Rogue with a Brogue: A Scandalous Highlanders Novel

by Suzanne Enoch

  And yet Mary was there behind her door, and he was still in the hallway. Tonight those circumstances clearly would not change. Even though he’d chosen to risk his own future—and his life—for her. Even though in the space of ten days she’d turned his entire existence on its head. However much he wanted her splayed beneath him, however much he wanted to claim her for his own, tonight he would simply have to be patient.

  He glanced down. “Next time, caraid,” he told his cock.

  Neither of them seemed to be convinced, but he refused to stand in the hallway with a tent at his crotch. Uttering a last curse and trying to shake himself out of his lust, he took a half-dozen steps and opened the neighboring door. He wasn’t a damned Sasannach, but he could be a gentleman. Whatever else happened, she’d needed assistance. And he would not ask a price for aiding her, whatever the final cost to himself.

  “There ye are, m’laird,” Peter said, rising from the chair beneath the window. “I made doon the bed and found ye some clothes fer tomorrow. I’m beginning to think I’d make a fair valet.”

  “Thank ye, Peter.” The last two sleepless nights beginning to press down on his shoulders, Arran sank onto the edge of the bed. “I know ye dunnae like any of this. I cannae even explain it to myself. But I willnae see her handed to Charles Calder.”

  Peter plunked himself into the chair again. “I’m all fer saving a lass from a dastardly villain,” he said. “But ye said ye mean to marry her, yerself. Yer own bràthair is likely to murder ye fer that. He says ye’re to wed Lady Deirdre.”

  Arran could try to explain his own frustrations with Ranulf, but as of the moment Mary had trusted him enough to step into that coach, this had stopped being about anything but her. “He can marry Deirdre, then.”

  “He’ll nae give up Lady Charlotte.”

  “And I’ll nae give up Mary. Nae withoot a bloody fight. And he can give murdering me a go if he chooses to do so. But tell me someaught, Peter: have ye ever known me to do a thing withoot first thinking it through?”

  The footman shook his head. “Nae. I havenae. And I expect that now ye’ll tell me to trust ye. To which I say, I think ye’ve lost yer bloody mind, and if ye dunnae expect me to tell ye how much trouble ye’re stirring up, ye’ve lost it twice.”

  While it would have been nice to have someone agree with him, Arran hadn’t actually expected it. Not from another Highlander who’d spent his entire life hating Campbells. “I cannae argue with that. Just swear to me ye’ll help me keep her safe.” He paused. “Even from me, I suppose. I’ll nae see any harm come to her.”

  “That, I can promise ye. As long as ye dunnae expect me to turn my back on ye to do it.”

  Arran doubted Ranulf would be as reasonable. “Agreed.”

  With a nod, Peter pushed to his feet. “I’ll be off, then. The groom said there’s a blanket in the stable fer me. Hopefully it isnae too close to Howard. He has an odor aboot him, that fella does.”

  Stifling a grin at the man’s pitiful tone, Arran held out one booted foot. “Help me get these things off and I’ll give ye half the bed. I’ll nae be needing the space tonight.” And at this point he supposed that half an ally was better than none at all.

  In the morning he rose before everyone else, had Duffy saddled, and rode up the hill to the tiny village of Crowley. If he’d known when he left Gilden House that he would be paying the travel expenses of four people, he would have brought more ready blunt with him. He could send bills on to Glengask or back to London, of course, but then finding him—them—would be a simple matter.

  Still, if they were careful, they would manage. He spent a few quid on dresses and a hairbrush and most of the other items on the list Crawford had written out for him. The pretty bay mare at the stables, though, would take most of the blunt he had to hand. He could forgo purchasing it and take himself out on Duffy when he couldn’t tolerate Crawford any longer, but truth be told, he wanted Mary close by him. A man couldn’t convince a lass of anything if he couldn’t even manage a word or two with her.

  Finally he hit on a solution, and had the bill for the animal sent to William Crane. Lord Fordham would pay it without question, and then Arran could reimburse his friend when he was able to do so. And when news of Mary’s disappearance reached Ranulf’s ears, hopefully his brother wouldn’t think to call on William and ask about bills.

  When he returned to the Twice-Struck Oak, he carried his two sacks of purchases upstairs and knocked on Mary’s door. It cracked open, and one baleful eye looked out at him. “Mr. Fox.”

