Page 38 of Rogue with a Brogue
“You rescued me from marrying Charles.”
“Aye, after I kissed ye and sent Delaveer scuttling away.”
“That wasn’t just you doing the kissing,” honesty made her admit. “But I don’t want to be a woman who jumps from one man’s arm to another’s. Crawford just made me consider what I would do if my grandfather doesn’t want to see me. Or if he decides I should marry Charles, after all.”
“I’d be more worried if ye didn’t have some serious reservations, lass. I dunnae want ye to see me as the least of three evils, either. I want ye, and I think ye want me. We’ll begin with that. It’s a long way to the Highlands, and we’ll have time to figure oot if we’re… compatible.”
“You’re being very reasonable.”
“I’m generally a reasonable man.” He straightened. “I’ll wed ye, Mary Campbell, but now ye’ve wounded me. If ye want me now, ye’ll have to ask me fer my hand like ye mean it.” Arran flashed her a jaunty grin and then strolled back to the coach.
Mary kept her gaze on his departing backside, then blinked and turned her gaze elsewhere. No one could dispute that Arran MacLawry was a fine-looking man, but her physical attraction to him had nothing to do with how she meant to resolve her situation. His appearance had helpedcauseher troubles. And yes, she did like him, far more than Roderick and Charles. But if she decided to make a mistake this momentous, she required more than ten days of acquaintance, a handsome face, and a keen wit. After all, he’d fled an arranged marriage just as surely as she had.
And so for the moment it made much more sense to say only that he was escorting her north to see her grandfather. Because everything had been perfectly… pleasant before he’d roared into London. Predictable, yes, and even dull, but pleasant. And it could be again, if she could convince the Campbell to do away with the idea of her marrying Charles.
At this moment she felt much more kindly toward a sworn enemy than she did her own clan, but her only hope of returning to her old life lay in not succumbing to Arran’s charms and doing something as ridiculous as proposing to him—and then in reaching Alkirk and throwing herself on her grandfather’s mercy.
She took a slow breath and made her way back to the coach. Insisting that Crawford accompany them was the most brilliant thing she could have done. The maid would save her reputation, and as a bonus she would certainly take every opportunity to point out what a mistake it would be to succumb to Arran. Even to kiss him, really. Though she’d kissed him several times already just today, and truly there didn’t seem to be much harm in it.
Yes, she was grateful to have Crawford there, she decided. And not at all annoyed.
“So do we go forward, or back?” Arran asked, holding out his hand.
Mary gripped his fingers, intentionally not noting their warm strength, and stepped back up into the coach. It would likely be for the best if he didn’t know she’d decided not to be charmed by him. He might decide that setting the MacLawry agenda aside to escape with her into the Highlands wasn’t worth the reward. Or the lack of reward, rather. Oh, goodness, he was in at least as much trouble as she was. And yet there he sat, gazing at her expectantly.
“We go forward,” she said, and her insides hardly warmed at all at the sight of his responding smile. It was most likely indigestion she felt, anyway.
They drove roughly southwest until late afternoon. Then Arran instructed the driver to find them a respectable inn somewhere off the main road, and shortly after nightfall the coach rattled to a stop in the Twice-Struck Oak Inn stable yard.
“Peter, hire us a pair of rooms fer the night,” Arran said, tossing a coin at the rough-faced footman.
“Aye, m’laird.”
“Nae more o’ that. I’m nae a lord here.”
The servant flushed. “Aye, Mr. Fox,” he amended.
Mary took Arran’s hand and stepped to the soft ground beside him. She’d initially thought to tell him to save his coin rather than going to the expense of purchasing her a mount; staying inside the carriage with Crawford seemed safer for her heart. But after five hours of being whacked on the bottom every time they drove over a rock or a rut, a horse seemed a heavenly idea. And it had nothing to do with the hours the maid had spent glowering.
He kept hold of her fingers. “I’ll go into the village in the morning to find ye some clothes. Have the battle-axe make me a list of what ye both require.”
“I could send Crawford to do that.”
“Nae.” He edged closer to her, lowering his voice. “She reads and writes, aye?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Then I’ll be keeping an eye on her fer a time.”
Wrapping her hand around his rough sleeve, Mary leaned into his hard frame a little. It wouldn’t do to be impolite, after all. “Do you think she would try to send word to my father?”
“Aye, Mrs. Fox. I reckon she would.”
“What about Peter? You sent him off alone.”
“Peter cannae read or write. And he figures the only thing worse than what I’m doing is seeing me caught by an angry cavalry of Campbells.”
As accustomed as she was to bloodcurdling tales about clan wars and about the MacLawrys in particular, it still surprised her that he could speak so nonchalantly about a happenstance that would surely lead to his death. “If Peter and Crawford weren’t along with us, how many rooms would you have requested?”
