Rogue with a Brogue

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Yes. The MacAllisters. Otherwise it would be one of your cousins. You are not heir to my—or your grandfather’s—title and fortune, but you do have a significance as part of the direct line of Campbells.”

  She knew all this—because she happened to be female, the titles of Alkirk and Fendarrow and the clan leadership would go to one of her father’s brothers, or her oldest male cousin, Gerard. For heaven’s sake, she didn’t want any of it; evidently she had just enough importance to warrant a miserable life with a man not of her choosing.

  “Better Roderick than Charles, Mary,” her mother, always more matter-of-fact than her father, said briskly. “And better Charles than someone who gains us nothing. Or worse, you might go about with your friends until you’re on the shelf, and no one will have benefited.”

  Mary chuckled, though she didn’t feel much amused. “Well, we can’t have that.”

  “No, indeed. You might as well marry a … a MacLawry!” The marchioness shuddered. “Can you imagine the uproar? Goodness.”

  Before she could even begin to decipher a way around all this mess, the coach stopped and a red-and-black-liveried footman handed her down to the cobblestoned street. All the windows of Penrose House glowed with yellow-orange light. The earl’s—or rather, his wife’s—idea of an intimate dinner party didn’t precisely fit the dictionary’s definition, but it remained exclusive enough to still make the invitation a coveted item.

  Given Lord Glengask’s reputation for brawling at Society to-dos, she was rather surprised he and his brother had been invited, but then Penrose—not his wife—did have a penchant for welcoming the company of “interesting” persons. And even her father would have to acknowledge that Glengask was interesting. His brother, in her opinion, was even more so.

  They entered the house and climbed the wide staircase to the first floor where the drawing room and formal dining room blazed with the light of still more candles. Mary found herself wanting to smooth her violet gown and find a mirror to check the tumbling, twisting knot of her light brown hair, but she resisted both urges. Arran would either be there or he wouldn’t, and in either case she wouldn’t be acknowledging him. In fact, it was entirely possible that she wouldn’t be able to say a single word to him all evening—even if her father didn’t make the family’s excuses and bundle them home again once he realized the MacLawry brothers were in attendance.

  This year at least sixty well-dressed aristocrats crowded into the large drawing room and spilled into the hallway outside. As she squeezed her way in among the tightly packed guests, Mary began to wonder if she’d be able to even see her own feet, much less anyone more than an arm’s length away from her. Their hostess, the Countess of Penrose, used a footman to push her way through the crowd so she and Mary’s mother could carefully hug without causing any wrinkles or out-of-place hairs. The two women began chatting, as they usually did, about the latest Paris fashions. They’d had luncheon together three days ago so Mary didn’t know what new innovations could possibly attract their interest, but she fixed a smile on her face and stood there, trying not to be trampled.

  Neither Kathleen nor Liz would be in attendance tonight, but several of her other friends would be. As would Lord Delaveer. And more than likely, Lady Deirdre Stewart. Wondering just how many conversations about fashion any one person could listen to before her head fell off, she turned around—and looked up to see dark blue MacLawry eyes gazing down at her.

  “Lord Glengask,” she said, swallowing her surprise. The marquis and Arran were clearly brothers, but Arran’s face was leaner, the lines and angles less … hard. As to which brother was more handsome, that had been a subject of much debate this Season, but it was an argument that for obvious reasons mostly took place out of her hearing. If anyone had asked, she would have placed her wager on Arran.

  “Lady Mary Campbell,” the marquis said in his deep-voiced brogue.

  A hand touched her shoulder, pulling her backward a step. “Glengask,” her father’s voice came, clipped and cold. Oh, dear.

  If anything could be worse than one clan coldly shunning the other, it was an open argument between them. These two men were not going to talk about fashion. They both stood not quite square, but right side slightly forward, duelists but for their empty hands. Being attracted to Arran was difficult enough. This could make things so much worse.

  “Lord Fendarrow,” a more familiar brogue drawled, and Arran stepped around his brother. “I dunnae think we’ve been introduced.” He offered his hand. “Arran MacLawry.”

