Rogue with a Brogue: A Scandalous Highlanders Novel

by Suzanne Enoch

  She stopped halfway around the long table. “You can’t do that.”

  “I believe I can.”

  “He’s the Campbell’s grandson, Arran. If you kill any of them, they’ll never stop hunting for us.”

  He looked at her for a moment. “I’m Glengask’s bràthair, ye know. I’m his heir at the moment, unless he’s already disowned me. Why isnae Calder worried aboot killing me?” he asked, then winked at her. Whatever needed to happen would happen. Deciding now which lines could or couldn’t be crossed would only make him hesitate later. And that could be deadly.

  Mary favored him with an exasperated smile. “I’m certain in Charles’s mind you kidnapped me against my will.”

  “Which makes putting a ball through my head perfectly acceptable,” he finished. “And here I am, unwilling to see my bonny lass weep.” He put his hands on the table, leaning in close to her. “Have ye ever been on a fox hunt?”

  She wrinkled her nose, which made him want to kiss it. “Yes, once. I didn’t like it.”

  “I imagine the fox gave ye quite a run.”

  “It dragged us all over the countryside.” She covered his left hand with her right. “But eventually the fox died, Arran. I don’t like this analogy.”

  The inn door scraped open, letting a misshapen rectangle of morning sunlight flood the room. “The horses are harnessed, Mr. Fox,” Peter said.

  Well, that was poor timing. “They know we’re running and close to where we are, Peter,” Arran returned. “May as well give up on Mr. Fox.”

  “But I’ve just got to where I remember it.” The footman took a deep breath. “The coach is ready, m’laird.”

  “Get yerself and Howard someaught to eat, first. Ten minutes, Peter.”

  “Aye, m’laird. Thank ye.”

  He returned his attention to Mary. “My point was that hunting a fox isnae a straightforward matter. He’s a sly fellow, a fox is. And my other point is that once we reach Fort William there’s nae a man who can catch me. Nae in the Highlands.” He grinned at her. “Up there this fox has a thousand dens.”

  She stood, kissing him on the cheek. “I will hold you to that. But I think we should hurry, anyway.”

  Back outside, Arran clambered up to the top of the coach and unstrapped the lid of Mary’s trunk. Pulling out the riding habit and boots he’d purchased for her, he handed them down to her, then jumped back to the ground.

  “I’d rather change inside the coach than somewhere in there,” she said, indicating the inn.

  “I dunnae blame ye.” He pulled open the carriage door and helped her inside. “And I want ye to know I’d join ye in there if I didnae have to keep watch.”

  With a smile she leaned out the door. “If you did join me I’d never manage to get dressed.”

  He tilted his face up and kissed her. “I ken ye wouldnae,” he murmured, lust tugging at him again. Arran caught the front of her gown, holding her there. “Ye know ye’re mine, lass.”

  Green eyes sparkled. “And you’re mine.”

  Slowly he released her again. “Aye. That I am.”

  When she shut the door he leaned back against one of the coach wheels. Generally he enjoyed problem-solving. If Ranulf wanted to build a new school, he would be the one to find the location that would be the most easily accessible to the most children of the MacLawrys’ cotters; he would hire the builders, and he would find a teacher who could tame—but not break—wild Highlands children.

  But that had been before. Now the problem involved keeping away from Ranulf, along with all the MacLawrys and all the Campbells. And, if possible, keeping them from killing each other. The best solution he could think of would be a great-grandchild for the Campbell, with him and Mary wed and established somewhere neutral. Yes, he could likely bribe some Sasannach priest to marry them without the banns being read or a license procured, but a wedding of this import needed to be performed in Scotland, and by a Scot. Aside from that, in Scotland they wouldn’t need a Canterbury marriage license at all.

  All of that, though, hinged on the two of them actually making it to Scotland. And whatever he said about foxes and fox hunts, the odds of that did not look good. On his own he had little doubt that he could outride and outmaneuver the Campbells, and likely remove a few of them from the hunt permanently. But he wasn’t on his own. And if Lord Fendarrow appeared and ordered Mary to return with him—and especially if he promised she wouldn’t have to marry Charles Calder—Arran wasn’t entirely certain she would refuse.

