Rogue with a Brogue: A Scandalous Highlanders Novel

by Suzanne Enoch

  “As ye say, then.”

  Arran’s light blue gaze remained on the horizon. Mary could guess what he was thinking; they both came from large, powerful clans. And now with Peter joining them, and counting her aunt and uncle, they were six. She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “We’re not alone,” she murmured.

  He blinked, looking down to kiss her mouth in that possessive, toe-curling way of his. “Nae. Our clan’s grown again by a third just in the past five minutes.”

  She was fairly positive that they would be adding yet another to their number in just under nine months, but she would wait to tell him that until she was absolutely certain. That was a conversation for just the two of them, anyway.

  Aside from that, he already had enough weight on his broad shoulders to break most men. Arran, though, could still laugh and sing and hold her. And heaven help anyone who tried to come between them.

  * * *

  The last time Arran had come through here he’d been heading south, stopping only to rest Duffy and seize an hour or two of sleep when he could no longer keep his eyes open. He’d made it from Glengask to London in just over four days. Ranulf had written a letter, and he’d mentioned a Charlotte Hanover four different times. And that had sent him flying south, ready to stop a match between the chief of clan MacLawry and an unfit Sasannach lass.

  At the time it had made sense; their mother had been English, and after their father’s death she’d swallowed poison rather than be trapped in the Highlands with four children. As far as Arran had been concerned, one Sasannach was very like another, and clearly Ranulf had lost his mind.

  It had taken far too long for him to realize that Ranulf wasn’t mad. He was in love. And to keep his lady safe, he’d done things he might not have previously contemplated. Arran had chided him for it, had argued that Ranulf wasn’t using his head. And then he’d met Mary, and berated his brother for not understanding his position or the connection he had with her. Idiot.

  If it hadn’t been far too late, he would have apologized to Ranulf, both for the mess he’d left behind and for the way he’d chosen to view Charlotte. He understood now. Of course Ran hadn’t wanted him hanging about Mary; stirring up trouble with the Campbells was precisely counter to the safety he’d been trying to create for Charlotte.

  But Ranulf wasn’t the only MacLawry in love. And Arran was not about to allow anything—or anyone—to come between Mary and him. Not even his own family.

  All he could do at this moment was hope that one day Ranulf would come to the same understanding that he had. If not, well, it would be a damned shame. And he still wouldn’t spend a moment regretting the past few weeks and this woman beside him. She was his clan, and making her happy had become his new purpose.

  A low, crumbling stone wall appeared along the horizon ahead of them. It dipped along the valleys and topped the hills, nearly six feet high in some places, and no more than two stones set atop each other a few yards beyond that. At the road it stopped, only to begin again immediately on the other side.

  “Who owns all this land?” Howard asked, from around his pipe. Evidently he either drove the horses, or he puffed a pipe. At least the man knew what he enjoyed.

  “It doesnae mark one man’s land,” Arran said, waking Mary from her light doze so she could see it, as well. “It marks the end of the civilized world.”

  Mary lifted her head from his shoulder, the withdrawal of her warmth leaving him chilled. “Hadrian’s Wall. My goodness. We’re nearly there.”

  “Aye. Only seven or so miles to the border and Gretna Green beyond.” Frowning, he took her hand. “I wanted to marry ye in a proper Highlands ceremony, but it’s another hundred and twenty miles to Fort William. I dunnae think we can risk waiting that long.”

  “We’ll nae even reach Gretna Green by nightfall, m’laird.” Peter flicked the reins, and the team jumped into a gallop.

  “Slow ’em doon, Peter. No sense spending ’em fer no good reason.” Every instinct Arran possessed wanted him to send those horses flying, but they would still never beat the sundown. “Keep yer eye oot fer a good place to hide us off the road until morning. If ye pass by the village, that wouldnae be a poor idea.”

  “You think they might be waiting for us there?” Mary asked, worry sending her sweet voice lower and quieter.