  “Mother Graves,” he returned. “I’ve brought ye some things. Have Mary doon fer breakfast in thirty minutes, if ye can. I’d like us to make an early start.”

  “Lady—I mean, Mrs. Fox—cannot possibly be dressed that quickly. I’m certain none of these things will fit her adequately, anyway.”

  “I’ll be down in thirty minutes,” Mary’s voice came from farther back in the room. “Thank you.”

  “Ye’re most welcome.” He returned his gaze to the maid. “I bought ye someaught, too, but dunnae go thinking that means I’ve a yen fer ye.”

  “Humph.” The maid snatched the sacks and shut the door again.

  “Old bat,” he muttered beneath his breath, then returned to his own room to wake Peter and get his own things packed.

  It was far too early to declare their escape a success, but they’d survived the first night without being run down by a herd of angry Campbells or MacLawrys. And to himself he swore that tomorrow morning it wouldn’t be a footman in his bed. He meant to convince Mary they belonged together. He knew one certain way to demonstrate that they were, and it wasn’t by sleeping in separate rooms.

  * * *

  Lady Charlotte Hanover sent her fiancé a glance, at least the fifteenth one with which she’d favored him this morning. Ranulf MacLawry was not a man who went about with a grin on his face, but he had been known to smile a time or two—particularly at her. Not today, though. Not for four days, now.

  “You didn’t have to come with me, you know,” she finally said, keeping her voice pitched well below that of the priest standing behind the pulpit several feet in front of and above their seats.

  “A civilized man attends church, doesnae?” he returned in the same tone.

  “Yes, he does. But I believe I informed you that a sermon from Father Gregory was more akin to torture than anything else.”

  “Hush, Charlotte,” her mother whispered from her left. On the far side of Ranulf, his sister and hers were making even more noise, but then Winnie and Jane weren’t betrothed to a Highlands devil.

  “I’m looking fer some insight into forgiveness,” Ranulf continued, lowering his voice still further.

  Of course she immediately knew to what he was referring; she doubted there was anyone in London who hadn’t heard about Arran MacLawry being discovered at the Penrose dinner party with the Marquis of Fendarrow’s daughter on his lap. At first she hadn’t even believed it. Not of sensible, logical Arran. But Ranulf had confirmed it, himself.

  “I don’t know Mary well, but she’s always seemed very nice,” she breathed back. “And very prett—”

  “I’m nae discussing it,” he said flatly. “Arran’s marrying Deirdre Stewart.”

  Father Gregory sent the marquis an uncertain look, then resumed droning on about the sins of excess. Charlotte took a breath, deciding that if Ranulf wanted an argument they would be better off waiting until they were somewhere more private. And with better insulated walls.

  Jane leaned around the two MacLawrys, one petite and delicate, and the other mountainous and iron-muscled. “Elizabeth told me that Lady Mary left London at dawn two mornings ago,” she whispered. “And I saw the announcement in the newspaper this morning. She’s engaged to that Charles Calder. He’s her first cousin.”

  “I ken who he is,” Ranulf growled. “No doubt Delaveer cried off—the MacAllisters are a squeamish lot. And her father was right to send such an ill-mannered lass away before she cou
ld cause more trouble.”

  “But Arran likes her,” Rowena said, her own expression far less happy than Charlotte was accustomed to seeing. “And he said Charles Calder was a poor excuse for a hu—”

  “I dunnae care what Arran said,” Ranulf broke in. “Another word aboot him, and ye can take yerself back to the Highlands, too.”

  Rowena, her expression aghast, folded her hands in her lap and faced forward again. Jane did the same thing, likely more as a show of unity and support than because she thought her future brother-in-law could send her away, as well.

  “That was mean,” Charlotte stated. If he thought he could banish her, he had another think coming. “Winnie loves her brother.”

  She could practically hear his teeth grinding, his jaw was clenched so hard. “Do ye think I’d risk ye up at Glengask, knowing we’d stumbled from skirmishing into open war with the Campbells? Arran very nearly accomplished that, after only one bloody fortnight of peace. And that doesnae put me in a forgiving mood.”