  At the same time, for his pride or some other damned reason, he wanted to be what she did choose—and not simply because he’d really left her no alternative, either. He wanted to know that she wouldn’t regret this, because he certainly wouldn’t. Yes, he would miss his brothers and his sister, but he did not regret taking Mary for himself, whatever came of it.

  “You look very serious,” Mary said, from the coach’s window.

  “Do I?” he asked, stirring. “I was just noticing the morning. It’s nae as stunning as the Highlands, but I’ll admit it’s pretty.”

  “Come in here and button me, will you?”

  Arran straightened and pulled open the door. “Ye dunnae have to ask me twice, lass.” If this adventure would end with him under the ground, he meant to enjoy every moment with Mary he had left.

  When he stepped to the ground again, though, the smile on his face froze. The empty stable yard had found some occupants. Four of them. And none of the four looked particularly friendly. They also had their attention on him and the coach behind him. Damnation. Mary would have stepped down behind him, but he shifted sideways to block her exit. “When I move forward, shut the door,” he murmured.

  He heard her quick draw of breath, her hand lowering to his shoulder. “I don’t recognize them,” she whispered back. “I don’t think they’re Campbells.”

  And he’d thought she might caution him not to jump to conclusions, or to ignore the men and escort her back to the inn. Instead she’d caught onto the meat of the matter and simply given him the most useful piece of information. With a slight nod he stepped forward, and the carriage door closed behind him with a faint click. Good lass.

  “Ye’ve found me on a fine morning, lads,” Arran drawled, assessing muddy boots and worn jackets. Locals, likely drovers or farmhands. “What might I do fer ye?”

  The one standing farthest from him spat onto the muddy ground. “Heard your friends inside the inn. One of ’em called you a lord. Seems you’re a long way from home, lord.”

  “Aye,” the biggest of them grunted, grinning around a missing front tooth. “Ireland’s a long way from here, lordship.”

  Arran sighed. “Aye. I agree: Ireland’s a long way from here.” Stupid thugs, they were—which didn’t mean they couldn’t hit hard, but it did comfort him somewhat. They weren’t there on behalf of the Campbells.

  Two of them looked at each other, as if they weren’t certain what to do with a fellow who was both agreeable and unafraid of them. Arran gave an exaggerated shrug. With all the bile aimed at him by both friend and foe over the past week or so, a dustup seemed just the thing to help him work out a bit of pent-up frustration.

  “Why don’t you hand over your purse, lordship, and we’ll let you go on your way?” the spitting man offered.

  “Why dunnae ye come over here and take it from me?” Arran returned, and grinned.

  Toothless charged forward like a bull. Sidestepping, Arran stuck out one foot, sending him headfirst into the door of the coach. With a dull thud Toothless went down. Spittle was right on his heels, followed closely by the other two.

  Arran shifted, taking a fist to the jaw as Spittle slammed into his chest. Now it felt like a to-do. He sent an elbow into the ear of the lad on the left, then hefted Spittle off the ground to throw him feetfirst into the fellow on the right. That gave Toothless time to climb to his knees—until the coach door slammed open on his head and then neatly closed again. The big man dropped once more.

  Sendi
ng a fist into the face of the next man to close on him, he took a blow to the left shoulder. If these lads didn’t discourage soon, he was going to have to stop playing. He blinked blood out of one eye and dove in again. A heartbeat later he heard a gravel-voiced curse in Scots Gaelic, and the pile of them went over sideways. Peter Gilling, the old scrapper, flashed by him, Toothless heaved over his shoulder.

  A pistol shot cracked into the air. For a frozen heartbeat Arran thought the Campbells had ridden them down, after all.

  “That’s enough, gentlemen!” Mary declared, tossing the spent pistol behind her into the coach and hefting a second one. “You’ve had your fun, and now you’re getting my husband muddy.”

  Now that was a proper Highlands lass. His Highlands lass. “Ye heard the lady,” he said aloud, straightening to dust off his trousers. “Thank ye fer the exercise.”

