the consequences are.”

And just like that she reminded him why he loved her. Mary Campbell wouldn't be dragged anywhere against her will, even by him. They were here together. He would guard her and protect her and provide for her, but she was by no means helpless or naïve. She came from a clan, the same as he did, and she knew now what life outside of it could be like. What did she think of it, though?

“And if ye asked that, I would ask if ye could stand to live the life the Mallisters do.”

Mary pulled his face down and kissed him. “I could, but we won't. Sean Mallister isn't a Highlander. He's civilized and mild. You're a barbarian devil warrior. If you think my father would have the courage to threaten to burn us out without an army behind him, you—”

He stopped her words with another kiss. “I'd nae face
ye
withoot an army at my back. Ye're a fierce Highlands lass, ye are.”

“That I am. And don't you forget it.”

Peter set his rifle on the driver's seat and climbed up beside Howard. “Ye know, there's a small chance that fella could wiggle free from those ropes. I'm only saying that because the two of ye seem to be too busy kissing to remember we're fleeing someaught.”

“I've nae forgotten.” Arran helped Mary into the wagon, then climbed up after her. They could ride on horseback in the morning, but he didn't care to risk one of their mounts breaking a leg in the dark. “Ye ready to see Scotland, Howard?”

“I'm ready to give those bloody Campbells a chase. Begging yer pardon, my lady.”

“No need, Howard,” Mary said, as they rocked back onto the narrow road. “I'm looking forward to escaping the Campbells, as well.”

Peter clapped Howard on the shoulder. “Ye've lost yer coach, ye've had to hide from damned Campbells, and now ye're driving a farmer's wagon. Why havenae ye fled back to London, Howard Howard?”

The driver shrugged. “I suppose I'm curious to see what happens next. Most people I drive a mile or two and then they go on their way and I never set my eye on 'em again. Since I met you lot I've helped rescue a lady, hit a fellow with a club, lost my coach, dined with proper gentry, and been farther from home than I ever thought to see in my life. It'd be a privilege to see Lord Arran and Lady Mary wed.”

When Arran met Mary's gaze, even in the starlit dark he could see her smiling. He took her hand. “Perhaps ye could stand in fer the bride's family, Howard. Ye are part of our clan, now.”

The wagon nearly ran into a hedge. “I'd be honored. Truly.”

Mary leaned her head against Arran's shoulder, and he tucked her in against his side. Perhaps he could keep danger away from her, but he was abruptly seeing Ranulf's actions in agreeing to a truce with the Campbells and bringing in the Stewarts, in addition to his dancing about with Sasannach lords, in an entirely new light. Because his primary concern was no longer defending clan MacLawry. It was doing whatever was necessary to protect his bonny, bonny lass.

“I love ye, Mary,” he murmured, resting his cheek against her autumn-colored hair.

“I love you, Arran. In a day or two I may even ask you to marry me.”

He laughed. “I do hope so.”

 

Chapter Eighteen

“Any sign of them?” the Marquis of Fendarrow asked, as Charles and another nephew, Arnold Haws, stomped into the Manchester Arms. Why he'd been cursed with a single daughter when his siblings had been blessed with multiple sons in addition to gaggles of girls, he had no idea. Had his son William lived, the circumstances today would have been completely different. He could simply have disowned Mary, turned his back on this mess, and stayed in London.

“Nothing,” Charles answered. “Traffic headed in both directions on the three nearest roads, but no one's seen anyone resembling Mary or MacLawry.”

“I'm thinking they wrecked that old coach deliberately, to slow us down,” Arnold added, gesturing for a glass of whisky. “They had another vehicle waiting, and they're already in Scotland.”

From the low grumbling that circled the inn's private room, Arnold wasn't the only one to have come to that conclusion. The lads wanted MacLawry blood, and the longer he kept them waiting here, kicking their heels and drinking whisky and beer, the more frustrated and unruly they became. Which meant when they did find MacLawry, they weren't likely to listen to anything the lad had to say in his own defense—but neither would they heed
him.
Of course that could keep him from being blamed when someone shot the bastard. It could also lead to something bloody and public that he would never be able to turn into the mysterious disappearance of an extremely troublesome fellow. Yes, he was walking a very fine line, and some blasted news would be welcome.

“How long do we wait here, Uncle?” Charles asked. “Wherever MacLawry is, he's still breathing. And that does not sit well with me.”

“And you think it sits well with me, Charles?” Walter snapped back. This was
his
chase, and
he
would control the outcome—whether he wanted it to appear that way or not. “Do you think I'm pleased that a MacLawry ruined an alliance and took my daughter, and that he's been doing God knows what to her for over a week?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Then stop making ridiculous statements. I believe they are still nearby. However, if we haven't heard anything by this time tomorrow, we will divide our numbers and take all three roads north.”

His nephew had narrowed his eyes, and the abruptly sinister expression reminded Walter that Charles had the reputation of being a rather deadly opponent. “If they reach Scotland ahead of us, they'll likely marry, my lord.”

“And if they do, you'll be Mary's second husband. I assume you'll have no objection to marrying a widow, if the dowry's favorable enough.”

“I do not. But if they marry and sign a register, MacLawry's death will have to be made known or I won't be able to marry her at all.”

Fendarrow hadn't actually considered that. Once MacLawry and Mary signed the church register at Gretna Green or wherever they were headed, they would leave behind a written record. And convenient though it might be, the Campbell would not approve the burning down of a church to obliterate a piece of paper. He glared at Charles for a moment. Perhaps Arnold would have been a less demanding choice for a son-in-law.

