Page 33 of Rogue with a Brogue
A knock sounded at the half-open door, and he turned around. “My clock has struck, I presume?” he drawled.
“Aye,” Owen answered, his expression even more dour than it had been earlier. “The coach ye hired is doonstairs. Debny saddled Duffy, so ye could ride if ye wanted.”
Arran nodded, then motioned at the two footmen with Owen. “Just the one trunk, lads, and my satchel.”
“I’m to send Peter Gilling north with ye, m’laird, to watch over ye until ye’re back at Glengask, and then to be certain ye… behave until Lady Deirdre arrives.”
“Nae. I go alone. I fought the French fer four years, the same as you and Peter. I can keep clear of a few Campbells, if need be.”
Owen’s scowl deepened. “Laird Glengask willnae like that.”
Walking up to the butler, his mind spinning already with a dozen different scenarios that would be impossible with another member of the household in tow, Arran pointed a finger deeper into the house. “Then Laird Glengask can tell me that himself. Because I dunnae give a damn what he likes or doesnae like.”
“I— Aye, m’laird.”
The footmen disappeared with his luggage, and Arran made one last tour of the bedchamber he’d occupied for the past few weeks. The wall remained torn up where he’d cornered the badger, but other than that it might have been any Sasannach’s room in any Sasannach’s house. It wasn’t home. Nowhere was home but Glengask. And if Ranulf’s temper didn’t cool, he likely wouldn’t be welcome there after the rest of the family returned.
Of course if he did half of what he was beginning to contemplate, he might find the entire Highlands rising up against him. Slowly he pulled on the old hunter’s jacket he’d worn when he’d ridden down to London. He’d been in a damned hurry, concerned that Ranulf had lost his mind over an English chit and was about to get himself killed.Ha. He should have stayed in Glengask.
“Peter goes with ye,” Ranulf said from the doorway. “Ye’ve done enough to bloody up things with the Campbells. I’ll nae have ye killed when that would mean open war. And I’ll nae have ye marrying some farmer’s daughter to avoid yer obligations.”
Damnation. If he protested or argued now, Ranulf would assume—and rightly—that he wasn’t finished with making trouble. So instead he gave a curt nod. All the things he wanted to say, explanations, decisions, his intentions, Ranulf wouldn’t want to hear. And actually, if Mary was leaving London tomorrow, he didn’t want to stay either, so he no longer had any reason to argue against it. “He can ride with the driver, then.”
The two deer hounds pushed past Ranulf into the room, their tails down as if they sensed the tension in the house. He gave each of them a brisk pat. “Guard Glengask,” he instructed them, and moved by his brother without touching him or meeting his gaze.
Downstairs the footmen finished loading his trunk onto the back of the coach and fastened the satchel to Duffy’s saddle. Arran paused in the foyer for a moment, waiting for… Hell, he didn’t know what he was waiting for. The earth would open and swallow the lot of them before Ranulf would bend.
As he stepped outside Rowena ran out of the morning room and threw her arms around him. “I’m so sorry, Arran,” she sobbed. “I dunnae want ye to go.”
He tilted her chin up with his fingers. “Dunnae weep,piuthar. I’m nae dying; I’m going home to the Highlands.”
“I know that. But Ran’s so angry with you.”
There remained a wide chasm between what he wanted to say to Ranulf and what he would say to Rowena. “As in every argument,” he drawled, extracting himself from her grip and walking over to swing up on Duffy, “I ken there’s more than one side. He has his. I’m nae certain it’s the correct one. He doesnae seem like a man who puts his family first, any longer. So mayhap it’s time fer me to look after myself.”
“What does that mean, Arran? You’re worrying me.”
He forced a half smile. “It doesnae mean anything. I reckon I’ll grumble fer a time, then do as Glengask asks.”
Or perhaps he wouldn’t. With that he nodded at Peter perched up beside the one-eyed coachman and kneed Duffy in the ribs. Ranulf didn’t like the choices he’d made. But with this method of punishment, Ran had given him what he wanted: time. Even if it did come with a nanny named Peter Gilling. But Arran could guarantee that his brother wouldn’t like what he meant to do with the opportunity. Whether Mary Campbell would like it or not was a question for tomorrow.
***
What a difference forty hours made. Just two nights ago Mary had been enjoying the most interesting, arousing moments of her life, even if she did know it would be short-lived. Part of her remained baffled that every moment since had gone so wrong.
She kept her gaze fixed on the changing scenery outside the coach window, but it could have been a moonless midnight for all the attention she paid. Arran had left London sixteen or so hours ago, heading in the opposite direction she was going now. Disasters for both of them.
“Mr. Calder was very pleasant this morning,” Crawford said, shifting on the opposite seat.
“Of course he was,” she retorted, her stomach roiling again at the mention of her newly betrothed’s name. “He’s gotten exactly what he wanted. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one who told my father I was out by the fish pond.”
Whether her parents were angry with her or not, Mary couldn’t fathom why they’d decided she should marry Charles. She found none of her cousins particularly appealing, but she could see this as nothing other than a punishment—one that would literally last a lifetime.
“Perhaps you could reason with them after they’ve had a chance to see that with Arran MacLawry gone from London, the talk has subsided.” Crawford sent her an uncertain smile that was likely meant to be hopeful. “And no blood was spilled, so perhaps Lord Delaveer will return to the table.”
“Even if my father hadn’t already placed the announcement in the newspaper, according to Roderick’s letter he will have nothing to do with a woman of my low character, whatever the incentive.”
“That seems an ungentlemanly thing to say.”