  Mary held her breath. Her father was not a rude man, but he was a Campbell. One day he would be the Campbell, the chief of the clan—as Glengask was the chief of his. Arran kept his gaze steadily on her father, but she looked at him, at his calm expression, the slight, open smile on his face. At this moment he didn’t look at all like the rogue he was reputed to be. What he looked like was a Highlander, tall and strong and fearless.

  After a hesitation that everyone within sight had to have noticed, her father reached over and shook hands with Arran. “MacLawry,” he grunted, letting go and lowering his hand as swiftly as he could do so without looking like he found the deed distasteful. “Come along, Mary,” he continued, wrapping his fingers around her arm. “Your mother is looking for you.”

  “Thank ye fer dancing with me the other night, Lady Mary,” Arran continued, and her father froze in his retreat. “I know I must have surprised ye, but there’s nae one of us who wants a truce broken over a fox mask.”

  She nodded, trying to hide her approval. Was he actually attempting to … Heavens, she had no idea. To impress her father? To make it known that the MacLawrys were committed to the truce? Perhaps imply that there was no need to rush into new alliances? And now she had to say something, in front of her father and Arran’s brother, that wouldn’t cause the Penrose drawing room to erupt into open warfare. That would mean pride-driven death, and her pushed at Charles Calder. “You dance a fine waltz, Lord Arran.”

  Her father gripped her arm hard enough to leave a mark. “This way, Mary.”

  She had to go with him, or be dragged off her feet. When she managed a parting glance at Arran, he was looking right back at her. And smiling.

  * * *

  Mary had worn a deep violet gown that hugged her fine curves, and no amount of willpower could have kept Arran from lowering his gaze to her swaying hips as her father hurried her away. Her lovely autumn-colored hair was coiled into an intricate tangle of braids and beads, soft curls framing her oval face and bringing out the green of her eyes. She made him hungry, and for something more primal than food.

  Ranulf grabbed his shoulder. “What the devil was that?” he murmured, moving around to face Arran directly.

  Only an inch or so separated them in height—which was odd, because in his mind Ranulf had always been larger than life. But standing there before him was simply … a man. A big man, but then so was he. And Bear was bigger than both of them. He followed the law of the clan because Ranulf asked him to do so. But now for the first time, he found himself unsure that his brother was on the correct path. Did that give him leave to carve his own trail?

  “I asked ye a question,” Ranulf hissed, his grip tightening.

  “We have a truce,” Arran returned with a one-shouldered shrug. “Ye looked ready to pummel him, so I stepped in.”

  “I’m nae talking aboot that. Ye thanked the lady fer the dance.”

  “Should I have spat at her, then?”

  His brother took a half step closer. “Ye told me that ye hunted her down the day after the masquerade and warned her nae to take ye fer a fool.”

  Damn it all. “Aye. I did. And now she and her father know we can be civil,” he returned, thinking quickly. Since when had his wish to see her rendered him blind and witless? “That’s what we’re aboot these days, isnae? Showing all and sundry that we’re safe with their children and wee animals? That we’re merchants and nae warriors now?”

  “Why do I thin
k what’s best fer the MacLawrys has naught to do with this?”

  “I dunnae, Ranulf. I shook the man’s hand so ye wouldnae have to do it, so we look like we’re keeping to the truce and ye can still be fearsome. Or ye and Fendarrow could’ve glared at each other till the moon sets.” He stepped backward out of his brother’s grip. “It nae makes a difference to me.”

  “That might suffice,” his brother returned, his voice low and level, “if I believed ye had naught else in mind. Ending a truce is the devil of a way to escape a marriage.”

  Arran shook his head. “I’ve nae wish to fight the Campbells.”

  “And why, bràthair, is that? A week or so ago ye were playing a different tune.”

  Time, then, either to confess that he’d struck up a friendship with Mary Campbell, or to lie about it. “Ye’re the clan chief. Ye figure it out.” If Ranulf hadn’t unilaterally decided that they were to alter their way of life based on who his in-laws would be, Arran might have answered differently. As things stood, he met his brother’s gaze squarely, his fists coiling for the inevitable brawl. Before one of them could throw the first punch, though, their uncle Myles stepped between them.

