Page 12 of Rogue with a Brogue
“After yer own brother, Laird Arran?” Now the servant seemed concerned that at least one of the MacLawrys needed to be carted off to Bedlam.
“Aye,” Arran answered, caught between surprise that Ranulf wasn’t suggestinghebe hauled away and drowned, and reluctant amusement. “If ye please, take wee Munro back to where ye found him.”
The footman sighed. “I’ll do it fer ye, m’laird, but I’d nae be yer true and faithful man if I didnae speak my mind.”
The marquis nodded solemnly. “Say yer piece then, Peter.”
“I think ye’ve been in London too long, m’laird. The madness of these Sasannach is seeping into yer brain.”
“Ye may have the right of it,” Ranulf returned, sending a glance at Arran. “But I’ll nae leave here withoot Lady Charlotte. Ye’ll have to keep a close eye on us until we’re safely back to Glengask.”
Peter drew himself up even straighter. “Aye, m’laird. I’ll see to it ye keep to the Highlands way.” With that he claimed the wastebasket and hauled it off in the direction of the stable.
“And what is the Highlands way?” Arran asked, trying to decide whether attempting to slip the note from Ranulf’s pocket would be worth the additional scrutiny if he was caught at it. More than likely he’d explained it away well enough, and the next time Ranulf looked at it he would simply discard it rather than bring up the topic of Mary Campbell again. Best to leave well enough alone.
“I dunnae. Kilts and brawling and nae saving badgers, I suppose.”
“The badger didnae mean to end up at Gilden House with deer hounds nipping at his heels.” Arran looked over at Ranulf as they walked back to the house. “I dunnae see myself as the badger, ye know. I killed my share of men over in Spain and France, so I’m nae squeamish. Ye know I’ll hunt fer food, but I’ve nae eaten badger. The—”
“You made a good point, Arran,” his brother interrupted. “I likely should have been the one to marry a Stewart. But I’ll nae have any lass but Charlotte. And there wasnae a chance fer an alliance anyway, until ten days ago.”
“As ye say.”
Owen held open the door as they entered the house again. From the look—and smell—of the morning room just off the foyer, the badger had visited there, as well. Several footmen and maids were in there already, removing torn couch cushions and sweeping up broken vases and candy dishes. The whole room was so… English that Arran tended to avoid it. The smell of badger piss might even make for an improvement.
“Ye’ll be able to tell Rowena aboot it tonight,” Ranulf continued. “She and the Hanovers are meeting us at the theater.”
Damnation. “Allthe Hanovers?”
As he turned toward his office, Ranulf paused. “Jane thinks ye handsome and charming.”
Arran narrowed his eyes. “Ye cursed me, didnae? All I said was fer ye to be certain ye wanted to bring an English lady to live in the Highlands.” He’d thought it a valid question, given the way their own lives had gone.
“And allIsaid was that I hoped ye found a lass who agreed with yer every word and nae gave ye a moment of trouble. Mayhap ye should be grateful I found ye someone else.”
It wasn’t an improvement. At the time it had sounded deathly dull. Now, after having firstly become the focus of eighteen-year-old Jane Hanover’s infatuation, and then having an equally bland Scottish lass thrown at him, the idea of being married to just such a creature gave him nightmares. Nightmares that would soon become real.
“Ye’re nae a nice man, Ranulf,” he said aloud, as his brother would be expecting some kind of response.
“A word of advice,bràthair: never advise a man nae to marry the woman he cannae live without.”
“Is this Deirdre shite revenge, then?”
“Nae. It’s survival.”
As Arran went upstairs to assess the damage done to his bedchamber and wall, he had to admit to himself that what Ran had said truly surprised him. Not the last bit, but the part about Charlotte. Yes, he’d heard his older brother say he loved Charlotte Hanover, and heard her profess the same to him. But Ranulf was one-and-thirty, four years his senior. He’d become marquis and chief of the clan when Arran had been eleven.
All the younger siblings knew their brother to be iron-willed, independent, and unwavering. To hear him say he couldn’t live without Charlotte—it spoke of a need, a vulnerability, that Arran hadn’t expected. In a sense, it was even unsettling. They’d all become so accustomed to relying on Ranulf, who relied on no one but himself. And yet after only a few weeks in England Ran had found an outsider, a Sasannach lass, and declared that he needed her.
Shrugging off his disquiet, if not his frustration, Arran shed his jacket. He pulled a few coins from his pockets, and then a piece of pretty yellow and white muslin. Mary’s walking dress. For a moment he looked at it, turning the fabric over in his hands. He could discard it if he still had a wastebasket, but considering what had already happened with that, keeping it someplace safe would likely be wiser. With a glance at his half-open door he went to his wardrobe and tucked it beneath a pile of cravats. He wasn’t being sentimental. Not over a Campbell. He was merely being cautious.
That done, he sat down to write Munro. Bear, as he’d been known since their father had prophesied that he would grow to be the size of one, had remained at Glengask to oversee the estate and the clan. He hadn’t wanted to do so, but being the youngest brother—and the youngest sibling excepting Rowena—had to have some sort of penalty attached to it. Considering that Ranulf had thrown Deirdre at the nearest brother, Bear should count himself lucky that he’d stayed behind.
As he reported about the progress of Ranulf’s engagement, his own soon-expected betrothal, and their luck thus far in keeping Rowena from falling for the charms of some weak-chinned Sasannach lordling, he left out any mention of Mary Campbell. Mary was… interesting, and she could possibly give him some insight into the Campbell clan. And that, he told himself, was the beginning, middle, and end of it.
Finally Owen knocked on his door. “Ye’re to leave fer the theater in an hour, m’laird. Do ye wish help dressing?”
If he’d learned one thing about the English during his sojourn in the army, it was that they changed clothes every time they changed seats. “Nae, Owen. I’ll see to it.”
