Page 22 of Rogue with a Brogue
“Crawford, you know you look ridiculous,” Mary commented, turning her mare, Alba, in a tight circle around the maid. “You can’t think to escort me on foot.”
“I will be close by, at least,” the maid returned. “Davis will escort you.” She gestured at the groom, a few feet behind on one of the numerous horses Mary’s father kept in his London stable.
“Davis always escorts me when I go riding. I don’t even know why you’re here.”
She did know, of course. All the previous times she’d gone for a morning ride in Hyde Park, she hadn’t yet made the acquaintance of Lord Arran MacLawry. Now she had, and suddenly Crawford needed to be present. And Mary tolerated it, because at least the maid hadn’t tattled about her luncheon with him.
“Just enjoy your morning, my lady. I’ll be close by.”
Before Mary could decide whether it was even worth going out this morning with the maid traipsing after her, she spied Elizabeth Bell and her older sister, Annabeth. “Liz,” she called, waving, and urged Alba down the path.
“Good morning, Mary. Is that Crawford?”
Mary sighed. “Yes, she detests horses, but she’s decided to follow me, anyway.”
“You could just send her away, you know.”
“Yes, but then she gives me a look like a little lost puppy. And she means well.” She reined in to trot beside them.
The park was crowded this morning, likely because the weather was so fine. Within ten minutes her cheeks felt tired from smiling greetings at all her friends and acquaintances, from uttering admiring pleasantries to all the young bucks cantering about to show off their horsemanship and sterling riding attire. It was like a great parade, where each person knew their role and played it each and every time the weather was agreeable enough for the cavalcade.
And then she spied someone riding against the tide. A splendid black Thoroughbred sidestepped gracefully around a barouche and continued forward—toward her. And the man riding him didn’t look as though he would willingly be a part of any prerehearsed pageant. Unruly black hair tossed by the breeze, sharp, light eyes that practically crackled with humor and intelligence, and a lean, strong jaw and steady gaze that simply radiated confidence and power and pride. Highlands pride.
While Liz and her sister stopped to chat with an acquaintance in a phaeton, Mary backed Alba around and turned the chestnut mare toward a thick stand of trees. She didn’t hurry; that would certainly attract attention, and that was the last thing she wanted. The black changed course to intercept her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in a low voice, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch.
“I’m observing the Sasannach,” Arran returned with a grin. “Ye look rather splendid this morning.”
Her cheeks heated. “Thank you. You look fine, yourself.”
“Do I? Winnie says I should wear a hat more, but I’ve never seen anything more useless than those tall, narrow-brimmed things the fops swear by.”
“It isn’t just the fops,” she countered, but personally she agreed with him. Not that hats were useless, but that he looked exceedingly fine without one. For a MacLawry, of course.
“Tell me someaught,” he said, urging his black closer. “Is it just me?”
“Is what just you?”
“Us. Is it just me? Because when I woke this morning, the first thought that popped into my head was that it would be grand to see ye today.” He reached over and brushed a finger down her arm. “What did ye think this morning when ye woke?”
Considering she’d awoken from a dream that Arran MacLawry had been standing in a forest with her, kissing her senseless, she wasn’t certain she should answer that question. But then he would be the only one with any courage, and she would be… well, just who she was supposed to be. “I thought it would be pleasant if I were to catch sight of you this morning,” she said aloud. “And that perhaps you might kiss me.”
Arran stood in his stirrups, leaned sideways, and captured her mouth with his. Heat rushed through her veins, exciting and heady. His very capable mouth molded against hers, making her think of things she was certain young ladies should not be considering.
“I’m beginning to wish you weren’t a MacLawry,” she murmured.
He backed away from her a little, and for a moment she thought she’d insulted him. Then a slow smile touched that mouth of his. “We’re only a Campbell and a MacLawry to the rest of the world, lass,” he returned in a soft, low brogue. “To me, ye’re Mary. And if ye go riding tomorrow, I’ll meet ye here again. And every day until I see ye at the dinner on Friday night.”
“And what about the… other people with whom we should be spending our time?” she countered, reluctant to speak of them at all, much less name them.
Brief frustration crossed his handsome features. “Are ye married yet, lass?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Neither am I. Ye keep answering that same way, and I’ll keep kissing ye.”
She sighed, taking him in all over again. “Then I hope it doesn’t rain tomorrow.”