  The four lads stumbled back to the lopsided door of the inn, Spittle helped along with a swift kick to his arse delivered by Peter. Howard their one-eyed driver stood close by, a piece of lumber gripped in his hands. So Arran and Mary weren’t alone in this, after all.

  “Well, that was refreshing,” he said, walking up to slide the pistol from Mary’s fingers with one hand, and tug on the neckline of her gown to pull her in for a kiss with the other.

  “You’re mad, you know,” she commented a bit breathlessly. “Everyone says you’re the clever MacLawry, and there you were, grinning the entire time you were punching people.”

  “Aye. Fisticuffs is just a Highlands how-do-ye-do.” The same smile still tugging at his mouth, he took a moment to gaze at her. “Ye’re a tapaidh lass, Mary.”

  “All I did was strategically open a door. That’s hardly brave, Arran.”

  “Tell that to the lad with the knot on his skull.”

  “Oh, very well.” She smiled back at him. “I know you likely wrestle bears and lions for amusement, but four-to-one odds didn’t seem fair.”

  It seemed just about right to him, but she hadn’t grown up with a pair of large brothers. “Let’s get away from here before they find friends, and ye can spend the day telling me how manly I am and how fine the day looks with me riding aboot in it.”

  Mary chuckled, the sound warm as sunlight on his skin. “And you can thank me for keeping those men from breaking that handsome nose of yours.”

  Peter snorted as he brought their two horses over. “Everyone can admire everyone until the Campbells catch us up, or we can get back going north again.”

  Arran nodded. “Aye. North it is.”

  * * *

  “This is pretty,” Mary said, as she and Juno trotted over an old stone bridge, Arran and Duffy beside her. “I have a few second and third cousins about here, as I recall.”

  Arran sent her a sharp look, the jauntiness of his appearance somehow increased by the bruise on the left side of his jaw. “Somewhere close enough that anyone chasing us could find a hot meal, fresh mounts, and reinforcements?”

  “Possibly.”

  Why hadn’t she thought of that before? The pair of horses they’d harnessed at the last inn seemed better suited to the plow, which meant her clan was catching up to them even more quickly. She needed to outthink her family, as well as outrun them, and to stop being distracted by the lovely day and the handsome man beside her. Yes, he’d fought four men earlier, and given far worse than he’d received, but he’d done it to protect her. It was past time she did more than take in the scenery.

  “There’s also my aunt Morag somewhere north of town,” she continued. “She married an English banker, and none of us have seen her in years. My grandfather said that Uncle Sean was more Irish than English, and that made him twice as unacceptable.”

  “Imagine what he’ll say aboot us, Mary. Ye know he may refuse to see ye, whether they put me under the ground first or nae.”

  “Stop saying that!” she ordered, sudden horror tightening her voice.

  He urged Duffy closer and reached over to touch her cheek. “I dunnae mean to die, bonny Mary. But it’s a possible outcome. And if it happens, ye need to be ready. Ye need to be wise and choose the path that most favors ye.”

  Mary pushed his hand away with her own. “Choose what?” she snapped. “Do you think you’re a derby horse? If you fall I simply change my wager?” She clenched her fist tightly around the reins. “I already chose. If something happens to you—I … I won’t allow anything to happen to you.”

  Of course that wasn’t realistic; considering how little she’d done to aid her own rescue it was even laughable. But she was not going to prepare herself for his death, because even the idea of it was unacceptable. Unfathomable. It didn’t matter that she’d known him only a short time. He’d become vital to her. Vital to her heart. Did he not believe that?

  Arran’s shoulders lowered. “I know ye chose. I apologize fer pushing at ye. Just … dunnae surrender to less than ye want. Ever.”

  That was it, then. He thought she would give in to her father and even to Charles if pressed to do so. If he wasn’t there to protect her. Well. It wasn’t anything she could prove to him, one way or the other, unless disaster struck.

  “I hope you do the same,” she said aloud, “if the MacLawrys catch us and put me under the ground.” There. Let him see how much he liked hearing such nonsense.

  “If one of mine harmed ye,” he said in a low, flat voice, “he’d be a dead man.”

  She didn’t have to question if he was serious; she heard it in his voice. “Then we’re agreed,” she said briskly, a little shaken. “So let’s stop talking about it.”