  “Good evening, lads,” the Earl of Swansley said with a warm smile. “I wanted to warn you that Lady Penrose is particular friends with Lady Fendarrow, so the Campbells will likely be in attendance tonight. I seem to be tardy in that.”

  Ranulf sent Arran a last, annoyed glance. “Aye. Next time ye might warn us before we agree to attend. Arran shook Fendarrow’s hand.”

  Myles lifted both eyebrows. “You—you did?”

  “Aye. Ran says we’re civilized now.”

  “Well. Speaking of which, Ranulf, I managed to arrange that meeting you wanted with Kerns-Stanley and Dryden. We’re to lunch together on Tuesday, so if you can bring Allen to the table, we may have that agreement you’ve been after. The…”

  Arran took the moment to slip into the mass of milling Sasannach. Ranulf would be safe with Uncle Myles beside him, and the two of them could discuss their strategy for befriending English bankers and anglicized Scotsmen to their hearts’ content. There were basketfuls of other weak-chinned, round-shouldered Englishmen for them to flirt with tonight, if bankers weren’t enough for them.

  At least Rowena had had other plans; she and Jane Hanover had asked half of London’s debutantes to Hanover House for an evening of dinner and charades. It sounded like a lace-covered nightmare. Even Ranulf had looked relieved when Charlotte had informed him that men were not invited.

  Whether that would keep his brother from going out later and climbing the trellis beneath Charlotte’s bedchamber window was another matter entirely. Privately he hoped it would keep Ranulf home, because he was growing tired of sleeping with one eye open so he could hear his brother slip out of the house. If Ranulf had known that his clandestine evenings were anything but a secret, much less that he was being shadowed whenever he left the house at night, he would have been furious. Disagreeing or not, though, they were brothers. And whatever else happened, he would still protect his brother with his last breath.

  A footman edged his way by, a tray of drinks in his hands. Arran took one and downed it without tasting it. He wanted to go see where Mary might be, if her father was far enough away that they could risk a moment of conversation. It was ridiculous, of course; any of half a dozen lasses present tonight would be happy to find a private room with him. And none of them were Campbells.

  Whatever madness had seized him, he didn’t feel inclined to fight against it. He liked being in her company, and as far as he was concerned, he hadn’t spent enough time there. A bit of a tease, a taste, every morning had only served to whet his appetite. Beyond that—well, no damned body seemed inclined to give him a moment to figure that out.

  “Good evening, Lord Arran,” a soft coo of breath came, barely audible over the din of the room.

  He tried not to flinch as he turned around. “Lady Deirdre,” he returned, inclining his head. Her dark hair was pulled up into a knot, her pale skin nearly translucent above a deep blue gown. “You look lovely,” he continued, forcing himself to stop searching the room for Mary.

  She curtsied. “Thank you. I’ve heard there may be music later. Will you sit with me to listen?”

  That seemed like one of Dante’s lower levels of hell. Arran hid his frown. None of this was her fault. He supposed he owed her an attempt at congenial conversation. “What do you think of the two of us being pushed together?”

  Large brown eyes almost met his, then lowered again. “You’re very handsome, my lord, and of course we must do as our families think best.”

  “Aye, but what about you?” he asked, emphasizing the last word. “Do ye have other wishes?”

  She offered him a demure smile. “I wish to do my best,” she returned.

  “At what?”

  “At … whatever my family and my husband require, of course.”

  Of course. And now he felt ready to stab himself with a fork. “Will ye excuse me fer a moment?” he bit out.

  “Oh, certainly, Lord Arran.”

  Good God. A mere five minutes of that could well kill him. A lifetime was unimaginable. For the first time it wasn’t annoyance and frustration digging at him as he thought of being leg-shackled to that. It was dread, and a fair bit of horror. He turned around, making for the far side of the room.

  Finally he spied Mary, standing with a small group of young people all chatting loudly about something, and the knot in his chest loosened. Unlike her friends, she wasn’t gabbing. Instead, her moss-green gaze roamed the room like she was looking for someone. Looking for him, he hoped.

