Page 15 of Rogue with a Brogue
On the other hand, she wasn’t certain she could tolerateHamlettonight. Aside from the presence of a very troublesome man just across the stage from her, there were the plots within plots, lies, deceit, betrayals, murders, suicide—given all the soul-wrenching mayhem, this was likely Charles’s favorite play. After forty minutes or so, she found herself once again gazing across the darkened space toward the MacLawry box.
Were the MacLawrys doing the same thing to Arran that her own clan had in mind for her? Or had he already been in pursuit of Deirdre Stewart before… heavens, was it only last night that they’d met? The Stewart’s niece was considered a great beauty, after all. But if Arran was after Deirdre, what had he been doing asking a vixen mask to waltz? And what about this morning? And luncheon tomorrow?
“Excuse me,” she whispered, standing. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
“I’ll go with you,” Roderick said, starting to his feet.
“Nonsense. You’ll miss a murder.”
“Mary,” her mother chided.
“I apologize. It was Charles who likes the murders. I will be back in a moment.” Evidently she’d convinced him that she didn’t need his assistance to find a privy closet, because inclining his head, he sat back again.
With another murmured apology to the rest of her box mates, Mary made her way to the curtain at the rear and slipped into the hallway beyond. A few other audience members wandered past her, outnumbered by footmen toting drinks and opera glasses and warm wraps—and even a small, fluffy dog.
Leaning back against the wall, Mary closed her eyes for a moment. Yes, she was one-and-twenty, and yes, even with her grandfather’s indulgence she’d always known she would eventually have to marry according to the clan’s will. But not yet. For goodness’ sake, if anything the truce with the MacLawrys should have removed any urgency from her impending union, not created it.
She took a deep breath and opened her eyes again—then let it out with a barely stifled squeak as she spied the man topping the stairs and heading in her direction. He was not a footman, and he was not carrying a dog. He was, however, wearing a splendid kilt of black and white and red. Before he could approach her parents’ box; she straightened and hurried toward him.
“What are you doing here, Arran?” she whispered, starting to reach for his arm and then stopping herself. They weren’t friends; they were… they were new acquaintances who were never supposed to have met. And she happened to find him somewhat, barely, attractive.
“Hamletseems a bit too close to my life,” he drawled in his deep, rich brogue. “And I keep wanting to yell at Hamlet to kill his uncle and stop all that lunatic talking to himself and the play-within-a-play nonsense.” Light blue eyes regarded her. “What sent ye fleeing, lass?”
“The same thing, I suppose. Too much subterfuge. I prefer the comedies.”
“Aye.” He glanced past her at the closed curtains of the Campbell box. “Calder wasnae blaming ye fer dancing with me, I hope.”
Had he come all the way around the theater into enemy territory just to see if she was well? “Youblamed me for it, as I recall.”
That wicked grin touched his mouth again. “Ye’re nae a shy lass, are ye?”
She edged closer, wishing he would lower his voice just a bit more. For heaven’s sake, her cousin Charles was twenty-five feet away. And her almost betrothed, only twenty-seven. “I can be diplomatic. But I prefer to be direct. It makes for fewer misunderstandings.”
“Direct it is, then. Has Delaveer offered fer ye?”
Mary lifted an eyebrow. “Have you offered for Deirdre Stewart?”
“Nae.” He shifted his feet, glancing beyond her in the direction of her parents’ box. “Between ye and me, lass?”
He was asking for her discretion. She should have been shocked and surprised, but she wasn’t. The entire time they conversed was only for the two of them. “Yes. Just between us.”
“Then I’ll offer fer her, once her father and uncle decide how much of their grazing land they’ll return to their cotters, and Ranulf decides it’s enough of a concession.”
“Do you want to marry her?” It was a stupid, silly question, but she asked it anyway.
“Nae. She’s… pleasant, I suppose, but she’s nae warm-blooded enough fer me.” He glanced down. “And Delaveer?” he continued, meeting her gaze again. “Ye didnae answer my question.”
“He and my father are negotiating,” she said slowly. “Along with his father and my grandfather.”
“Do ye want to marry him?”
“No,” she returned, in the same tone he’d used, realizing that there was no one else in the world with whom she could—or would—have this particular conversation. “He’s not warm-blooded enough for me. If the Campbells and MacLawrys were still fighting it would be Charles Calder after me, though, and that would be even worse.”
Arran scowled. “Calder? That dog needs to be put down.”
Mary gazed at him. With the gray coat that couldn’t hide his broad shoulders, the trim black waistcoat, and the bold MacLawry plaid of his kilt, he looked magnificent, no matter which name he carried. She wondered what he might be thinking about her. “I don’t like Charles, but heismy cousin.”
Arran shrugged. “I ken who ye are. I also reckon I may have caused ye trouble withoot meaning to. And yet, I dunnae intend to apologize fer it.” He took a slow step closer. “What do ye say to that?”