  He seemed inclined to listen, because for the next mile or so they rode in silence. Or in relative silence, rather. The squeaking coach behind them drowned out the songs of any birds or insects that might have been audible along the pretty, tree-lined lane. Howard kept saying she was just complaining about being so far from London, but Mary had begun to have her doubts that the vehicle would still be in one piece when they reached the Highlands. If they reached the Highlands.

  “What’s yer favorite flower?” Arran asked abruptly.

  She sent him a sideways glance, and then a second one simply because he looked magnificent with the noonday light on his face and the wind ruffling his thick black hair. The MacLawrys thought themselves princes of the Highlands, Charles had said on several occasions. She was inclined to agree that they were. Or this one was, anyway. “Why?”

  “Because we’re to be married, if ye ever ask me to be yer dear husband,” he returned. “I’d like to know what kind of flower ye favor.”

  Mary pursed her lips. No one could ever accuse Arran MacLawry of being predictable. “White roses,” she said. “And purple thistle. I am a Highlands lass, you know.”

  With a grin, he closed in for a swift kiss. “I do know that.”

  “M’laird,” Peter called from behind them, with his usual abominable timing.

  Arran reined Duffy in as the coach rocked to a halt. “What is it?”

  “Howard cannae keep his one eye open, and I’m near dead on my feet. Or arse, rather, begging yer pardon, m’lady.”

  “We cannae stop,” Arran said, frowning. “I’ll drive, and the two of ye can sleep in the coach.”

  “Nobody drives her but me,” Howard grumbled, narrowing his one eye.

  “I’ll be gentle. I need ye ready to drive us after dark, Howard. I dunnae have the skill fer that.”

  Mary was fairly certain he was lying, but she nodded. “We’ll need you at your very best tonight, Howard,” she added.

  “So you think you can charm me into cooperating, eh?” the driver muttered. “I suppose you can.” He shoved down on the brake handle. “You certain you can drive a team, Mr. my lord Fox?”

  “Aye. And I told ye to call me Arran.”

  The driver and Peter climbed to the ground. “I’m not grand enough to be calling lords and ladies by their Christian names. Now let’s tie up those mounts of yours before I curl up here on the grass.”

  Arran s
wung down and walked over to hold his arms up to Mary. She took a moment to look down at him. If everything went as they hoped, in a very few days this man would be her husband. Heat simmered beneath her skin. He would look at her in just that same fond, amused way every day. She would fall asleep in his arms and wake in them in the morning.

  “Ye keep smiling at me like that, Mary, and I’m like to burst into song,” he murmured. “Come here.”

  She leaned into his arms, and he lowered her to the ground, bending his head to kiss her before he released his grip on her waist. “I’ll ride up top with you,” she decided.

  “Aye. I doubt ye’d get any rest with those two inside, snoring.” He flashed her a grin. “Besides, having ye with me will improve the view.”

  Peter tied their mounts behind the coach, and then he and Howard climbed into the coach, shut the door, and pulled the curtains closed. With no perceivable effort Arran lifted Mary to the top right front wheel, and from there she pulled herself up to the high, narrow seat. He moved around the front, checking the horses’ traces, then hiked himself up easily onto the seat beside her.

  “Can you drive a coach?” she whispered.

  “Aye. Or a wagon, more like.” Arran gathered up the ribbons, released the brake lever, and clucked to the team. With a creak the coach lurched into motion. “When I imagined sweeping in to rescue ye,” he drawled, “this was nae what I had in mind.”

  “You imagined rescuing me?”

  “I’m here, nae?”

  “But you imagined it first. How? What did you imagine?”

  His jaw clenched, and for a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer. The MacLawrys were a strong, wild, manly set, after all. If they had romantic hearts, they likely didn’t make that known.

  “It was more of a dream, I suppose,” he said finally, clear reluctance in his deep brogue. “I rode up, stole ye from Calder while the priest and yer family stood with mouths agape, lifted ye up into the saddle in front of me, and we rode north faster than a flash of lightning. I found an abandoned castle overlooking a loch, and ye were mine and I was yers, and we lived happily ever after.”

  “I like your dream.”