Page 32 of Rogue with a Brogue
“I don’t like this.”
Frequently Arran had been put into the position of being the diplomatic MacLawry, the one who soothed over some of the more radical of Ranulf’s decisions. Like when he’d decided to build schools in the two villages on Glengask land, and require every child under the age of twelve to attend them. Well, with the mood he was in, Ranulf could be his own diplomat.
“The only one who’s allowed to like the way of things is Ranulf. Dunnae ye see that by now? Do ye think I’d be aboot to marry Deirdre Stewart if I had a choice? Saint Bridget. I’ve had more interesting conversations with a hammer.”
Rowena furrowed her brow, dark gray eyes searching his. “Arran, you aren’t in love with Mary Campbell, are ye?”
Since her brogue kept slipping into hearing she must have been truly surprised, and truly distraught. On another occasion he might have teased her about it, but this morning he didn’t feel amused. He wanted to know that Mary wasn’t paying an even higher price than he was for this disaster. That was the only thing that would make leaving London acceptable—if by doing so he was helping her. Of course helping Delaveertoher didn’t sit nearly as well, but he was a better choice than Calder.
He’d done what he could when he’d had Fordham forward that letter to her. Answering it would be up to her. And if she didn’t respond, he would never know if she was simply relieved that the decision of what they would do next had been removed, or if she felt as at sea as he did. Milling currents, muddled feelings, that sense of loss without ever having grasped what it was they might have had.
“We’ll never know now, will we?” he said aloud, knowing his sister expected some sort of response. “I’m pledged to Deirdre. Or near enough.”
“But did ye tell Ran? If he knew, he might—”
“Who do ye think ye’re talking to, Rowena? Now go downstairs and be nice to ourbràthairbefore he decides ye need to go home, as well.”
That evidently made an impact on her, because after favoring him with a tight, damp hug she fled his bedchamber. Arran blew out his breath, then stood to resume packing. He might have been more positive, more circumspect, he supposed. He might have offered his sister some hope that he and Ranulf would reconcile.
Except that he didn’t think they would. Ranulf hadn’t spoken a word to him since they’d parted at the Penrose dinner. But more than that, this trip down to London had changed the marquis. Whatever it was, Arran didn’t understand it, he didn’t like it, he didn’t see a reason for it, and he didn’t think it was in the best interest of clan MacLawry, no matter who else they brought into the fold.
Finally he shut the trunk and buckled the leather straps to keep the lid locked down. Every ounce of will he possessed fought against the desire, the need, to go to Mathering House and discover for himself how Mary fared. But he’d arranged for her to get his note. If he went to see her in person, several people would likely end up dead.
“M’laird,” Owen said from the doorway.
“Aye. Come in.”
The butler stayed in the hallway, as though he were worried he might catch the plague if he stepped into the room. “I’m to tell ye Debny’s hitching up the heavy coach fer ye, and that ye’re to be gone in thirty minutes. He’ll drive ye home.”
“I sent Peter oot to hire a coach fer me. I’ll nae take that monster with the MacLawry crest on the panel. And I’ve nae need of bodyguards.” Arran furrowed his brow. “I’m lyin’ in the bed I made.” Of course soon enough he and Lady Deirdre would be lying in the bed Ranulf had made for them.
“I— As ye say, m’laird. I’ll inform Lord Glengask.” The servant nodded, then cleared his throat. “Ye’ve a letter from Lord Fordham, as well.”
Arran just resisted launching himself at the door and snatching it out of Owen’s hand. “Aye? I left him a note last night to tell him I was leaving London.” Walking up to the door, he held out his hand. “Are ye allowed to give it to me, or do ye have to get Glengask’s leave first?”
Owen straightened. “I’m only supposed to catch notes ye send oot.”
Ranulf didn’t trust him not to make more trouble, then. He wasn’t surprised, and he was more thankful than ever that he’d stopped by William Crane’s house last night. Arran took the missive from the butler’s fingers, then retreated to his writing desk to read it, intentionally leaving the bedchamber door open as he did so.
Taking a breath, telling himself his hands shook from anger, he opened the letter. Across the top of the page in Fordham’s distinctive handwriting, he read, “This arrived at 2:17 this afternoon. And write me when you’re safe at Glengask, you idiot.”
The rest of the note had been written in a different, more elegant hand. For a heartbeat he shut his eyes. Mary had sent him an answer, and he had no idea what he hoped it would be. Or rather, he did know what he wanted to read, but there was no way in the world any good could come of it.
He opened his eyes again. “Dear Lady Joan,” he read to himself, hearing her voice in his head, “I regret to tell you that I won’t be in London to better our acquaintance, though I dearly wish that wasn’t so. My parents have decided it is time I marry. I will be leaving Mathering House first thing in the morning, and returning to Fendarrow in Wiltshire by the main road. There, in two weeks’ time, I am to be wed to Mr. Charles Calder, my cousin.”
Arran stopped reading. Anger pulsed through him. The MacAllisters were out—and that was his fault. Even if he hadn’t known about Mary’s dislike for her cousin, Charles Calder was a clever, cruel man whom he wouldn’t want to see wed to his worst enemy—which he supposed Mary was. She didn’t feel like an enemy, though. And unless in the next few lines she could convince him that she’d made her peace with the idea of marrying Calder, he was not going to allow it to happen. The strength of that thought actually surprised him. But he bloody well meant it.
He looked down again. “If you have any words of hope or wisdom for me, Lady Joan, I would welcome them. And please know, I do not blame you for the fact that we are not better acquainted. Indeed, our friendship was just begun, and as far as I’m concerned, our friendly sentiments were mutual. Or so I choose to believe.”
“Damnation,” he muttered, his jaw clenched. “Damn, damn, damn.”
“I have no expectations from you, but as you asked after me, I wanted to answer completely and truthfully. Yours in fond, fond recollection, Mary.”
She hadn’t wanted to let this… moment between them end, either. At least he hadn’t been wrong about that. But knowing her feelings didn’t help anything. It didn’t helpher. Arran walked over to the nearest window. Calder, MacAllister, Stewart—he wanted nothing to do with any of them. Who the devil gave a damn if they gained a few more bodies fit for glaring across the valley at the Campbells? Especially now that the Campbells weren’t allying with the MacAllisters. All this nonsense was for nothing. And he and Mary still had to pay for it.
The window frame beneath his fingers splintered. He unclenched his hands from the wood, but the fury and frustration continued burrowing its way into his chest. Arran smoothed out the crumpled letter and read it again.
Mary had been very specific about when she was leaving and where she was going. She hadn’t precisely asked for a rescue, but shehadasked if he—or Lady Joan, rather—had any suggestions, because she was about to become desperately unhappy. As was he.