  He’d heard that same timbre far too often since they’d met. And he wanted with all his heart to promise her that once they married she would never have to worry about anything ever again. That was a naïve dream, though. And whatever he was—devil, barbarian, rogue—he wasn’t naïve. And he wouldn’t lie to make her feel safe, when any such tale could be deadly for both of them.

  “It’s possible,” he said reluctantly. “This isnae the only road north. Nor is it the fastest.”

  “It is the most rutted,” Howard put in helpfully.

  “And the muddiest,” Peter added, nodding.

  “That’s enough help, lads. Thank ye.” Frustrated and troubled as he was at the notion that Walter Campbell and Charles Calder might well be sitting on their arses inside some warm tavern waiting for them to arrive, the two men seated on the driver’s seat gave him … hope. Neither of them had to be there, and yet both of them refused to leave.

  “If they are already at Gretna Green, could we find the next village north?” asked Mary, who filled him not just with hope, but with excitement and contentment, arousal and satisfaction, and somehow caused it all to make sense with every precious beat of her fierce Highlands heart.

  “Aye, we could, but it would add more hours fer them to catch us, and they’re just as likely to have lads waiting there, too.”

  He gazed at her for a long moment as the setting sun lengthened the shadows of Duffy and Juno behind them, turning them into great, mythical beasts. And then there was Mary, a faerie princess even in his rough wool work coat and her hair in a simple, bronze-tinted knot.

  “What’s got you smiling, Highlander?” she asked, her own mouth curving up at the corners.

  Arran kissed the upturned corners, and then the soft, sweet middle. “I’ve an inkling of an idea,” he drawled, hoping silently that if he was truly about to suggest something mad, it would be mad enough.

  “What is your idea, then?”

  “I’ll tell ye when we’ve stopped.” And when he’d had time to think it through, tried to talk himself out of it, and braced himself for her to do the same thing.

  They continued on past twilight, slowing the team to a walk when it became too dangerous to race through the dark. After an hour or so a small group of twinkling lights came into view on their right.

  “Gretna Green?” Mary asked in a hushed voice, as if she thought her father might be lurking just around the next hedgerow.

  Of course he could well be doing just that. “Aye,” he returned in the same tone. “Another mile or so, Peter.”

  “Aye, m’laird.”

  “I’m afraid we’ll be sleeping oot in the cold tonight, my lass.”

  “I don’t mind. You’re very warm.”

  Arran allowed himself a frown in the darkness. “I mind. And I’m sorry. This wasnae how I imagined us spending the night before our wedding.”

  Mary hit him in the arm. Hard.

  “What the devil was that for?” he demanded, remembering at the last moment to keep his voice down.

  “Stop acting as if you’re the only one responsible for us being here,” she snapped. “Do you think I wrote that note to tell you where I would be because I hoped you wouldn’t come looking for me?”

  “Nae. But I had to convince ye to come along with me.”

  “Because I forgot there was a difference between being comfortable and being happy. Just as there’s a difference between being uncomfortable and being unhappy. I’m here because I want to be here, so stop apologizing because the road hasn’t been easy.”

  Arran narrowed one eye. “So ye’re saying ye’re uncomfortable but happy, I presume?”

  “That is prec
isely what I’m saying. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you spend the nights keeping watch, or that you’re shivering right now because you’ve given me your coat. Are you unhappy?”

  “Nae. I’m only … worried that I’ll nae be able to give ye everything ye should have.”

  “You are what I want, Arran. Anything more is just … buttermilk.”

  “I beg yer pardon?”

  “Buttermilk. It tastes pleasant, but it’s a great deal of work and I could certainly live without it, without even giving it a second thought.”

  “I cannae help wanting to protect ye and purchase ye pretty, silly things, Mary.”

  “You are protecting me. You’ve already saved me. And purchase me pretty things if you like, if we can afford them. But I don’t need them. I need you.” She shifted around to look him squarely in the face, though he didn’t know what she could see in the dark. “Have I made myself clear, Arran MacLawry?”

  What he hadn’t realized in all this was that Mary Campbell was as occupied with looking after his best interests as he was with looking after hers. Having her in his life made him happy. Why would that be any different for her? “Aye,” he said aloud. “I reckon I understand ye.”

