Rogue with a Brogue (40 page)

She nudged him in the shoulder. “Go make amends with your brothers,” she muttered, and walked away a few feet to speak with her grandfather.

At least she hadn't told him to apologize, but he likely needed to do so. For some of it, anyway. He'd pointed a loaded weapon at Bear, for God's sake. Squaring his shoulders, he walked up to where they stood. “I'm sorry I pointed a pistol at ye, Bear,” he drawled.

“
That
's what ye apologize fer?” his younger brother rumbled. “Ye disappear, we hear that ye've kidnapped the Campbell's favorite granddaughter, and then ye go and marry her, and ye apologize fer a pistol.” Shaking his head, Munro wrapped him into a hard bear hug. “I thought we'd lost ye, Arran.”

Arran hugged him back. Bear might have a short and heated temper, but he was also generous to a fault. Today he would call himself lucky that he'd found the generous part. “So did I, fer a moment,” he returned.

“Ye married a girl in trousers. And Peter Gilling's wearing a dress.”

“Aye,” Arran said, straightening again. “It's been a long day.”

“And it's nae noon yet,” Ranulf commented. “Why didnae ye tell me how much ye cared fer the lass?”

“I tried to tell ye. Ye didnae want to listen.” Arran took a breath. “I ken now that ye were trying to find a way to protect yer own lass, and me being after Mary didnae help ye any.” He grimaced. “I misunderstood. I apologize fer that. But I'll nae apologize fer escaping Deirdre Stewart. If ye dunnae wish to forgive me, so be it, but I wanted ye to know.”

“I should've listened harder to ye, Arran,” Ranulf returned. “Love's a damned tricky bastard.”

“Aye. I'll agree with—”

Something slammed hot into his upper arm. Half a second later the sound of a pistol discharging echoed across the hillside. Arran staggered sideways, his shoulder on fire. Ranulf grabbed him as he went to his knees, while Bear stepped between them and the sound and lifted his rifle.

He heard Mary scream, and then she was on her knees beside him, tugging on his coat and ripping his sleeve. “Who did this?” she shrieked. “Who did this?”

“I thought we had a plan,” Charles Calder's voice came. Arran looked over Mary's head to see her cousin drop the spent pistol and pull a second one from his pocket. “Arran MacLawry disappears, we bribe the priest to burn one of the pages of the register, and I become Fendarrow's son-in-law.”

“Put that down!” Mary's father ordered.

“Someone's going to do as they said, even if it's only me.” He lifted the pistol, aiming it at Arran—and Mary in front of him.

Grabbing her, Arran flung her to the ground, offering Calder his back. Even if he wouldn't live to see his child, she would. She had to.

Another shot shattered the air. Arran tensed, waiting for a ball to pierce his spine. Nothing. Still holding Mary down despite her struggling to rise, he looked over his shoulder.

Charles Calder lay in the grass, moaning and holding his left thigh. To either side a dozen weapons were aimed at him, but only the one the Duke of Alkirk held was smoking. Slowly the Campbell lowered it again. “No damned nephew of mine will begin a war I just ended,” he declared. “Get him doon to the blacksmith and press a hot iron to that. Make certain it hurts, lads.” Then he handed over the pistol and approached. “Ye're nae dead, are ye, MacLawry?”

“Nae. Ye're nae going to poke
me
with a hot iron, are ye? I think a bandage would do me better,” Arran said, sitting up with Mary's help. “Thank ye.”

The Campbell nodded. “Let's get ye doon to the tavern and patched up. Arnold, go have the innkeeper drag oot his best whisky, and take someone with ye to find a proper gown fer Mary.”

“I'll see to it, Your Grace.”

“And find us a piper. We cannae celebrate a wedding withoot pipes.”

“Right away, Grandfather.”

Climbing to his feet, Arran let Mary pull his good arm across her shoulders. “I can walk, ye know,” he murmured.

“Perhaps I just want to be in your arms,” she whispered back, smiling. “I love you, Arran MacLawry.”

“Tha gaol agam ort,”
he returned. “I love ye, my sweet, bonny lass.”

She leaned her head against his. “We have a great deal more than a wedding to celebrate, don't we? A child, the first peace in four hundred years between our clans, gaining our families back … Have I missed anything?”

Arran kissed her on the temple. “I dunnae believe so. But tonight I'll only be celebrating the fact that ye're mine. Forever. Everything else is … buttermilk.”

Mary laughed and kissed him back, his fierce Highlands lass.

 

 

 

 

Lady Rowena MacLawry ducked behind the old tumble of stones. She'd asked Lachlan to stay away from Jane, and yet there he was, being … chivalrous. And flirting. She wrinkled her nose. He'd never bothered to check whether
her
foot was in the stirrup, for heaven's sake. Once he'd even ridden off and left her when she'd claimed to have a dizzy spell.

Not that she cared, of course. Adam, Lord Samston, had just this morning compared her eyes to sapphires. He always offered her an arm when they went walking, and he'd kissed her. Rowena touched her fingers to her lips. It had been a … well, a glorious kiss. Everything she'd ever dreamed of. And if once upon a time she'd dreamed that it would be Lachlan to give her her first kiss, well, that was just stupidity. He'd made it quite clear that he wasn't interested in her.

She'd only circled back to make certain Jane was well. Taking a breath, she glanced around the broken masonry again. Both horses and riders had vanished into the misty morning. Perhaps they were holding hands and exclaiming about how purple the thistles were. She certainly didn't care.

“What the devil are ye doing in here, lass?”

Rowena squeaked, whipping her head around. Lachlan MacTier, Lord Gray, leaned against what had once been a doorway of the old fortress, his arms crossed over his chest and his expression amused. Drat. “I thought I saw a ghost,” she lied. As she straightened, something caught at the back of her skirt, pulling her back onto her knees again.

