Page 67 of Rogue with a Brogue
“This is a very bad idea, m’lady,” Peter grumbled. “Laird Arran wouldnae like it.”
“Laird Arran needs a bed and likely a doctor,” she returned, pushing down her worry by counting the seconds of silence inside the house. Her breaking down and weeping on some stranger’s front step wouldn’t help him, and it wouldn’t helpthem.
As she reached twenty the door rattled and cracked open. “The Mallisters aren’t seeing anyone tonight,” a mild-voiced older man said. The door began to close again.
Mallister.That was it. “I’m Mary Campbell,” Mary said swiftly. “I’m looking for my aunt Mòrag.”
The door froze. “Wait here.” It clicked shut again.
All she wanted to do was put her shoulder to the door, push her way in, and demand assistance for Arran. For heaven’s sake, he was lying out there in the cold with only a one-eyed coach driver to watch over him. But she knew quite well that patience would serve her better than brute force.
The cottage itself was almost comically innocuous, with a low, white fence covered with summer roses, a steepled roof, and a quartet of windows shuttered with pretty green and white curtains looking out from the ground and first floors. By Fendarrow standards it was tiny, smaller than the gatekeeper’s cottage there. But for a pair of lovers looking to escape a powerful family or two, it seemed… perfect.
“What if they dunnae open the door again?” Peter asked gloomily.
“Then I’ll think of something else.” What, she had no idea, but he couldn’t be allowed to know that.
The door swung open again, wider this time. A man and a woman of about her parents’ age stood there side by side, gazing at her. The woman had the same light green eyes that Mary and her father shared, the same high cheekbones and narrow chin she saw in herself and her grandfather.
“Aunt Mòrag?”
“I… I go by Sarah now,” the woman said, the merest trace of a brogue in her voice. That was how her father would sound, if he hadn’t studiously flattened his vowels and reined in hisr’s for so long that they’d become lost. “This is my husband, Sean.”
Mary nodded at him, offering what she hoped was a friendly smile. “I… have a small problem, Aunt Sarah, and I need your assistance.”
“We do not step into Campbell family business,” her uncle stated, no Irish at all in his tone.
“I have a man outside your gate,” Mary pressed, speaking quickly. Simply because the union she and Arran intended was frowned upon by the clan—clans—didn’t make anyone else who happened to be out of favor her ally. That was up to her. “He was injured when our coach rolled over. I just need a bed for him for a night or two, until he recovers.”
Aunt Sarah shook her head. “I stay away from the clan. Robert Daily has a house in Manchester, less than an hour from here. I’ll give you the address. He can help you.” She put her hand on the door. “You’re very pretty, Mary. You remind me of me, in my younger days. I’m… glad I finally got to make your acquaintance.”
Mary took a breath. “This injured man is Arran MacLawry. We… We are eloping. My father is likely less than ten hours behind us. I… I don’t know where else I can go.”
Her aunt’s already pale cheeks blanched white. “A MacLawry?” she gasped. “This is precisely where your father will come if you’re defying him! Don’t you realize that?”
A tear ran down Mary’s cheek, and she swiftly brushed it away. Arran had saved her from misery and offered her pleasure and happiness. She would not fail him now, when he finally needed her. “I do realize that. All I ask is one room, even a closet, where he can rest, and for you to say that you never saw us.”
The banker looked over at Peter, who stood just to one side, his expression as serious as Mary had ever seen it. “And what of you, sir? Are you a Campbell? What’s your part in all this?”
“I’m nae a Campbell. I wear the colors of clan MacLawry.” He inclined his head. “And this lass and her lad, my laird, could use yer help.”
Mary put a hand on Peter’s arm, surprise and gratitude running through her. “I don’t know what else to say that might convince you to help us. I cannot go anywhere else.”
Aunt Sarah closed her eyes for a moment. “Come in, then. Sean, I—”
“I’ll help bring in the young man,” her husband interrupted. “And see what I can do to hide their transportation.”
As Mary stepped into the house, trying to keep herself from collapsing in relief, the two men headed into the darkness. “All we have is a door, four horses, and two trunks,” she said over her shoulder.
“A door?” Sarah Mallister led the way up the narrow staircase, Mary close on her heels and not wanting to give anyone time to change their minds.
“We salvaged it from the coach. When it rolled over, Arran struck his head quite hard. We were on the driver’s perch, and he grabbed me. He kept me from being injured, and instead he…” Another tear trailed down her face, and she wiped at it impatiently.
How did Arran do it? He was strong and decisive and confident and good-humored, when he couldn’t possibly have known what might happen to them next. And here she was, involving people from whom she should be staying well away—both for her sake and theirs—and all she could think of was how worried she was about Arran. Her Arran, out there in the dark where she couldn’t watch over him.
Everyone always watched overher,protectedher. Kept her from becoming acquainted with people she might otherwise have found… remarkable, simply because of the color of their plaids or the fact that they’d decided not to wear one. Well, now it was her turn to protect all of them, to see that no harm came to the people who’d chosen not to turn their backs.
“What’s through there?” she asked, putting aside her doubts for a more opportune moment. She indicated a promising-looking door tucked into a corner of the hallway.
