Page 14 of Rogue with a Brogue
Nor were they alone in the box. Charlotte’s parents, Lord and Lady Hest, had joined them, and so had the other daughter, Jane. Next to her sat Lady Rowena MacLawry, moving her hands animatedly as she chatted about something with the fourth young lady present. Mary frowned. With her dark hair and pale skin, there was no mistaking Lady Deirdre Stewart. Her father, Lord Allen, was there, as well, speaking with Glengask. What were the Stewarts doing with the MacLawrys? That thought, though, vanished asheleft the gloom at the back of the box. Arran MacLawry.
Where his brother had a certain mountainous presence, Arran seemed more like a wolf than a lion—sharp, predatory, and alert for weakness. Except that he’d been charming and clever at the masked ball and even this morning, after he’d learned who she was. Yes, she was wary in his presence, but if she’d been truly frightened, truly concerned for her safety, she would have made her entire family aware of his activities. And she never would have agreed to meet him tomorrow.
At that moment he turned, meeting her gaze. From across the theater she couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, though she knew them to be a light blue. Nor could she see any details of his expression, but a warm shiver ran down her spine, regardless. If he’d been other than a MacLawry, she would have called herself intrigued, and interested.
“Oh, my goodness,” Liz whispered from beside her, shaking her out of her thoughts. “Lord Glengask. And he’s seen you, I think. Lord Arran has, I mean.”
“Well, he’s not likely to attack from over there,” Mary returned, deliberately and with some difficulty turning her gaze toward the stage at the front of the large room. Quite likely it was only the fact that she’d been ordered to stay away from him that left her so conscious of his presence. It made him a dangerous rogue, and what woman wouldn’t notice someone like that gazing at her? Or inviting her to luncheon?
“The Stewarts, eh?” her father muttered from behind her. “So the MacLawrys don’t have any more faith in the truce than I do.”
“The Stewarts must be desperate for MacLawry resources if they’re willing to hand their prettiest gem over to Glengask’s brother,” an additional voice said from behind Mary, and with a carefully hidden scowl she turned to look. The son of Malcolm MacAllister stood there shaking hands with her father and Mr. Bell, and complimenting the two mamas.Oh, dear.
“Thank you for inviting me tonight, Fendarrow,” Roderick MacAllister said warmly.
Then she noticed the man standing slightly behind him, and her frown deepened. Charles Calder, the son of her father’s youngest sister, smiled at her as well, though the expression didn’t quite fit his face.
That wasn’t her cousin’s fault, she supposed, since Charles had simply been born narrow. Narrow shoulders, lidded eyes, thin lips—they’d all called him Otter until he’d turned sixteen and bloodied his older brother Adam’s nose over it. Which made him narrow-minded, as well. Still, if he’d wanted to distance himself from the nickname, he likely should stop slicking back his straight, black hair and wearing nothing but black clothing.
“You know you’re always welcome to join us, Roderick,” her father returned. Lord Fendarrow glanced at her, his smile too rushed. “I know you enjoy a goodHamlet,so we’ve saved you a front row seat.”
Sothatwas why her father had suggested she would be able to see better from the middle seat of the three in the front row. So Lord Delaveer could sit beside her. At least he wasn’t trying to match her with Charles. She certainly didn’t view Roderick… romantically, but at least she didn’t feel the need to bathe after speaking with him. In fact, she didn’t feel much of anything. Was that because she’d only seen him as part of the pack of potential beaux? If she set her mind to it, could Roderick stir her pulse as… Oh. No, no, no. That… No. She wasn’t smitten with Arran MacLawry. That feeling was only nerves, because she wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near him.
Roderick took the vacant seat beside her, and she jumped. “Good evening, Mary, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Hello, Lord Delaveer,” Elizabeth returned, smiling. “I didn’t know you enjoyed Shakespeare.”
“I enjoy the company.”
“I enjoy Shakespeare,” Charles put in from directly behind Mary. “Especially the tragedies.”
The light, mostly absent brogue in his voice annoyed her. Previously she was certain she’d barely even noted it, but tonight it sounded as though he couldn’t decide whether he was English or Scottish. “What an odd thing to say,” she returned.
Perhaps that accent indecision was what made her hesitate about Roderick, as well; wherever she lived, she felt like a Highlander down to her toes. Arran, even if he hadn’t had a deep, delicious brogue, could never be mistaken for anything but a hot-blooded, fearless Highlander. There was nothing mild or hesitant about him. On the other hand, Roderick had likely never unsettled a butterfly. And Charles probably pulled off their wings.
Charles furrowed his narrow brows. “How so?”
“Saying you prefer the tragedies is the same as saying you prefer death and murder and betrayal to love and happiness.”
“Perhaps it’s merely that I find the tragedies more realistic.” He sank back in his seat, turning his gaze not toward the stage, but in the direction of the boxes at the far side of the theater. “You waltzed with Arran MacLawry.”
Her first thought was to tell Charles that who she danced with was none of his business. It wasn’t really, but her cousin had already had several run-ins with Lord Glengask this Season, before the truce. And she had no intention of ruining that days-old truce by saying something flippant. “We were both wearing fox masks, and he had no idea who I was. I wasn’t going to cause a scene.”
“Don’t dance with him again.”
Mary took a breath and held it until she could hear the beat of her heart. “I don’t know why I would,” she returned. “Out of curiosity, though, are we not at peace with the MacLawrys?”
“We’re not killing them. That’s a pause in battle. Not peace.”
She was still debating how to respond to that when Roderick chuckled. “Don’t mind your cousin, Lady Mary. I enjoy peace. It provides some surprising—and welcome—opportunities.”
“Aye,” Charles countered, his voice lower and flatter. “Whereas war favors other individuals.”
Now that was interesting. And disturbing. Was Charles Calder so against this truce with the MacLawrys because of what her father had mentioned—that the MacAllisters would help bolster their ranks, but they didn’t wish to be pulled into a conflict? Because if the Campbells and MacLawrys drew blood againCharleswould be the one the clan wanted her to marry? A shiver ran down her spine.
So she seemed to be doomed either way, truce or not, and it was only a narrow window that made her groom Roderick rather than Charles. Who, though, was pushing her and Roderick together? Her father, or her grandfather? The Campbell himself seemed a more likely force, as he was the one who’d agreed to the truce. Which meant, she supposed, that she had another reason to be grateful to her grandfather. Because while neither Roderick nor Charles interested her, she easily preferred dullness to cruelty. Though if given a third choice, it would be to not have to marry either of them.
On the tail of that thought, the curtains opened. A more appropriate play would have beenMacbeth,but she wasn’t certain the several hot-blooded Highlanders in the audience would have been able to tolerate that.
