Page 18 of Rogue with a Brogue
Chapter Five
“I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose your father at such a young age,” Mary said, selecting another of the absurdly delicate and delicious tea cakes Arran had requested after their luncheon.
“It upended everything,” he returned, then motioned the innkeeper for another pot of tea.
She wondered if he’d patronized the Blue Lamb before, because he certainly seemed to know which foods to order. On the other hand, he’d likely spent a great deal more time at ramshackle inns than she had. “You must’ve been so angry. At my grand—”
“Nae,” he said, putting up a hand. “None of that.”
Considering how deeply their family histories were intwined, it had been surprisingly easy to refrain from mentioning MacLawrys or Campbells, or MacAllisters or Stewarts. She certainly knew at whom the majority of his suspicion and anger had been aimed over most of his twenty-seven years, just as he was obviously aware how many times his family’s name had been sworn at by hers. And words were the least of it. Mary nodded.
“Is this your first time in London, then?” she asked, deciding to change the subject before things became testy.
The glance he sent her from beneath long, dark lashes was amused. “Nae. We all attended Oxford, though there’s some debate over whether Bear actually opened a book. I came doon a few times with friends, but nae fer long. And I had to march in a parade before Prince George once, when my regiment came back from the Peninsula.”
“So you served in the army?”
They both reached for the same tea cake, their fingers brushing. And neither of them gave way. If this was purely a friendship they were beginning, it was an odd one; she didn’t get shivers when she held hands with Liz or Kathleen. Finally he turned up her palm and placed the sweet into it.
“Aye. Fer four years.”
“But the Mac—you, I mean—stayed in the Highlands to avoid the English, I thought. Why fight for them?”
He shrugged. “It was encouraged that we prove our loyalty to the Crown. If I hadnae gone, Bear would have. As his head is better suited fer being a battering ram than fer thinking, I’m fairly certain he would’ve gotten himself killed.”
“You’re very close to your brothers and sister, aren’t you?” She knew they were a feared and united clan, but for some reason the idea that they felt affection for each other had never really occurred to her—not that she’d spent much time thinking about the MacLawrys at all, except as the people who prevented her from visiting her grandfather in Scotland on all but the rarest and briefest of occasions.
“Did I give that impression?” he returned with a slow grin. “Aye, we wouldnae have survived withoot each other. They’re my dearest friends. Are ye and yer cousins close? Ye seem to have at least forty of ’em.”
Mary chuckled. “My father has two younger brothers and three younger sisters. At last count I had thirteen first cousins.”
“But ye’re yer father’s only bairn?”
“Yes.” She nibbled at a cake to give herself a moment. “I had an older brother, William—named for my grandfather—but he died before I was born. Only a few days old, I think. They don’t talk about him much. And because Mother got so sick when I was born, they didn’t want to risk having another child.”
“Ye know, considering how much I thought I knew about ye, Mary, nearly everything ye tell me is a surprise.” He moved in closer to the table and reached out to tap his forefinger against her knuckles. The gesture looked innocent enough, but as he met her gaze with those light blue eyes of his, it felt surprisingly sensuous.Oh, my.
“Likewise,” she returned, attempting to keep her mind on the conversation. “You and your brothers were bedtime stories my uncles and cousins told me to keep me awake and shivering under the covers. You’re supposed to have a needle-thin dagger in your boot, for instance, that’s still red with the crusted blood of… my kin.”
“Oh, aye, I do.”
She blinked. “What?”
Reaching beneath the table, he produced an old, sharp-looking knife. It looked very clean, just the sort of tool a Highlander would use for skinning the deer he shot. “More or less, anyway.” His gaze growing serious, he sheathed the blade again. “It’s nae spilled a drop of yer kin’s blood. My fist has; I split Charles Calder’s lip just last week, as I recall. But nae my knife. And nae my rifle.”
“I believe you,” she said, wondering why he so obviously wanted to assure her that he’d never done permanent harm to any of her family. Was he trying to tell her that she was safe with him? Because while she did believe that he wouldn’t harm her, she didn’t feel safe. She felt wicked.
The inn door opened again, as it had every few minutes since they’d sat to eat a rather fine roasted chicken and watered-down Madeira. She’d had the Madeira, rather; Arran had gone from whisky to tea. The common room seemed to be a popular place for luncheon with local merchants and bankers, which suited her perfectly well. Because while she and Arran seemed to be finding more common ground than either of them expected, if anyone of their acquaintance saw them together, this little tête-à-tête would be finished—and the day would end with her being married either to Roderick MacAllister or Charles Calder, depending on whether her father declared open war on the MacLawrys again or not.
Arran looked past her. His abrupt frown alarmed her to her toes. “Yer maid’s here,” he murmured, starting to his feet. “Will she use yer name?”
Oh, no.Was it so late already? “Yes. I didn’t give her a dif—”
“Mrs. Crawford,” he called, motioning the servant closer.
“Oh, thank heavens, my l—”
“Mrs. Fox has been waiting fer ye,” he drawled. “Ye’ll see yer daughter home for me, willnae?”
