Page 16 of Rogue with a Brogue
“I don’t know what to say. And I don’t think it matters, anyway. We marry who we’re told to marry, do we not, Arran MacLawry? For the good of our clans?”
He tilted his head. Then, before she could move, he closed the short distance remaining between them, leaned down, and touched his mouth to hers. He tasted of warmth and whisky, and sin. It was surprisingly delicious.
Realizing she had a hand splayed against his chest, Mary swiftly lowered her arm, curling her fingers into her palm. “You… You just kissed a Campbell,” she whispered, her voice sounding husky to her own ears. “Lightning may just strike you dead.”
He shook his head, a lock of his wavy black hair falling across his brow. “I nae kissed a Campbell. I kissedye,Mary.” With a half grin he backed away, then turned on his heel. “And I say, let the lightning come if it will. I’m nae married yet. And neither are ye.” Arran glanced over his shoulder at her. “I’ll see ye fer luncheon tomorrow, lass.”
Mary gazed after him, then belatedly touched her fingers to her lips. He was a MacLawry, and she was a Campbell. They werenotfriends. But whatever it was they were, she was abruptly beginning to find it very interesting.
***
Ranulf met Arran on the front drive as he returned from his morning ride with the dogs and his quick-footed black Thoroughbred, Duffy. Though calling it a ride was somewhat of a stretch, since even Rotten Row had been packed with gentlemen seeking the morning air. Or to be seen in their fine riding gear. He wasn’t certain which.
“Ye’re going to have to wear someaught else to White’s,” Ranulf said, taking Duffy’s bridle. “They’ll nae admit stableboys.”
As Arran dismounted, nearly as breathless as the dogs and the horse, he took a moment to study his brother’s easy expression. However he felt about the chief of his clan—his own brother—marrying a Sasannach, Charlotte did make Ranulf happy. And he could be grateful for that. “I’m nae going to White’s,” he returned. “I’m meeting Fordham for luncheon.” Or at least that was what his old army comrade would vouch, since he’d arranged for it during his ride.
“Have him join us. Charlotte’s father issued the invitation, and Uncle Myles will be there. Allen’s attending, as well. And Tollifsen. I’m attempting to show a proper front.”
“I have plans,” Arran repeated, with more heat than he intended. “Ye can be proper and English withoot me. And ye dunnae need me fer Allen until ye settle on how much land I’m worth.” He handed Duffy’s reins over to Debny, the head groom Ran had brought down with him from Glengask.
Ranulf blocked his path to the house. “Allen and Tollifsen have good merchant contacts here in London, and they’ll nae do business with men who’re naught but dragon-wrestling Highlanders.”
“Who won’t? The Stewarts, or the merchants?”
“Neither of them.”
“Well, it’s yer good fortune, then, that ye’ve been turning yerself into a Sasannach fer the past two months, isnae?” Arran moved around his brother, stripping off his riding gloves as he did so. “I recall a few months ago when ye didnae care what the Sasannach thought of ye. And when the clan MacLawry was strong enough to stand against any family in the Highlands withoot bringing in pinky-lifting tea drinkers fer support.”
“Which tea drinkers? The Stewarts, or Charlotte’s family?”
“Both of them.”
“Arran.”
“If ye want to prove ye’re civilized, why dunnae ye have luncheon with the Campbell? Or Lord Fendarrow?”
“That’s enough.”
He kept walking. “Then stop my flapping gums with yer damned fist, Ran.”
“It’s nae yer gums I’m trying to convince, Arran. It’s yer mind.”
“Then dunnae bother. I’m nae the chief. Do as ye will.”
If Ranulf wanted to disregard or excuse centuries of conflict with the English, excuse Highlanders being forbidden to carry weapons or wear kilts or play the damned pipes, or even being burned off their land by other Highlanders, he could do so. But at the moment Arran was the heir to Glengask—at least until Ranulf married Charlotte and she gave him a son—and he refused to let his brother forget who was paying the price for his new, proper ways. It seemed he wasn’t going to be granted that luxury himself, and fair was fair.
Owen pulled open the front door as he reached it. “Did ye have a good run, then?”
“Aye, Owen. I very nearly kept heading north.”
The footman-butler chuckled. “If ye decide to do that, make certain ye take me with ye.”
So he wasn’t the only one growing uneasy in London—though Owen had been there several weeks longer than he. Handing over his hat and gloves, Arran trotted upstairs. Yesterday afternoon he hadn’t been certain Mary would actually meet him today. And then he’d defied his brother’s orders and his own better instincts and not only sought her out last night, but kissed her.
Why, he wasn’t certain, except that she’d looked lovely and sinful in scarlet and he’d wanted to do so. They’d found themselves in very similar situations, but that kiss hadn’t been about commiseration. The actual truth would have to wait until he’d deciphered it. Because all he knew for certain at that moment was that he meant to keep his rendezvous at the Blue Lamb Inn, and that he’d lied to and insulted his brother in order to do it. All for a luncheon with a Campbell. All when he should likely be planning a luncheon with Lady Deirdre.
Still without a valet, he pulled off his sweaty riding clothes and stepped into the bath of cold water he’d requested. Chilly as it was, it still seemed less breath-stealing than a swim in Loch Shinaig. Then he dressed in a plain gray jacket, brown waistcoat, and buckskin breeches tucked into some impressively shiny Hessian boots. There. Suitably English, but not fancy enough to warrant a second glance. Or so he hoped.