  Snagging another drink, he rounded the fringe of the room until he was close by one of the windows overlooking the street below. A step behind him stood Mary, facing in the opposite direction. He took a breath. “This is nae what I had in mind fer tonight,” he murmured.

  Silence. From her, at least; the room fairly vibrated with the cacophony of voices. He drew another breath, wondering how loudly he could speak to the window before people began to notice. Or if she had heard him, and decided she wasn’t willing to risk anyone seeing them speaking to the air in the same vicinity.

  “It’s very crowded this year,” Mary’s voice came softly, a sweet note amid the chaos. “Lord Penrose acquired a Donatello sculpture last month. I think he wants to make certain everyone sees and admires it.”

  “So he’s showing off? Do all these people know it?”

  “Most of them do. But an invitation to this dinner is generally very difficult to come by. So when someone is invited, they accept.”

  “I didnae come here to see a piece of marble.” A lordling close by sent him a sideways glance, then abruptly found somewhere else to be when Arran looked back at him.

  “There’s a fish pond in the garden,” she returned, her voice barely more than a soft breath. “I’ll attempt to take a stroll there after dinner.”

  Thank God. “Then ye’ll find me there, as well.”

  “I hoped you’d say … Your brother’s coming. And, oh, dear, so is Lord Delaveer.”

  “Go then, lass. There’s naught fer ye to worry over.” He, on the other hand, had to fight the abrupt urge to punch mild Roderick MacAllister in the face. Shifting the curtains aside with his fingers, he took another drink. For the first time he realized the glass was vodka. He generally detested vodka. Whisky at least had some character.

  “What’s so interesting oot there in the dark?” Ranulf asked, stopping beside him.

  “There’s air oot there,” Arran replied. “More than I can find in here.”

  His brother nodded. “Nights like this do make me long fer the Highlands.”

  Arran faced him. “Then let’s go home. Bring yer Charlotte with ye—all the Hanovers, fer that matter—and let’s be gone from here, before someaught happens,” he returned, sudden desperation thinning his voice. Disaster loomed from every direction, and most especially from where he most wanted to
turn. Toward a Campbell, of all people.

  “I’m nae having this discussion here, bràthair. And I’ll nae flee trouble.”

  “What trouble? There’s a truce. And we shouldnae be so far from Glengask when it ends.” And he had the distinct feeling that if they didn’t leave London, hopefully tonight, he would be the one to end that truce. Because he couldn’t seem to stay away from Mary Campbell, even after knowing her for only a week. Because he wanted more than kisses. He wanted her.

  “I’m nae ready to leave yet,” his brother responded coolly. “If ye’re homesick, then go. I dunnae need ye here if ye’ve nae a mind to do as I ask ye. But dunnae think that leaving excludes ye from yer duty to clan MacLawry.”

  “Fer the devil’s sake, Ranulf, have ye spoken to Deirdre?” Arran asked, sotto voce. “She has the brains of a rock. A wee rock.”

  A gong rang at one end of the room, loud as the bells of doom. “Dinner is served, ladies and gentlemen,” Lord Penrose said grandly, as if no one had ever eaten before. “We do not stand on ceremony here, so take a seat where you like. The only rule is that you not sit beside a spouse or family member.”

  For some reason the guests seemed to find that amusing. In Arran’s limited experience with Sasannach dinners, though, it wasn’t uncommon. Evidently at a to-do where everyone was supposed to be clever, laughing at the host’s humor was a way to be invited again next year. He didn’t plan to be in London next year whatever happened with the Stewarts, and he’d only come here tonight to see Mary, so he didn’t bother to pretend a laugh.

  As the guests flowed from the drawing room to the dining room with its yards-long table, Ranulf put a hand on his shoulder. “Dunnae even think of sitting near the Campbells,” he whispered. “I’ll nae have ye making a stir to overturn this agreement with the Stewarts. A wee rock fer brains, or nae. Mayhap I’ll inquire if the Stewart has a brighter niece fer ye.”

  Arran shrugged free. “Mind yerself. There’s more than one way fer a man to be a fool.”

  “Ye and I are going to have a discussion when we get back to Gilden House tonight.” This time Ranulf’s voice was flat and toneless—a certain sign the marquis was not amused.