Page 21 of Rogue with a Brogue
He shook himself out of the ridiculous daydream. Of course his mind went to making a match with Mary, because it was so absurd. Nothing meant for rational thought, anyway, and far outside the future being laid out for him. “Ye said ‘firstly.’ Was there someaught else, then?”
“You and Ran are arguing. I don’t like that, so stop it—whatever it is.”
“It’s nae that simple,piuthar. Ye can pretend nae to be Scottish, but I cannae. I dunnae want to be a Sasannach. And Ranulf… Since when do we consider Sasannach opinions before we do someaught? Since when do we make alliances with clans we’ve had nae to do with for three hundred years just because now they bolster our numbers in Mayfair?”
“Times are changing, Arr—”
“Aye, they are,” he interrupted, warming to the argument. “Because Ranulf and ye are changing them! The only difference between now and six weeks ago is that ye left Glengask, Winnie, and he followed ye.”
His younger sister stared at him. Then, putting her hands on her hips, she stalked up to him. “So you’d rather we were still all alone in the Highlands without any allies but those who owe us loyalty because their great-great-great-grandfathers bent a knee to ours? Ye’d rather we didnae have any friends or allies outside the village of An Soadh? Perhaps Maggie at the bakery there could show Ran how to manage English politics.”
“Winnie, ye—”
“Perhaps ye’d rather have had Lord Berling shoot ye last week when he aimed his pistol at your head, but I’m glad Ran could arrange a truce. Timesarechanging, Arran. And because Ran’s in London and nae far away in the mountains, he can see to it that we profit rather than perish. Here and back home.”
She stood there, breathing hard and glaring at him, tears rising in her pretty, dark gray eyes. “Ye’ve made yer point,” he snapped. Being lectured to by a lass nine years his junior wasn’t something he’d ever tolerated before. Some things were definitely changing, then.
But other things weren’t changing. Ranulf could dine with English fops, buthewasn’t permitted even to dance with a Campbell lass. Not even when their meeting had been completely by accident. And he couldn’t explain any of that to Winnie.
Unless he could. For a long moment he gazed back at her. “What if I told ye someaught?” he went on in a calmer voice. “Could I trust ye with it?”
“Of course you can. You’re my brother.” She must have said her piece and done, because her brogue had disappeared again. A damned shame, that.
She would likely keep her word to him, then, whatever he told her. But saying anything aloud to anyone felt like he was putting voice to something that was too nebulous to be touched. If it became a real, solidthing,it might well shatter and break—like a piece of blown glass cooled too quickly.
And really, he’d only seen Mary Campbell—Saint Bridget, was it four times now?—and he wasn’t certain he had anything to confess, anyway. Burdening his sister with that kind of knowledge for no good reason wouldn’t be fair to either of them. “Another time,” he said aloud, pushing to his feet.
“Are you certain? Jane didn’t want me to say anything, but Deirdre Stewart likes you, you know. She told me you’re very handsome, and have a Highlands way about you.”
“What the devil does that even mean? I’m a Highlander. Of course I act like one.” Then again, Deirdre had Highlands blood, but he damned well didn’t see it in her. Mary Campbell, now… Wherever she’d been raised, she was a Highlander.
“I don’t know,” his sister returned. “Do you want me to ask her?”
“Nae. Now. Are ye expected back at Hanover House, or do ye care to try me at billiards?”
Rowena flashed her customary charming grin. “I have time for a game, and then you can see me back to the Hanovers after I thrash you.”
He followed her to the door, wishing all his troubles and concerns could be resolved as easily as his sister’s frown. “So ye say. I have my doubts.”
***
With a muffled curse Ranulf ducked backward into his office and slipped behind the half-open door, where he stood silent and unbreathing until his siblings had passed by and gone upstairs. He wasn’t accustomed to sneaking or snooping about, and he could admit that he didn’t do it well. But his family was supposed to come to him with their troubles. That was the way it had always been. He wasn’t supposed to have to track them down and eavesdrop to discover what bothered them.
If he’d had any doubts that Rowena was becoming a keen-sighted young lady, her fine argument in favor of learning more about the English had answered them. Now he only needed to worry that she would use the same logic of changing times against him and announce she’d found a Sasannach lordling she wanted to wed.
Perhaps ordering Lachlan MacTier, Lord Gray, to remain at Glengask as Bear’s lieutenant had been a mistake. But the viscount’s lack of attention had been one of the reasons Rowena had decided she required a proper English Season in London. And he’d ultimately agreed to it because his sister did need to view the people her own clan had spent so long fighting against. And of course because he’d met Charlotte.
The idea had been that distance would make Rowena’s heart grow fonder—after all, she’d spent the total of her first seventeen years telling all and sundry that she meant to marry Lachlan, until she’d abruptly realized that she was the only one doing the pursuing. For Lucifer’s sake, he hoped this was one problem that would settle itself.
It was Arran who worried him more at the moment. Something was afoot, and he didn’t like not knowing what it was. Low as he’d stooped to convince Rowena to come and chat with the middle MacLawry brother, and as little as Arran had said, it did mean something that he wouldn’t confide even in his sister. Whatever it was that troubled him, it was serious.
And whatever did bother him, he couldn’t continue going about London without telling anyone his destination. Truce or not, Ranulf didn’t trust the Campbells or the Dailys or the Gerdenses any further than he could throw one of them. Arran could handle himself, and well, but the MacLawrys and their allies were badly outnumbered here. Arran certainly knew that, and yet he continued to vanish on a regular basis.
Was he trying to stir up trouble? That made no sense, unless he meant to escape a match with Deirdre Stewart by setting the MacLawrys and Campbells after each other again. They all knew that only a fool would ally himself with a clan in the middle of a centuries-long feud—and the Stewart was no fool. But that made no sense. Yes, Arran detested the Campbells, but he was also fairly logical. They needed peace, and they could certainly make good use of the Stewarts, both for their trade connections and to keep all the damned Campbells from attempting something unwise now that it looked like the MacLawrys would be spending more time in London.
The last resort would be to send Arran back to Glengask for his own safety, and make him wait there until Deirdre Stewart could be delivered. Before any banishment happened and caused a rift even Rowena couldn’t heal, he wanted—needed—more information. And as soon as possible, before one or the other of them said something they couldn’t forgive.
***