“Not if we give a generous enough donation to the priest,” Walter's youngest brother, Angus, spoke up. “Something worth a page of a register, say.”

Walter nodded. “Precisely.” As long as the equation ended with Arran MacLawry dead, he didn't particularly care how complicated or expensive the route might be.

Two more of his lookouts had returned, and four others had gone out, by the time the damned lazy innkeeper brought luncheon into the private room. Considering he'd rented the entire Manchester Arms, the service should have been a bit more … grateful. This was why he detested the countryside. The northern countryside, in particular.

The door linking them to the common room slammed open. Half the men with Fendarrow reached for weapons before Fergus Campbell stumbled into the room. His clothes were ripped and dirty, his face bruised and caked with mud.

“Fergus,” Angus said, striding forward. “What the devil happened to you, son?”

“MacLawry,” the boy panted, collapsing into a chair.

“You saw him?” Charles demanded, lurching to his feet.

“Is he dead?” the marquis added. With any luck their troubles could be over. All that remained would be to collect Mary and dispose of anyone else accompanying her.

“He attacked me. From behind, the dog.” Fergus took Arnold's glass and drained it, then began sputtering and coughing.

“Then he
was
at Sarah's house. She lied to me.” The marquis scowled. Evidently she hadn't believed his threat to burn her cottage down. A low anticipation ran through him. All these lads would see that he was ready to succeed the Campbell. That he wasn't someone to be trifled with.

“No, she didn't lie,” Fergus replied, when he could speak again. “MacLawry wanted to know why I was spying on the house. He didn't know a Campbell lived there. And Mallister's the one who saw me up on the hill this morning and cut me down. I might have been there for days if he hadn't spotted me.”

“What do you mean, ‘cut you down'?” Angus Campbell asked, his expression lowering as he eyed his son.

“MacLawry and the other Scottish fellow tied me up and hung me in a tree all night. He said they'd been hiding with pigs in a barn, trying to figure out how much we knew about their whereabouts. They kept waiting for me to stop watching the road, but they couldn't wait any longer because they were worried you would double back.”

“Ha. I
knew
they were still close by.”

“He … He gave me a message for you, Uncle Walter.”

“What message?” Fendarrow asked slowly. Threats? A boast that MacLawry couldn't be stopped? He hoped so; that would give his men whatever incentive they still required to end the life of the bastard.

Fergus cleared his throat. “He said to tell you that your only grandchildren would be half MacLawry, and to ask you if that would be enough to convince you to honor the truce. To make peace.”

The marquis looked up to see Angus gazing at him, a hand on his son's shoulder. That was supposed to weaken his resolve, then? The idea that Mary could already be with child? Reminding him that MacLawry had ruined her? “He asks me to make peace after he steals my daughter. Ridiculous,” he finally said, knowing he needed to make some statement.

“He couldn't know if she's pregnant,” Charles said in a cold voice, “even if he has attacked her. Forced himself on her. And there won't be any MacLawry grandchildren, Lord Fendarrow, if there's no MacLawry husband.”

With a deep breath, Walter nodded. This wasn't about grandchildren, or even about alliances. Not any longer. It was about cementing a line of succession for the Duke of Alkirk, with him at the front of that line. “This is why you'll be my son-in-law, Charles,” he said. “Now get the damned horses saddled.”

The speed with which everyone jumped to do his bidding was rather satisfying. Only Angus gave him an uncertain look, and Angus was a second son, six years his junior. What he thought only signified if it happened to agree with the opinions of his betters.

As of this moment only one thing mattered; catching Mary and MacLawry before they reached the border. And failing that, Arran MacLawry would die just as easily on his native soil. But there would be no half-MacLawry grandchildren. He wouldn't allow it. And for bloody certain the Campbell would never allow it.

*   *   *

“Ye cannae blame 'em fer nae wanting to do a straight swap fer the horses,” Peter said, helping a stableboy back a fresh pair of bays into the traces.

“I suppose a farmer's wagon isnae the most elegant of vehicles,” Arran agreed, his attention on the road off to their right. “And the grays wouldnae make a meal fer a starving dog.”

“How much did we have to pay?” Mary asked in a low voice, though of course she hadn't paid for anything, herself. Not with only seven shillings in her reticule. No one else needed to know the state of their finances, though, particularly with the wilder, less populated countryside they were now passing through. The edge of the Lake District was stark and lovely, but it was also full of caves and valleys known to be the hideouts of highwaymen. Arran might enjoy a brawl now and then, but she didn't fancy a fight that would slow down their flight north.

“Three quid,” Arran returned, taking the cloth-wrapped roast ham the innkeeper's son brought out to them. “But I'm sending the bill to Fordham.”

They'd sent several bills to Lord Fordham, and while she trusted the viscount firstly because Arran did and secondly because he'd enabled them to exchange the notes that had led to Arran rescuing her—and everything since then—she had to wonder if his generosity had a limit. After all, even if they intended to repay him, which they did, it wasn't likely to happen anytime soon.

Since they were already spending money they didn't have to hand, she supposed they might have acquired a second coach. The cart, though, actually enabled them to move more quickly and attract less notice. It was also much less comfortable even than Howard's rackety coach, and she'd spent most of yesterday afternoon huddled with Arran under his heavy coat while rain nearly washed out the road. Mary smiled to herself. Despite the weather, she'd never had so much fun beneath a coat before.