Page 11 of Rogue with a Brogue
Pocketing the paper rather than discarding it—no doubt his way of pointing out that he had no intention of forgetting the incident—Ranulf hefted the tea tray and held it flat against the wall just above the wastebasket.
“Ready?” Arran asked, beginning to feel the ache in his arms from the effort of keeping control of the trapped animal.
“Aye. Ready, and… now.”
Arran tilted the top of the bucket away from the wall. Moving at the same time, Ranulf slid the tray down, turning it into a lid. A paw with massive digging claws jabbed out, catching Arran’s sleeve, and then he pushed the container closed again.
Still moving together, they turned the wastebasket upright and set it down on the floor. Arran sat on the tea tray with the badger snarling and rocking beneath him. “Some rope, do ye think?” he asked.
Straightening, Ranulf nodded. “I’ll fetch some.” He flashed a grin. “Dunnae go anywhere.”
“I’m near dying from laughter. Take the dogs with ye; they arenae helping anything now.”
The marquis whistled both dogs to his side, and the three of them trotted for the staircase. Almost immediately the badger began to quiet, and aside from a few halfhearted snarls, it seemed fairly content to be there in the close dark.
Poor fellow, out hunting for someaught, then flung about by Scottish deer hounds and carried back to a proper London house to be skinned. It wasn’t much of a stretch to see his own situation reflected in the badger’s. After all, he’d only left Glengask after Ranulf’s letters from London began to speak of a troubling obsession with a Sasannach lass.
His presence hadn’t stopped Ran from falling in love and proposing marriage to Charlotte Hanover, nor had he done anything to help this truce with the Campbells along—except to get a pistol pointed at him and his sister; the very thing that had prompted Ranulf to make a cease-fire agreement with old enemies.
And now that he’d been designated a part to play, he found himself reluctant to take on the role. He wouldn’t have liked being forced into a marriage, regardless, but now… He’d waltzed with Mary Campbell by accident. And whatever his original reason for hunting her down this morning, he’d lingered because she was… unexpected. As for tomorrow, at the moment he could put that down to curiosity. It was more a test of her courage than his, and why he’d decided that was important, well, he’d figure it out later. It wasn’t as if a conversation or two with her would keep him from doing his duty by the clan and marrying pleasant Deirdre Stewart, after all.
“So, Master Badger,” he drawled aloud, “what should we do with ye? I dunnae suppose, if given the choice, ye’d prefer to be turned into a lady’s wrap or work gloves.”
The tray under his arse bumped.
“Nae, I didnae think so. Ye shouldnae have gotten yerself caught, then. Once ye’re caught, yer fate’s nae yer own.”
“Are ye finished chatting with the beastie,” his brother asked from the doorway, “or should I leave ye be?” Without waiting for an answer he squatted down beside the wastebasket to run rope through the tea tray’s handles.
“I was only pointing oot the risks of handing his life over to someone else.” Arran slid off the lid, holding it closed with both arms so his brother could bind it to the bucket.
“Deirdre Stewart’s a pretty lass,” Ranulf said, rising again.
“Aye. Ye should marry her,” Arran retorted. “A shame ye went and followed yer heart. But then ye can always throw yer obligation at someone else, so all’s well.”
The marquis tilted his head. “Is yer heart leading ye somewhere?”
“Nae. Of course not,” he answered, hoping he hadn’t answered too vehemently.
“Then shut yer mouth and stop making trouble.”
Arran hefted the snarling, wriggling wastebasket and carried it down the hallway, down the stairs, through the foyer, and out the front door. Setting it down on the drive, he sat on it again to keep it from tipping over and rolling away. His older brother looked at him for a long moment, stone-faced, then faced the milling servants.
“The excitement’s done with,” the marquis said, “though there’s a bit of a mess upstairs. Back inside with ye.”
Owen began urging servants toward the front door. “What do ye mean to do with that thing?” he asked.
“Why didnae ye shoot it?” Peter, the footman, seconded. “Damned thing near frighted me to death, coming back to life like that.”
“Do ye remember where ye and the dogs flushed it, Peter?” Ranulf asked the footman.
“Aye, I reckon I do, m’laird. Ye want me to find more of ’em fer ye? Though if ye mean to carry them aboot in buckets, I dunnae know why ye want them.”
“Hitch up a wagon and take it back.”
Peter stared, clearly baffled, at the marquis. “Are ye mad, m’laird? If ye dunnae want to ruin the pelt, I’ll droon it fer ye.”
Ranulf sent another glance at Arran. “Nae. Arran’s gone and named it Munro. We cannae kill it now.”