“‘A ghost?'” he repeated. “Old Lady Teàrlag, come to find her cheating husband?”

“I don't know,” she returned, twisting to tug at the back of her riding habit. The only thing worse than being discovered by stupid Lachlan was being trapped here. “It made me curious.”

“Ye always have been fearless, Rowena. I'll give ye that.”

She stopped tugging and faced him again. “What did you call me?”

“Rowena. It's yer name, isnae?”

A soft shiver ran down her spine at his low brogue saying her name. “You never call me Rowena. It's always ‘Winnie, you have burrs in your hair,' or ‘Winnie, leave me be'.” There. That was what she needed to remember—that he thought of her as a child, as a sister, and that Lord Samston had kissed her.

He straightened, pushing away from the mossy wall and making his way closer. “I dunnae think ye saw Lady Teàrlag, lass. I think ye wanted to know what I was doing oot here with Jane Hanover.”

“You were out here with Jane?” She seized on the admission. “I asked you to leave her be. Arran nearly broke her heart, and now you and Bear are … well, you're here, and she's very romantic.”

Lachlan crouched beside her. His gaze on her face, he leaned closer and slowly reached back around her. Rowena held her breath. He was just teasing, because he couldn't stand the fact that she was no longer infatuated with him, that she'd moved on to find a man worthy of her attentions and affection.

With a hard tug he freed her skirt. She started to her feet immediately, but he caught her arm and held her there, eye to eye with him. “Jane mentioned that that shiny lad, what is it? Sandstone? That he—”

“Samston,” she corrected, not gazing at his mouth.

“That he kissed ye,” he continued, as if she hadn't spoken.

“Damnation,” she muttered, feeling her cheeks warm. “I told Jane to be quiet about it. The last thing I want is one of my brothers piling into him fists first.”

“It's nae just yer brothers he needs to worry over.”

“Oh, please.” She yanked her arm free and scrambled awkwardly to her feet on the uneven stones. She needed something. Height. Not having him be so very close to her. Something. “You can pretend you're my brother, but I already have three. I don't need another one. And if I'm to fall in love and marry, I will need to speak with men. Dance with them, even.” She put a hand to her chest. “My goodness, I might even find someone who loves me in return. Kissing might very well be involved.”

“That's nae amusing, Rowena.”

“It's not meant to be.” Turning, she shoved him in his rather broad, hard chest. “Go away. Leave me be. I chased you for eighteen years, and now I've learned the error of my ways. I was a silly child who didn't know any better. I don't want you any longer. The only thing I
do
want from you, Lachlan MacTier, is for you not to interfere with my chances at romance and happiness.”

Before she could pull her hand away, he grabbed her wrist, holding her against him. “I know ye still like me, Rowena, and I know ye're only trying to make me jealous by kissing that dainty fop.”

“He's not a fop. He's just fashionable. Something about which you know nothing.” She tugged, but his grip was like iron. Other people said Lachlan had a temper, but she'd honestly never seen it. Not directed at her. “I'm not trying to do anything to you,” she continued, finally looking up to meet his lush green gaze. “Eighteen years of being ignored and laughed at is long enough. Now let me go.”

“I'll nae have ye looking at me like I'm nae a man,” he said in a lower tone, unmoving. “Like ye can blink yer pretty eyes and I become invisible. Ye can decide ye dunnae want me, but it'll nae be because ye've decided I dunnae exist.” He glanced past her, where she'd been perched watching him flirting with Jane. “Because ye're only pretending ye dunnae like me, Rowena. And
I
know it.”

With a twist of his hand he yanked her up against him. She gasped, and his hard, warm mouth closed over hers. He wasn't gentle at all, but then he was a Highlander born and bred. He wasn't gentlemanly or shiny like any of the men who'd followed her north to Glengask. Power, passion, anger—Rowena closed her eyes at the sheer force of him. Lachlan MacTier, kissing her. Devouring her. And just for that moment, she wanted to be devoured.

Abruptly he pushed her away, setting her on her feet as if she weighed no more than a feather. “Now pretend I'm invisible,” he murmured, straightening.

Rowena stood there in the ruins of Castle Muldoon and stared at him. If this had been a year ago—three months ago, even—she would have been … Well, it wasn't three months ago, was it? It was today, and she had other plans.

“I see you just fine,” she stated, and slapped him as hard as she could. “No, you're not invisible. And you're not nearly as charming as you think you are. Go away, Lachlan MacTier.”

A red mark shaped like her hand began to appear on Lachlan's tightly clenched jaw, though he hadn't bothered acknowledging the hit. “Very well,” he drawled. “But this isnae over with, Rowena.” He flashed a surprising grin. “Now ye've made it interesting.”

He turned on his heel, and after a moment the sounds of Lachlan and his horse faded into the mist. Around her the trees whispered, and she could almost believe the broken grounds and tragic Lady Teàrlag were speaking to her. And from what she knew of Lady Teàrlag, they were in complete agreement about the deserved fate of flirts and philanderers.

She was
not
about to fall into the same trap again. Not when she'd finally escaped it—him. Not when she had a half dozen handsome young men of title and wealth all pursuing her, and not when her oldest brother had asked her to choose wisely, and for both herself and the clan's benefit. Lachlan was likely playing, anyway, angry that the puppy who'd tagged after him for so long had decided she preferred being elsewhere.

But he was correct about one thing; she was not going to be able to continue pretending that he was invisible. Not after that kiss. Not when for a bare second she'd remembered how much she'd once longed to be kissed just like that, and by him. “Damn ye, Lachlan MacTier,” she muttered, letting her own brogue loose for a moment. “It
is
over. It is.”