Page 24 of Rogue with a Brogue
Given Lord Glengask’s reputation for brawling at Society to-dos, she was rather surprised he and his brother had been invited, but then Penrose—not his wife—did have a penchant for welcoming the company of “interesting” persons. And even her father would have to acknowledge that Glengask was interesting. His brother, in her opinion, was even more so.
They entered the house and climbed the wide staircase to the first floor where the drawing room and formal dining room blazed with the light of still more candles. Mary found herself wanting to smooth her violet gown and find a mirror to check the tumbling, twisting knot of her light brown hair, but she resisted both urges. Arran would either be there or he wouldn’t, and in either case she wouldn’t be acknowledging him. In fact, it was entirely possible that she wouldn’t be able to say a single word to him all evening—even if her father didn’t make the family’s excuses and bundle them home again once he realized the MacLawry brothers were in attendance.
This year at least sixty well-dressed aristocrats crowded into the large drawing room and spilled into the hallway outside. As she squeezed her way in among the tightly packed guests, Mary began to wonder if she’d be able to even see her own feet, much less anyone more than an arm’s length away from her. Their hostess, the Countess of Penrose, used a footman to push her way through the crowd so she and Mary’s mother could carefully hug without causing any wrinkles or out-of-place hairs. The two women began chatting, as they usually did, about the latest Paris fashions. They’d had luncheon together three days ago so Mary didn’t know what new innovations could possibly attract their interest, but she fixed a smile on her face and stood there, trying not to be trampled.
Neither Kathleen nor Liz would be in attendance tonight, but several of her other friends would be. As would Lord Delaveer. And more than likely, Lady Deirdre Stewart. Wondering just how many conversations about fashion any one person could listen to before her head fell off, she turned around—and looked up to see dark blue MacLawry eyes gazing down at her.
“Lord Glengask,” she said, swallowing her surprise. The marquis and Arran were clearly brothers, but Arran’s face was leaner, the lines and angles less… hard. As to which brother was more handsome, that had been a subject of much debate this Season, but it was an argument that for obvious reasons mostly took place out of her hearing. If anyone had asked, she would have placed her wager on Arran.
“Lady Mary Campbell,” the marquis said in his deep-voiced brogue.
A hand touched her shoulder, pulling her backward a step. “Glengask,” her father’s voice came, clipped and cold.Oh, dear.
If anything could be worse than one clan coldly shunning the other, it was an open argument between them. These two men were not going to talk about fashion. They both stood not quite square, but right side slightly forward, duelists but for their empty hands. Being attracted to Arran was difficult enough. This could make things so much worse.
“Lord Fendarrow,” a more familiar brogue drawled, and Arran stepped around his brother. “I dunnae think we’ve been introduced.” He offered his hand. “Arran MacLawry.”
Mary held her breath. Her father was not a rude man, but hewasa Campbell. One day he would betheCampbell, the chief of the clan—as Glengask was the chief of his. Arran kept his gaze steadily on her father, but she looked at him, at his calm expression, the slight, open smile on his face. At this moment he didn’t look at all like the rogue he was reputed to be. What he looked like was a Highlander, tall and strong and fearless.
After a hesitation that everyone within sight had to have noticed, her father reached over and shook hands with Arran. “MacLawry,” he grunted, letting go and lowering his hand as swiftly as he could do so without looking like he found the deed distasteful. “Come along, Mary,” he continued, wrapping his fingers around her arm. “Your mother is looking for you.”
“Thank ye fer dancing with me the other night, Lady Mary,” Arran continued, and her father froze in his retreat. “I know I must have surprised ye, but there’s nae one of us who wants a truce broken over a fox mask.”
She nodded, trying to hide her approval. Was he actually attempting to… Heavens, she had no idea. To impress her father? To make it known that the MacLawrys were committed to the truce? Perhaps imply that there was no need to rush into new alliances? And now she had to say something, in front of her father and Arran’s brother, that wouldn’t cause the Penrose drawing room to erupt into open warfare. That would mean pride-driven death, and her pushed at Charles Calder. “You dance a fine waltz, Lord Arran.”
Her father gripped her arm hard enough to leave a mark. “This way, Mary.”
She had to go with him, or be dragged off her feet. When she managed a parting glance at Arran, he was looking right back at her. And smiling.
***
Mary had worn a deep violet gown that hugged her fine curves, and no amount of willpower could have kept Arran from lowering his gaze to her swaying hips as her father hurried her away. Her lovely autumn-colored hair was coiled into an intricate tangle of braids and beads, soft curls framing her oval face and bringing out the green of her eyes. She made him hungry, and for something more primal than food.
Ranulf grabbed his shoulder. “What the devil was that?” he murmured, moving around to face Arran directly.
Only an inch or so separated them in height—which was odd, because in his mind Ranulf had always been larger than life. But standing there before him was simply… a man. A big man, but then so was he. And Bear was bigger than both of them. He followed the law of the clan because Ranulf asked him to do so. But now for the first time, he found himself unsure that his brother was on the correct path. Did that give him leave to carve his own trail?
“I asked ye a question,” Ranulf hissed, his grip tightening.
“We have a truce,” Arran returned with a one-shouldered shrug. “Ye looked ready to pummel him, so I stepped in.”
“I’m nae talking aboot that. Ye thanked the lady fer the dance.”
“Should I have spat at her, then?”
His brother took a half step closer. “Ye told me that ye hunted her down the day after the masquerade and warned her nae to take ye fer a fool.”
Damn it all.“Aye. I did. And now she and her father know we can be civil,” he returned, thinking quickly. Since when had his wish to see her rendered him blind and witless? “That’s what we’re aboot these days, isnae? Showing all and sundry that we’re safe with their children and wee animals? That we’re merchants and nae warriors now?”
“Why do I think what’s best fer the MacLawrys has naught to do with this?”
“I dunnae, Ranulf. I shook the man’s hand so ye wouldnae have to do it, so we look like we’re keeping to the truce and ye can still be fearsome. Or ye and Fendarrow could’ve glared at each other till the moon sets.” He stepped backward out of his brother’s grip. “It nae makes a difference to me.”
“That might suffice,” his brother returned, his voice low and level, “if I believed ye had naught else in mind. Ending a truce is the devil of a way to escape a marriage.”
Arran shook his head. “I’ve nae wish to fight the Campbells.”
“And why,bràthair,is that? A week or so ago ye were playing a different tune.”