  Father Gregory cleared his throat. Loudly. For a moment Charlotte thought Ranulf would walk out of the church. Evidently he’d weighed the satisfaction of escaping the priest’s nasal, nonsensical droning against the renewed rumors and whispers about his uncivilized behavior, though, because he sank back on the hard seat and sent the pastor an elegant wave of his fingers. “Go on, then,” he intoned. “‘The muddy waters of pleasure.’”

  Somehow in the middle of all this he’d kept track of the sermon. She favored his still profile with a slow smile. “You’re a remarkable man, Ranulf.”

  His mouth softened. “If the priest knew what I was thinking right now aboot pleasure, he’d have an apoplexy.”

  That left her nearly unable to sit still for the remainder of the sermon. Ranulf had been the one to teach her about pleasure, after all.

  Finally they all recited the Lord’s Prayer and Father Gregory dismissed them with the admonition to think of others before succumbing to self-indulgent pleasures. Ranulf stood to offer her a hand up. When he offered the same hand to his sister, Winnie took it, but let it go as swiftly as she could do so.

  “May we go now?” she asked, looking everywhere but at her brother.

  “Aye. I’m aboot out of patience, myself.”

  As they left the church, heading for Ranulf’s barouche, a horse galloped into the yard and skidded to a halt directly in front of them. Ranulf stepped between them and the horseman before Charlotte even grasped that they might be in danger.

  “M’laird!”

  To Charlotte’s surprise, Owen, Ranulf’s butler, leaped down from the horse and sprinted forward, unmindful of the other worshipers exiting the church yard. Every single one of them, though, seemed to turn and look at him.

  “What is it, Owen?” Ranulf barked, meeting the servant in the middle of the yard. “The Campbells didnae hunt down Arran, did they?” His voice was tight and hard, a fairly equal mix of anger and concern.

  “Nae, m’laird. I dunnae ken so, anyway. But ye need to get back to Gilden Hoose to find oot fer certain. They’re there. The Campbells, I mean.”

  Behind them, Rowena gasped. Ice shot down Charlotte’s spine. Not now. Not when she’d finally convinced Ranulf that the Highlands didn’t frighten her, that she would be safe there.

  “Which Campbells?” Ranulf asked, striding for his barouche.

  “Laird Fendarrow. And Charles Calder. I wouldnae allow ’em into the hoose, but they’re nae too pleased to be left standing in the front drive. I decided to come fetch ye myself.”

  Nodding, the marquis turned to take Charlotte’s hand. “Can ye find another way home?”

  “Yes, for the others. But I’m going with you.”

  “Ye are, are ye?”

  “Yes, I am. If they intend violence, having a witness there will give them something else to consider.”

  “I’m coming, too!” Winnie announced, moving around them to climb into the barouche and towing Jane with her.

  “Nae. I’ll nae have ye in danger. None of ye.”

  Charlotte’s father stepped forward to hand his wife into the barouche. “You’ve made us a part of your clan, Glengask. And I prefer to learn of any trouble firsthand.”

  With a curt nod Ranulf helped Charlotte into the vehicle, as well. “So be it, then. I’ve nae time to argue with ye.”

  The driver, Debny, rushed them up the street at far too fast a pace, but it still seemed too slow. The newspaper’s betrothal announcement about Lady Mary Campbell had named Charles Calder as the groom. However Calder had ended up in that position, had he taken exception to Arran kissing his betrothed? Had he hunted down Ranulf’s sharp-witted younger brother?

  Charlotte’s heart pinched. If something had happened to Arran, it would destroy Ranulf. He could be angry enough at his brother to spit, but they were still brothers, and the closest of friends. And that meant everything to him.

  Two men on horseback waited on the Gilden House drive as the barouche turned in. She immediately recognized the pepper-haired Lord Fendarrow and the sleek, black-clothed Calder. They were alone, but she had no idea if that was a promising sign or not.

  “Fendarrow,” Ranulf said crisply, stepping down from the open carriage. “What brings ye to my door?”

  The older marquis dismounted. “Not out here.”

  “This is my clan. I’ve naught to hide from them.”

  “Where’s your brother then, Glengask?” Calder asked. He stayed mounted, presumably so Ranulf would have to look up at him.

  “He’s nae here.” Ranulf took a slow step forward. “Fendarrow and I’ve made our agreement, and I kept to it. That business is nae yers.”

