Page 19 of Rogue with a Brogue
Mary flashed him a quick grin. Now she had a faux mother and a faux name. Fox. She liked it, for obvious reasons, but it was also forgettable—which had no doubt been the point. “Yes, Mama. Thank you. Mr. Fox needs to return to work. At the mill.” She stood, sending the servant a warning look to keep her from blurting out something they didn’t want overheard.
“I… Yes, of course,” Crawford stammered. “It’s time we get you home, daughter.”
Arran tossed some coins on the table, sent the innkeeper a nod, and took her hand in his as they walked to the door. “I reckon we should do this again,” he said in his low brogue.
“Why, Mr. Fox, are you attempting to lead me astray?” she asked, her voice unaccountably breathy.
“Aye, I believe I am, Mrs. Fox.”
“You are a rogue, sir.”
He grinned. “Aye, that I am. Do ye have an objection?”
“Only that we’re both slated to marry other people and our families will murder us if they find out.” And likely a million more that logic dictated she consider, but she would do that later. Now was the moment for courage. Until a few days ago, she would never have thought that danger had an appeal. Now, it was all she could do to keep from laughing in delight.
“Then we’ll stop when we’ve said our vows, and in the meantime we dunnae let them find oot.” Drawing her up against his chest, he lowered his face to hers.
This time she expected the warm touch of his mouth against hers, the pull between the two of them, but the kiss still stole her breath and sent warm electricity swirling down her spine. Oh, this—he—was trouble, trouble, trouble. And no good could possibly come of her attraction to him. And yet she could scarcely think of anything else.
“I’ll be attending the dinner party at Lord and Lady Penrose’s house on Friday evening,” she murmured against his mouth.
He kissed her again, then with a breath took her hand and placed it around the dour-faced Crawford’s arm. “Now there’s a coincidence,” he drawled. “I believe I’ve been invited, as well. Or my brother has, rather, which is the same thing.”
She wanted to kiss him again, but now that Crawford had hold of her, the maid wasted no time in dragging her out the door and onto Ellis Street. “You—this—I—you—”
“Crawford, you cannot say anything,” Mary broke in sternly, abruptly alarmed that her lady’s maid was about to suffer an apoplexy.
“But he… hekissedyou, my lady!” she blurted out, then put a hand over her mouth.
“Good heavens. Keep your voice down. I am Mrs. Fox at the moment, and you are my mother.” Mary lifted a hand to hail a passing hack.
“I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I didn’t tell you that that man is a… a rogue and a blackguard and aMacLawry.What will your father—oh, goodness, or your grandfather—say? He doesn’t mean you any good, you know.”
“No one is going to know, and we are being discreet. Our families have been warring for centuries. Don’t you think it’s time two of us became acquainted?”
“I think you’d be better off becoming acquainted with Lord Delaveer, begging your pardon. This MacLawry could mean to ruin you and then tell the world! Bless me, that would kill your mother.”
It would do more than that. It would explode the truce, and open the road to a full-out war between their clans. Could that be his goal? To seduce her and then publicly humiliate her? To stop her family from allying with the MacAllisters?
From what she’d learned about him thus far that didn’t seem likely; if anything, the Arran with whom she’d chatted seemed honorable, and not just for a MacLawry. Still, she might feel mad and wicked in his presence, but she was not a fool. Or she tried not to be one. Before anything went too far—if it hadn’t already—she would need to call a halt to it. They both had obligations to their clans.
But none of that would stop her from going to that dinner party Friday evening.
***
For someone who spent as much time as he did taking steps to protect Ranulf’s various progressive policies and innovations, assessing what their neighbors’ reactions were likely to be and heading off the worst of the trouble, Arran couldn’t begin to explain what he was doing. Not even to himself.
In the Highlands, when a pretty lass caught his eye, he invited her to share his bed. More often than not she accepted, and then after a night or two or three he found himself bored and sent her on her way. They both wanted a bit of fun, satisfied a mutual desire, and moved on.
That method had served him well enough, and it mostly avoided the chore of him having to converse with the lasses beyond a few pleasantries. They’d all grown up in the same set of valleys, had heard all the same gossip, and none of the ladies had ever seen a larger town than the village in which they lived.
And then there was Mary. Yes, he’d kissed her twice now, and since the hat shop yesterday he’d been imagining unbuttoning her pretty, fashionable muslin gown and licking her soft skin. He shifted, abruptly uncomfortable in the ill-sprung hired hack.
It wasn’t just a physical attraction, though. He’d chatted with her. They had talked, the two of them—and he likely already knew her better than he did any other lass save his own sister. More than that, heenjoyedtalking with her. He liked the way she viewed the world, even if it was contrary to his own way of thinking. He likedher. And that, he hadn’t expected.
She interested him a thousandfold more than Deirdre Stewart and her “yes, Lord Arran” and “no, Lord Arran” politeness. They said Deirdre was a great beauty, and he could see it, he supposed, in a porcelain doll sort of way. But the porcelain doll had no passion that he could detect—especially when compared with an autumn-haired, clever-tongued vixen.
By the time he arrived back at Gilden House it was well past three, and he half expected Ranulf to be waiting on the front drive to bellow at him for being contrary. As frustrated as he felt after naught but a kiss with Mary when he’d been fantasizing about a great deal more, a brawl might well be just the thing. Or it might knock some sense into his skull so he could forget the lass before something happened that they would all regret.