  “Good.”

  He grabbed her by the lapels of her oversized coat and tugged her up against him. “And now ye understand this,” he growled. “Ye’re mine. If ye’re sad or hurt or angry or lonely, ye’ll tell me aboot it. Ye’ll nae keep it to yerself because ye think I’d be happier nae knowing. And if I choose to make it my business to see ye happy, ye’ll just have to put up with it. Have I made myself clear, Mary Campbell?”

  She smiled and kissed him softly on the mouth. “Aye.”

  “Och. Now I’ve a tear in my eye,” Peter said from in front of them.

  “Ye’ll have my boot in yer arse if ye dunnae find us a place to spend the night, ye heathen.”

  With that incentive they found a promising spot a half mile or so farther on, just over a hill from the road. Arran jumped to the ground to guide the wagon into a stand of trees, and then helped hobble all four horses by the small stream running along the base of the hill.

  That done, and with an apple smuggled to Duffy for putting up with him for being such an amadan when he’d last come this way, he sat on the ground against a wagon wheel. Mary sat beside him, handing over a piece of cold roast ham. “It’s all I could wrestle from the lads,” she said, indicating the two men seated across from them.

  “Nae true, m’laird,” Peter protested. “We gave the lass half the carcass.”

  “I’m teasing, Peter.”

  “Lass,” Arran said, brushing a strand of her long, curling hair from her face, “ye know there’s a good chance yer family or mine or some other fools looking to make trouble may decide they cannae let us be.”

  She nodded. “We may not be able to remain in Scotland.”

  Of course she’d already realized that. “I’ve heard that Virginia is a fine, fertile land,” he said slowly. “With milder winters than up in the Cairngorms.”

  “Ye mean we have to be Yankees?” Peter asked.

  “Do they have ale there?” Howard lifted the bottle they’d purchased from the inn. “And whisky?”

  “Aye. They also have horses, I hear. And fiddles.”

  “Well, if someone there can play the pipes and they have some good tobacco, then what are we waitin’ fer?” the footman announced.

  “We’re waiting because we’re Highlanders,” Mary said, removing Arran’s jacket and putting it over his shoulders, then shifting to sit between his legs and lean back against his chest. “We’ll make a go of it here, first.” She took his arms and pulled them around her shoulders.

  “I’m yer blanket now, am I?” he muttered, kissing her hair.

  “You’re my everything,” she whispered back, tilting her head back to kiss his chin. “Now. Tell me this plan you have for tomorrow.”

  Arran grinned. If his lady didn’t so much as blink an eye at the idea of traveling across an ocean to make a new life, she certainly wouldn’t be troubled by a bit of subterfuge. As she said, they were Highlanders. And so with a bit of the luck that had been journeying with them so far, in twelve hours or so he would be a married man—and not a dead one.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “This is the worst idea in the history of bloody bad ideas,” Peter complained, turning his back on Arran. “I said I’d be a Yankee, but this is going too far.”

  Arran shot Mary a quick grin, then fastened the buttons running up the footman’s back. “I dunnae fit in the battle-axe’s gown. Ye do. Now shuck yer trousers.”

  Peter turned around again, his face going scarlet beneath the matronly gray bonnet they’d liberated from Crawford. “Nae in front of Lady Mary,” he grumbled, and stalked behind the wagon.

  “Coward.”

  “I didn’t dress in front of him,” Mary said, tucking her oversized shirt into her taken-in trousers and wishing she’d had time to do a bit more sewing. “It’s only fair.”

  “But ye didnae dress in front of me, either, and that’s nae fair. Let me look at ye, lass.”

  “That’s laddy, if ye don’t mind,” she ventured, lowering the timbre of her voice as much as she could.

  With only her small hand mirror to view her appearance, she would have to rely on him. But she thought she looked very like a lad of fifteen or sixteen, clad in handed-down, altered brown trousers, the clearly cut-down coat of some other undescribable brown color, and the worn shirt that had once been white.

  “I wish Howard’s shoes fit ye better,” he said, and took her around the waist. “I know I willnae mistake ye fer a lad.”

