Page 79 of Rogue with a Brogue
The spyglass rose, pointed down at the cottage for a long moment, then lowered again. As he risked another glance down the hill, Arran abruptly stilled. With the repaired curtains hanging partly open, the sight of Mòrag and Sean Mallister twirling in a slow waltz made him smile. The dance had likely been Mary’s idea, and he couldn’t conjure any image that spoke more of ease and contentment.
He waited another minute to be certain Peter was in position on the other side of the stand of trees, then began moving forward. After a lifetime of hunting deer and grouse and rabbit and then four years of killing Frenchmen, the instincts of stealth and silence were second nature to him. But this time he didn’t intend to kill. And the only reason for that was somewhere in the dark below, waiting for him.
When he was close enough to share the lad’s cold leg of mutton, he launched forward. Grabbing the fellow around the neck, he lifted and shoved, planting him flat on his face in the dirt. “Good evening,” he drawled, setting his knee into the middle of the lad’s back.
Peter appeared, grabbing up a rifle and pistol from beside the tiny fire and stomping on the spyglass. “That was nicely done, m’laird.”
“Thank ye.”
“MacLawry,” the lad gasped, his voice muffled against the ground.
“Aye. MacLawry. Now ye tell me what the devil ye’re doing up here, when I saw the rest of the Campbells ride oot two days ago.”
“I’m… I’m watching the cottage,” he squeaked, no note of the Highlands in his unsteady voice. Another Sassannach-raised Scotsman whose blood had thinned to water.
“The cottage.” He gestured. “That cottage? Why?”
“Why?”
Arran ground his knee between the lad’s shoulder blades. “I’ve been hiding in some fellow’s barn fer three days, so I’m nae in a mood fer ye nae to answer me. Why are ye watching that cottage?”
“It’s—he—Fendarrow’s sister lives there. He thought Lady Mary might have brought you here.”
“A Campbell lives there? And Fendarrow thinks I’d set foot in a Campbell hoose? I’d sooner burn it to the ground. Ye’re all daft. The whole damned lot of ye.”
Peter produced a length of rope and made a show of uncoiling it while the young fellow squirmed like a spit fish. “I’m Fendarrow’s nephew,” he squealed. “If you… If you kill me, you’ll be breaking the truce!”
Arran cocked his head. “Didnae ye get word, lad? I kissed yer cousin. The truce is already broken.”
“No it’s not! I mean, there’s some confusion about that. No blood’s been spilled yet, I don’t think.”
That was something, anyway, though he imagined it was only a matter of time. A very short time, if Fendarrow had his way. “And yet ye were sitting here with a rifle beside ye,” he said aloud. “Were ye hoping we’d ride doon the road so ye could blow my head off? Or Mary’s?”
“Not Mary’s! She’s not to be hurt.”
“Ah. But I am, eh? Dunnae ye think that would break yer truce?”
“He’s anamadan,fer certain,” Peter put in. “So are we hanging him?”
“God’s sake! No!”
Arran sighed, winking at Peter. “What’s yer name, Campbell?”
“Fergus. Fergus Campbell.”
“My brother has a dog named Fergus.” With a last shove between the shoulder blades, Arran stood. “Let’s string up the dog, Peter.”
“N—”
Arran hauled him upright and cuffed the lad in the face. He’d told Mary he wouldn’t kill, but the idea of this bairn pointing a weapon in their direction, of what might have happened to Mary if he’d missed his shot, dug a hole of worry into his gut.
“M’laird?”
Shaking himself, he gave Peter a quick nod. Together they bound Fergus Campbell’s feet together and hands to his sides. Then Arran threw the end of the rope up over a sturdy-looking oak branch. The lad looked ready to wet himself, but Arran didn’t have much sympathy for him.
He stepped in front of the boy. “When ye next set eyes on Fendarrow, ye tell him someaught fer me.”
“What… What shall I say, then?”