  “It is mine,” Calder snapped, his horse fidgeting beneath him.

  “My daughter and her party stopped at the Giant’s Pipe Inn afternoon before last,” Fendarrow broke in, his usual swagger missing. “She and her maid did not return to the coach.”

  Charlotte’s breath seized, but Ranulf only narrowed his eyes. “I’m nae acquainted with yer daughter, but I did read aboot her engagement. I thought Delaveer was after her. Did she want to marry ye, Calder, or did ye weasel yer way in at an opportune moment?”

  Finally Calder swung to the ground and stalked up to Lord Glengask. That was something of a mistake, because Ranulf was both taller and more broad-shouldered. “That business is not yours,” he growled, mimicking Ranulf’s words.

  “My brother left here at sunset three days ago, just as I said he would. I sent a man with him to see that he stays safe and heading north. If yer daughter’s missing, I’ll help ye look fer her, but it has naught to do with us.”

  “I don’t require your help, Glengask,” the Duke of Alkirk’s son stated. “I already have men searching for her. All I ask of you is your honesty.”

  “And that’s what I’ve given ye.”

  Fendarrow nodded, then climbed back into the saddle. “I won’t defy this truce,” he said, “yet. But if your brother is involved with my daughter’s disappearance, the Campbells will fall upon you like thunder.”

  With that he and Calder clattered back down the drive. Winnie’s face had blanched to gray, and Jane looked ready to be ill at any moment. Then again, she had had a tendre for Arran. On Thursday she’d even wept at his departure. Charlotte’s parents looked as troubled as the girls did—but then they’d seemed to think being adopted by clan MacLawry was quaint. They likely didn’t think that any longer.

  “Ranulf?” she said quietly, unable to decipher his still expression.

  He stirred. “I’m nae troubled by thunder,” he drawled, signaling Owen and Debny to approach. “It’s naught but noise.”

  “Aye, m’laird?”

  “Debny, go fetch Myles,” he instructed, naming his uncle. “Owen, find me a messenger I can send north. A fast one.”

  The men scattered, and Ranulf strode for the house. Gathering her skirts, Charlotte hurried after him. “What are you going to do? Do you think Arran’s involved? Should we ask the Stewart
s for their assistance? They have more clan in London than we do.”

  He turned in the doorway to face her. “I do like when ye say ‘we,’ leannan.”

  “Don’t sidestep the question, Ranulf.”

  “Och, but ye’re a fierce lass. We’ll nae be sending fer the Stewarts. If Arran is involved, I dunnae want them knowing yet that he’s thrown over the arrangement with Deirdre.”

  Charlotte gazed at him intently, attempting to decipher what he might be thinking. “What will you do if Arran has taken Lady Mary?”

  “I’ll kill him before the Campbells get a chance to do it.” With a dark curse he disappeared inside the house, leaving the rest of them standing on the drive.

  Of course he didn’t literally mean he would kill Arran—or so she thought, anyway—but the alternative would likely be just as painful for all of them. He’d banished his uncle, Myles Wilkie, from the family for three years for the crime of talking to the Donnellys. If Arran had made off with Mary Campbell, the consequences would be much, much worse.

  Rowena hurried into the house after her brother, but Charlotte’s parents stayed in the drive. “We should go,” Charlotte said, so they wouldn’t have to do so. “He needs to figure out what to do.”

  Her father nodded, handing the marchioness back into the carriage. “Well said. I’ll send over a note later asking if he requires my assistance. Jane?”

  Janie uttered a stifled sob. “I didn’t want Arran to marry Deirdre, but this is so much worse! Why couldn’t he have liked me?”

  “You wouldn’t want all this on your head, Jane,” Charlotte replied in her most matter-of-fact tone. “Everything will end as it should. You’ll see.” She sent a fond smile back toward Gilden House. In the past weeks she’d become a great believer in happy endings. And as she also happened to believe in the idea of someone finding a perfect match, she couldn’t help hoping that something miraculous would occur to save them all.

  * * *

  “Good evening, Mr. Fox, Mrs. Fox,” the innkeeper said with a jowly smile. Either he was naturally jovial, or visitors were rare enough in Wigmore, Herefordshire, that their arrival late this afternoon—or that of Arran’s coin—was cause for celebration.