  “Will anyone else, though? That is the question.”

  “Here. Try this.” He set his floppy-brimmed straw hat over the tight knot of hair she’d put at the top of her head. “And dunnae smile. Ye’re far too lovely when ye smile.”

  Well, that was very nice. “Howard’s coat is too small for you,” she returned, tugging at the lapels. “But with his cap on, you do look less like you.” She met his gaze, his light blue eyes the precise color of the sky this morning. “Is this going to work?”

  “I’d be happier if we didnae have such a fine day,” he commented, glancing toward the clear sky. “It’s a good omen fer a wedding, but I’d like it better if we had cold and rain so we could bundle ye up a bit more.”

  “Arran, you’re a … large, strapping man. If they’re inside that church, they’ll recognize you.”

  He shook his head. “They’ll nae be inside the church. That’s one thing all Highlanders agree on. A church is sacred and holy. If they’re in Gretna Green, they’ll be watching the ootside of the building. And they’ll be looking fer a proper lady and a handsome, roguish Highlander. Nae two farm lads and their mother bringing flowers to the church.”

  “I’m beginning to think we might just declare ourselves handfasted.”

  He grinned. “And so we are. But we need to sign that church register as husband and wife. It’s proof, and evidence, and it’s in Scotland. And once the church is involved, both the Campbells and MacLawrys will have to be a bit more … careful in the way they proceed.”

  She knew that, of course. A church wedding would provide an additional layer of protection for both of them. That was always his aim—to keep her safe. But it would keep him safer, as well. Their marriage would be recorded. No one would be able to make him simply disappear, as her father had been planning.

  Arran ground his fine Hessian boots into the earth, scuffing and dirtying them beyond repair, then pulled them on. They couldn’t hide his height or his broad shoulders, but in ill-fitting clothes and a worn hack driver’s cap and dreadful-looking boots, he would at least raise some doubts. Together with a younger brother and a frumpy mother, perhaps he would go unnoticed altogether. Not by Mary, of course.

  “I hope ye dunnae expect me to clean those ever again,” Peter said, gesturing at Arran’s boots as he hobbled around the sid
e of the wagon.

  “Nae. They’re done fer.”

  “Well, what do ye think?” The footman spread his arms and made a slow turn. The dress fit him reasonably well, especially with the extra cravats they’d stuffed into his bosom. Mary had lengthened the dress as much as she could, and though it was still only at Peter’s ankles, if he hunched over a little it didn’t seem overly short.

  “Try saying good morning,” Arran suggested.

  “Madainn mhath,” Peter said, his voice high and squeaking.

  “Lower. Crawford didnae have a dainty voice. Sound like her.”

  “Madainn mhath,” the footman repeated, his voice half an octave lower.

  “Aye, that’s better. Why are ye speakin’ Gaelic?”

  “Because yer dear mother’s Scottish. She prefers nae to speak English.”

  Arran frowned at him. “The Campbells speak Gaelic, ye know.”

  Mary put a hand on Peter’s shoulder and pulled the bonnet forward just a little so that it shadowed his face without looking obvious. “Not all of them do. But I think it’s a fair idea, Peter. We are in Scotland, after all.”

  “Practice walking, both of ye,” Arran instructed, returning to the wagon.

  She wasn’t surprised to see him checking the knife in his boot and tucking another into his waist at the back of his coat. As she and Peter navigated their way around the wagon in unfamiliar shoes, she kept her gaze on the man she meant to marry. A pistol went into each pocket, and after he and Howard pulled the trunks off the wagon he wedged a rifle under the driver’s bench.

  “For a man who doesn’t mean to kill, you’re exceedingly well armed, Arran,” she noted.

  “That’s because I dunnae mean to be dead, either.” He narrowed his eyes. “Ye sway yer hips too much, lass. It makes a man take notice. Use yer toes more.”

  “If I walk aboot in these contraptions much longer, I’ll be crippled,” Peter said, coming to a stop.

  Mary took a deep breath, anticipation still winning over nervousness in the battle going on inside her chest. “Peter’s correct. We’ve practiced enough.”