Page 29 of Rogue with a Brogue
Arran set Mary on her feet and stepped between her and the voice before he even consciously noted who was shouting. One hand moving toward the knife in his boot, he faced the Marquis of Fendarrow—and the pistol in the marquis’s hand. The truce was broken, then. Thanks to him. Slowly he straightened. With the way the marquis’s hand was wavering, Mary might be injured by accident.
“Mary,” Fendarrow hissed, motioning at her with his free hand, “come here. Now.”
“Father, please put that down before something terrible happens,” she said, her voice tight. Arran felt her palm touch his shoulder then abruptly drop when her father flinched.
“Lass, ye need to move away,” he said calmly. Or he hoped he sounded calm; his mind flew through a dozen different possible outcomes, several of which ended with him dead in a fish pond. “Nae need fer both of us to get shot.”
“There’s no need foranyoneto get shot. Father, for heaven’s sake, put that pistol away! Why do you even have one here?”
The lass did move, but only to stand directly beside Arran. He appreciated the united front, but at the same time she likely wasn’t helping matters. This wasn’t the part her family wanted her to play. When shouting began on the carriage drive, Arran clenched his jaw. The only thing worse than being discovered by her father would be adding his brother into the mix. For a brief moment he considered making a run for it; Fendarrow likely hadn’t shot at anything but grouse for years, and that wasn’t done with a pistol. But that would leave Mary to face this mess alone. And a MacLawry didn’t run from a fight.
“Arran!” Ranulf bellowed, skidding into the garden with Uncle Myles on his heels. The entire guest list trotted and skipped and waddled out of the house behind him, Lord Allen and Deirdre with them. And Lord Delaveer.Bloody wonderful.
“What’s all this?” the Earl of Penrose demanded, their host’s stern tone somewhat undercut by the way he stopped several yards away from the fracas.
“Put that damned pistol doon, Fendarrow!” Ranulf ordered. Unlike their dinner party host, he moved directly into the line of fire. His gaze moved from Arran to the Campbell’s granddaughter and back again. “Arran,” he murmured, “ye bloody f—”
“Get yerself back, Glengask,” Arran interrupted. “This has naught to do with ye.” By himself, he could likely disarm Fendarrow before the marquis had a chance to pull the trigger, but Ranulf would jump in if he moved—and he damned well wasn’t going to risk his brother’s life. Although as he’d just trampled their fragile little truce, he’d already put Ranulf in danger.
“I don’t give a damn about either of you,” Fendarrow growled. “Mary, come here. Now.”
“I’m so sorry, Arran,” her soft whisper came from behind his shoulder. “I don’t know wh—”
“Go to yourathair,lass. We cannae settle anything here tonight,” he murmured back, keeping his hands well away from his sides and his gaze steady on her father. Abruptly he wished he knew more about the man; once a Highlander left the Highlands for England’s softer ways, though, the MacLawrys tended to ignore him.
Slowly Mary moved around him and walked toward her father. Arran had read about scandals similar to this one in the London newspapers that had made their way up to the Highlands. They all ended with either the father shooting the rogue who’d tried to despoil his daughter, or a quick marriage between the two parties concerned to quash any further scandal. The latter would never happen. Not between Mary and him.
He risked a glance at Mary’s straight, stiff shoulders. Because he’d been unable to think straight, or in fact to ponder anything beyond having her in his arms and hearing her clever laugh, he’d put them in this position. And now the best he could do was try to salvage enough peace that Roderick MacAllister wouldn’t withdraw from the negotiations.
“Do ye mean to murder my brother now, in front of all these witnesses?” Ranulf demanded, in the same tone that had once sent an armed Adam Daily rolling backward down a hill rather than confront him.
Fendarrow lowered the pistol, then shoved it into his pocket. “No,” he said clearly. “Nor do I want this… aberration to affect our dealings. In return, however, I wanthim”—and he jabbed a finger in Arran’s direction—“gone from London.”
As angry as Ranulf likely was, being ordered to do something that concerned his own family wouldn’t sit well with him. Especially when the order came from the Campbell’s oldest son. Arran braced himself, ready to step between the two men.
“I’m agreeable to that,” Ranulf said with a curt nod. “He’ll be gone by sunset tomorrow.”
Arran stared at his brother’s profile. Jaw clenched, fists clenched, eyes narrowed and icy, the Marquis of Glengask didn’t look inclined to concede anything, much less banishing his own brother at a Campbell’s request. And yet not even a Sasannach could have misunderstood his words.
Fendarrow grabbed Mary by the arm and yanked her back toward the house. They headed in Delaveer’s direction, as if the marquis meant to hand her over to Roderick right then and there. The viscount, though, shook his head and walked away.Damnation.Now it was worse. Mary’s already pale cheeks went even grayer, but she didn’t fight her father’s grip. Instead, her pretty, moss-green gaze fixed on Arran’s face, she backed away from the garden.
Once she went through the door into Penrose House, he would never see her again. He knew that with an ice-cold certainty that made his lungs feel like they were filled with sand. It would have happened soon enough anyway, but not yet. He wasn’t ready. “Ranulf.”
His brother faced him. “I dunnae want to hear another damned word from ye,” he snarled. “I dunnae even want to look at ye. Get in the coach and go back to Gilden Hoose.”
“Ran—”
“Now.”
With a curse Arran turned on his heel and strode for the stable yard and the street beyond. He passed by the coach, ignoring Debny’s attempt to catch his attention, and continued down Hill Street. If he sat in the coach like a naughty lad sent to his bedchamber for poor behavior, he would combust.
As he turned the corner another coach trundled by, the horses under the whip. The Campbell coat of arms glinted on the door panel in the lamplight. Mary had been sent home as well, to take responsibility for… for whatever it was they might accuse her of. His first instinct was to charge after them and claim responsibility for whatever ill deeds they chose to fling in his direction. If he showed his face at Mathering House, though, he would be doing more harm than good.
And realistically, what would he do, anyway? Promise he wouldn’t make more trouble so she could be wed to dull Delaveer, after all? He didn’t want her to marry the viscount. He didn’t want her marrying anyone—at least not until he’d figured out what the devilhewanted, himself.
Damn it all. So much for his reputation as the “clever” MacLawry brother. Even Bear had never been caught by a lass’s parents. And the worst part of it was that for the past few days, and especially tonight, he felt like something had begun, like they’d been on the precipice of something that could have been—would have been—extraordinary, if only she hadn’t been a Campbell and he a MacLawry.
Now, because beneath everything else he was Ranulf’s brother and heir to clan MacLawry’s chief, he would take the thrashing he was handed, and then he would go home. Go north to the Highlands, return to Glengask. The incident finished and if not forgotten, then never to be discussed again. Ranulf the master negotiator would make some additional concession to the Stewarts, and he would still have his alliance. The remainder of his own life would be filled with the dull prattle of Deirdre Stewart. Mary, however, was likely to be confronted with something even worse. And it was all his own damned, arrogant fault.
