Page 17 of Rogue with a Brogue
“Hail me a hack, will ye, Owen?” he asked the butler as he headed back downstairs.
“Aye, m’laird. Do ye nae want one of the lads with ye, though?”
“Nae.” He took his gray beaver hat and set it on his head. Until last week he’d never worn such a useless thing. “We’ve a truce, didnae ye hear?”
“I heard. Dunnae believe it’ll last, though.”
“Good. Ye keep that up, Owen.” He followed the new butler outside, waiting on the front steps as Owen walked to the end of the drive and signaled a passing coach.
A moment later he returned, the hack trundling up beside him. “Yer brother the marquis says to trust a wee bit more than we have been,” he said, as he pulled open the door. “The Sasannach, I mean.”
“Ye do that, then. I’ll be keeping both my eyes open.” With a smile he didn’t feel, Arran climbed into the short, narrow vehicle. “Crane House, on Madox Street,” he said loudly enough for Owen to hear, naming William Crane, Viscount Fordham’s, address for effect. He’d hire another hack from there to take him to Ellis Street and the Blue Lamb.
If Ranulf learned anything about this, his brother would likely attempt to bloody his nose and put a boot in his arse, then order him home to Glengask to wait for his bride to be delivered. But Ran couldn’t have it both ways; either they were the MacLawrys who trusted and relied on no one but themselves, or they were half-English lads making alliances and friendships with every Highlander who wasn’t a Campbell and every Sassanach who wished them good morning.
And until the Marquis of Glengask decided who they were and when he was to marry a Stewart, Arran meant to do as pleased him. Since he’d kissed Mary Campbell last night, it pleased him to see her today. It was also necessary, on the chance she’d taken offense and told Charles Calder or her father. That would mean the end of the truce. If she hadn’t taken offense, well, that would be much more interesting.
***
“I have no wish to be sacked, my lady.” Crawford wrung her hands together as they stood beside a stable yard, around the corner from the Blue Lamb Inn.
“You’re doing as I ask. No one’s going to sack you. I won’t allow it.” She only half paid attention to the conversation; most of her was occupied with listening for church bells, waiting for them to chime one o’clock.
“It’s not the doing as you’ve asked part that troubles me,” the maid returned. “It’s the me not informing your parents that you’re doing something dangerous. You’re practically engaged to another man, Lady Mary.”
In ragged unison across London, bells began ringing in a single, discordant note. One o’clock. Her last chance to regain her sanity and return home. To be a dutiful, obedient daughter who would never have a carnal thought about a MacLawry—not even one as handsome as Arran. “‘Practically’ means not yet. And I’m not doing anything dangerous, Crawford. Now please, go purchase something pretty for yourself. I’ll meet you back here at half two, or you can come in and fetch me.”
The maid looked halfway to tears, but she nodded. “Very well, my lady. Please, please be careful.”
“I will be.”
She watched the maid cross the street toward the shabby shops lining the way. Crawford looked back over her shoulder every few feet, like some sad pup being told to leave home without supper. When she disappeared inside a milliner’s, Mary took a slow, deep breath.
London—not the best part of it, of course—bustled around her, but for the first time in what may well have been ever, she gazed at it alone. The maid had told her to be careful, and here she actually needed to be so.
Perhaps she didn’t generally have guards surrounding her, but she was never on her own outside of Mathering House. She should likely be nervous now, or even frightened. But she wasn’t. What she felt most, in fact, was an unsettled anticipation.
Of course if she didn’t go inside the Blue Lamb Inn, this would all be for nothing. An enemy was waiting for her inside. A very roguish, attractive enemy she’d yet to find any real reason to dislike. A man who kept her thoughts occupied so she didn’t have room to dwell on her impending doom. Because that was what the idea of marrying Roderick felt like. Doom.
Mary squared her shoulders, walked up to the inn’s peeling blue door and pushed it open. A dozen men and half that many women sat at various wooden tables in the main room. It rather reminded her of the inns where they changed horses on the way up to Scotland, in fact, except for the strong London accents chittering around her.
Toward the back of the room a figure stood, and her heart skittered, her mouth curving upward before she could even think to stop it. This was the moment, she realized. The moment when she chose to misbehave, when she chose to think of her own interests above those of clan Campbell—at least for one afternoon. Moving as gracefully as she could with all her insides jittering about, she joined Arran at the table.
“You came,” she said, sitting on the bench opposite him.
He resumed his seat again. “And so did ye.”
For a brief moment he looked down at his hands, and she wondered if he meant to tell her that they were tempting trouble for no better reason than itwastrouble, and that meeting for a stupid luncheon simply wasn’t worth the risk if they were discovered. All that was correct, but she didn’t wish to hear it. Not when it had made her feel so wicked and bold just to be here.
When he looked up again, his face bore the half smile that made her knees feel just a little wobbly. “I’ve an idea,” he drawled.
“And what might that be?”
“What if we begin from the beginning, as if we’d never heard of each other, of our families? What if I’m Arran, a lad from the Highlands, and you’re Mary, a lass from Wiltshire, neither of us with any other commitments, and we just… become acquainted?”
She offered her hand. Without a hesitation, he reached out and shook it. She could swear that where their skin touched felt electrified, though that might have been her nerves. “I agree,” she said. “I’m Mary. Pleased to meet you, Arran.”
His grin deepened. “So, tell me aboot yerself, lass.”
