Page 39 of Rogue with a Brogue
“One. We’re married, lass. Remember that, or people might well rememberusif someone should come by later to inquire.” He frowned. “Crawford’ll remember she’s yermàthair,willnae? If anyone looks here, it’ll be fer a Highlander, a lady, and her maid.”
“She’ll go along with this for my sake. But whatever we do, you’re still a Highlander.”
“So are ye, lass, even with yer odd accent.”
Almost no one called her a Highlander. Only her grandfather ever called her by her Scottish name—the one she’d been born with. Everyone else had anglicized it to Mary, but she’d always felt in her heart that she was Muire. Belatedly she gathered her thoughts back in. “What I mean is, how would anyone mistake you for anything but a Highlander?”
His attractive smile returned. “I’ve an idea or two.”
Heavens, he would be memorable covered in mud or wearing a priest’s frocks. Hopefully no females would be inside the inn. And now she had the additional image of him in nothing but mud with which to contend.Well done, Mary.
The footman met them at the door. “Secured ye two rooms at the top o’ the stairs, m— Mr. Fox.”
“Excellent. Fetch our trunk up there, will you, Peter, my boy?” Arran said, in a rather remarkable London accent. Even Crawford was staring at him. “What?” he murmured in Mary’s ear, making her shiver. “Ye think I havenae been listening to the Sasannach?”
“No. I… Hm. Well done,” she whispered back.
“Thank ye.” Half turning, he took Crawford by the arm, pulling her up on his other side. “Come along, Mother Graves. Let’s get you settled in, my dear.”
Mary feigned a cough to keep from laughing. With Crawford’s glare she actually looked like a disapproving mother-in-law. For the first time Mary began to think they might actually have a chance of succeeding.
The innkeeper helped Peter haul the heavy-looking trunk upstairs and deposit it in one of the small, neat rooms they’d claimed. Of course none of Mary’s things were in there, but no one in the inn could possibly know that. All in all, and despite having only a few hours to plan a rescue, Arran had done surprisingly well.
“My wife’s cooked up a pot roast,” Mr. Jessup the innkeeper said, bobbing his head. “We’ll be serving downstairs in an hour.”
“That sounds perfect,” she returned. “We’re all famished this evening.”
“Well, there’s plenty for all.”
By dinnertime the Twice-Struck Oak was full to bursting; evidently they weren’t the only ones avoiding the main roads. Arran had said that these out-of-the-way establishments on the edges of forgettable villages were always less expensive, but it still made her wonder how many of the other guests might be fleeing unwanted lives.
Not that hers was unwanted; it had merely taken an extremely unfortunate turn. Or turns, rather. She glanced sideways at Arran, laughing easily at some tale spun by the village blacksmith. How odd that a MacLawry had both caused her troubles—with her own ample help—and had turned out to be the only one concerned with helping her escape them.
And how well he blended in here—much better than she did, Mary was certain. These people were well outside of Society. They were accustomed to looking after themselves, to driving their own carts and mending their own clothes. Her peers would look down on them as the unwashed, ignorant masses, but in a sense they had a freedom about them. A way of living in the moment that Arran himself seemed to embody. And it was very, very attractive to a lady who’d known her own role since… well, since forever, even if it had lately begun to chafe.
But this was about more than her indulging in fairy-tale dreams. Poor Thomas and Gordon were likely beside themselves back at the Giant’s Pipe, and if Gordon had borrowed a horse rather than taking the coach, he might well have made it back to London by now. Her parents might be aware that she’d gone missing. Would they think she’d run away? That she’d been kidnapped? If she hadn’t been so angry at the way they’d refused to listen to her explanation, at the way they’d used her one and only indiscretion as an excuse to hand her off to a clever, cruel bootlicker, she might have felt some empathy for them.
Instead, she sat beside Arran and chuckled at the tale Mr. Billings the farmer told about a very stubborn pig and his wife’s turnips. She sang along to “Barbara Allen,” and listened to Arran’s fine baritone when he joined in. Of course he knew it; it was a Scottish ballad, after all. Tonight it was a simple thing to believe that they belonged together.
Here she wasn’t Lady Mary, or the Campbell’s granddaughter, or even a Campbell at all. No one tried to gain favor with her or marry her off because of her birth, and when Mrs. Jessup the innkeeper’s wife complimented her on her hair, she could believe it was meant sincerely.
Finally Arran stood and offered his hand to her. “We should head upstairs,” he said in his faux English accent. “We’ve an early day tomorrow. Shall we, Mrs. Fox?”
A low, excited tremor ran down her spine. “Certainly, Mr. Fox.”
Tonight she wanted nothing more than to feel his mouth and his hands on her bare skin—which did nothing at all for her resolve to resist his charms. If he asked, though, if they shared a bed as a husband and wife did, she knew she wouldn’t be able to resist him.
Crawford rose from the table, as well. “Sleep with me tonight, my dear,” she said loudly, though she kept Mary between herself and Arran. “You know I don’t travel well.”
“Oh.” Mary stumbled, not nearly as grateful for the rescue as she should likely have been. “Of course, Mother.”
With Arran close on their heels, they climbed the stairs to the first floor. Mary could feel the heat of him looming behind her as they stopped by the first door. Nobody seemed to want to make the first move, but they couldn’t stand there all night glaring at each other, blast it all. Finally Mary reached past the maid and pushed open the door.
“Go on, Mother,” she said. “I’ll be along in a moment.”
The maid still didn’t move. “I’m here to preserve your reputation, my lady, and I intend to do my duty.”
Moving with that abrupt, deadly grace of his, Arran stepped forward, lifted the ample-sized maid off her feet as easily as if she’d been a feather, and set her down again inside the doorway. “There,” he said.
