Page 2 of Rogue with a Brogue
He blinked. While he’d been known to wax poetic, he generally didn’t do so over a Sasannach lass’s hair. “Why is it that Lady Vixen didnae already have a partner fer a waltz?” he asked.
“I only just arrived,” she returned in her silky voice. “Why was Sir Fox fleeing a peacock?”
So she’d noticed that. “I wasnae fleeing the peacock. That bird’s my sister. It’s the swan who terrifies me.”
The green gaze held his, and he found himself wishing he could see more of her face. As a Highlander and a MacLawry, his ability to assess someone’s expression swiftly and accurately had saved his life on several occasions. An abrupt thought occurred to him. Ranulf had said the Stewarts were attending this evening. What if this vixen was Lady Deirdre? Was she taking his measure as much as he wished to take hers?
“All swans,” she countered, “or just that one? Do they not have swans in the Highlands?”
Of course she knew where he was from; even if all of Mayfair hadn’t been buzzing about the MacLawrys brawling their way through drawing rooms over the past few weeks, his brogue would have made it fairly obvious. Unlike his sister, Rowena, he made no attempt to disguise or stifle his accent. Being a MacLawry was a matter of pride, as far as he was concerned. “Aye, they do have swans there, though nae many. It’s easier to avoid them in the Highlands, where a lad knows the lay of the land and there’s more space to maneuver.”
“I had no idea swans were so deadly.”
“Aye. They’ll catch hold of ye when ye’re nae looking, and they mate fer life.”
She laughed. “Unlike foxes?”
Did foxes mate for life? He couldn’t even recall at the moment. After a fortnight spent hunting for more human dangers, both male and female, a discussion of wildlife—even an allegorical one—seemed… refreshing. “This fox is nae looking for a thing but a partner for the waltz,” he returned, smiling back at her. There. If this was Lady Deirdre, she now knew he wasn’t pursuing some other lass. “And the vixen?”
“I was looking for a friend of mine. An interlude with a fellow fox is an unexpected… distraction. And if you say something flattering, I won’t even be insulted that you only asked me to dance in order to avoid a bird.”
Was that a cut? Or a jest? The fact that he couldn’t be certain of which it was intrigued him. Sassanach lasses in his experience and with very few exceptions knew all about the weather and could discuss it for hours, but he couldn’t give them credit for much else. “Someaught flattering,” he mused aloud, trying to decide how much effort to go to. He meant to approach a marriage agreement from a position of strength, after all. True, perhaps he didn’t dread the notion as much as he had five minutes earlier, but he wasn’t ready to surrender. Not by a long space. A MacLawry didn’t beg for an alliance. “Ye dance gracefully,” he settled on.
She laughed again, though it didn’t sound as inviting, this time. “Well. Believe it or not, you aren’t the first Scotsman to say so. You measure quite equally with the lot of them.”
Arran was fairly certain he’d just been insulted. He hid a scowl, not that she’d be able to see it behind the fox mask. If shewasDeirdre, perhaps he needed to be more… charming, or some such. Though she might have introduced herself before she began pecking at him. “I’ve known ye fer two minutes, lass,” he commented, pulling her a breath closer. “I weighed saying ye had a lovely pelt and gracefully pointed ears, but I didnae ken ye’d appreciate that.”
“And why wouldn’t a vixen like to hear that a fox admires her pelt?”
“Because ye’re nae a vixen, any more than I’m a fox. Ye chose nae to wear a swan mask, which at least sets ye apart from a dozen other lasses here tonight, but I’m wearing a fox mask because my sister handed it to me. I reckon I’d rather be a wolf, truth be told.” Yes, the family generally called him the clever one, and Rowena had seemed pleased enough at the choice that he’d gone along with it, but it was a well-painted piece of papier-mâché—and nothing more.
“I wanted to be a vixen,” she said after a moment. “My father wanted me to be a swan.”
Nowthiswas interesting. “And yet here ye are, nae a swan.” She also was a young woman, perhaps three or four years older than Rowena—the age he knew Deirdre Stewart to be—with an attractive mouth, lips that seemed naturally to want to smile, and shadowed green eyes that he imagined crinkled at the corners. If Arran hadn’t had both hands occupied with the waltz, he would have been fighting the urge to remove her mask, so he could see the whole of her face, to know if the parts were equal to the sum.
Her lips curved again. “Andthatis a compliment, Sir Fox.” She tilted her head, the gold lights in her hair catching the chandelier light. “Or do you wish me to call you Sir Wolf?”
“I’d answer to Arran,” he returned, grinning back at her. She didn’t react to his name, but then she likely already knew who he was. London Society didn’t boast many lads fresh from the Highlands.
“Tell me why the swan—the one pretending not to gaze at you from over by the refreshment table—terrifies you, Arran,” the vixen said.
He shrugged. “She’s my sister’s closest friend, and my oldest brother is betrothed tohersister.”
“Ah,” the vixen returned, her lush gold and red gown swirling against his legs. “The moment she discovered her future brother-in-law had an unmarried brother, she began dreaming about a double wedding.”
“Aye. Someaught like that. I’ve nae wish to break her heart, but I’ll nae end up marrying her to avoid seeing her pout, either.”
“You must be quite the dancer, if your waltz causes ladies to become spontaneously engaged. Someone should have warned me.”
“Tease if ye like, lass, but I’m nae here to get tangled into a debutante’s fairy tale.” God and Saint Bridget knew there were more than enough bonnie lasses awaiting his pleasure in the Highlands, and none of them with silly Sasannach sensibilities about romance and danger. When Ranulf, the chief of clan MacLawry, married his English bride, the family would have more than enough gentle southern blood brought into the mix. And evidently he was to be aimed at a Stewart, anyway.
“If you’re not here to marry, then what brings you to London? The mild weather?”
Arran snorted. “If it’s nae someaught that can knock ye to yer knees, it’s nae weather. I’m only here to keep an eye on my brother and sister. And to be polite.”
He sent a glance over where the big black panther waltzed with his owl. With Ranulf distracted by a pair of pretty hazel eyes and Rowena enamored of everything English, one of the MacLawrys needed to keep a wary eye open for Campbells. That was why he’d left their youngest brother, Bear, behind to see to Glengask while he rode down to London. Because William Campbell declaring that clan Campbell would recognize a truce with the MacLawrys was just words. Very fragile ones. Arran had seen enough bloody deeds to recognize the difference.
“‘To be polite’?” she repeated. “An… interesting goal. Are you generally not polite, then?”
