Page 30 of Rogue with a Brogue
Scowling and half hoping some thug would accost him, Arran reached Union Street, hesitated, and then turned north when he should have turned south. If he was wrong about what would be in store for Mary, he was about to cause even more trouble for himself. But he needed to know. He needed to know she would be well.
And so he kept walking. Turning another corner, he climbed the steps to the modest-sized house in front of him and swung the brass lion’s head knocker against the door. He hadn’t precisely been full of good ideas this evening. And he could only hope this would be the exception. Or it could be the first—or last—nail in his coffin.
The door swung open, an elderly, liveried man moving into the opening. “Lord Arran,” he said, inclining his head. “Was Lord Fordham expecting you? He isn’t in this evening, I’m afraid.”
Arran nodded, still attempting to gather his thoughts into something coherent. “I wondered if I might write a note oot fer the viscount.”
“Certainly, my lord.” Stepping aside, the butler ushered him into the morning room. “You’ll find paper and pen in the writing desk. May I bring you some tea?”
What he wanted was whisky, but he was going to need all his wits over the next few hours. “I’d thank ye fer some tea.” This was going to take some time he likely didn’t have, but at the moment he was finished with weighing regrets. And taking action weighed less than leaving all his questions and hopes unanswered.
***
“I should have him arrested, is what I should do,” Lord Fendarrow snapped, pacing a tight line in his office.
Mary and her mother sat in the chairs facing the desk, the marchioness following her husband’s stalking with her head, and Mary doing her best to keep her gaze on her folded hands. It was the only way she could keep them from clenching, and the only way she could keep from doing something as stupid as stomping her feet and shouting that if anyone would just take a moment to listen, they might understand.
“Accostingmydaughter,” her father continued, the pitch of his voice rising as he ranted. “The Duke of Alkirk’s granddaughter! Rogues, all of them! I’m sending word to Alkirk. This will mean war.”
“No!” she broke in, all the blood leaving her face. “You can’t do that, Father! I was kissing him just as much as he was kissing me, for heaven’s sake! I told you that.”
“That’s enough, Mary!” her mother said sharply. “He is the man; this is all his responsibility. He tricked you. He led you astray. You are very nearly betrothed. This is… inexcusable.”
“Mother, y—”
“That’s it, isn’t it?” her father took up, snapping his fingers. “The end of the truce. That’s the MacLawrys’ aim. Why else would Glengask have sent his brother after you? And why would he have arranged for me to discover you at so opportune a moment and at so crowded an event? He doesn’t want the Campbells allying with the MacAllisters.”
“Father, I—”
“They may have men in place, just waiting for word that we’ve broken the truce so they can murder us all.” He stalked to the window, peered outside, then pulled the curtains closed as if he feared assassins could be lurking in the shrubbery even now.
“Arran and I stumbled across each other, and we’ve become friends,” Mary insisted, raising her voice when her mother tried to hush her again. “There’s a truce, so what’s the difficulty?”
“The ‘difficulty,’ as you call it, Mary, is that you are Lady Mary Campbell, for God’s sake. Why do I need to state that you do not kiss random men? Especially men from a rival clan?” The marquis snapped his mouth shut. “You only kissed him, didn’t you? You’re not despoiled? By a MacLawry?”
“What? Of course I haven’t—we’ve only been acquainted for a week!”
“Which is evidently long enough for you to embarrass us and put all of our futures at risk. Roderick wouldn’t even look at us as we left the dinner, and what do you think Charles is going to say when he hears that Arran MacLawry kissed you?”
Mary began feeling ill. Not because of what she’d done, but because they’d stopped her. Because Charles Calder had clearly endeared himself to her parents more than she’d realized, in case of just such a fiasco. Because Lord Glengask had said that Arran would be on his way back to Scotland by tomorrow night, no doubt with Deirdre Stewart on his heels.
She couldn’t even explain it. For goodness’ sake, she was one-and-twenty. He was not Romeo, and she was most certainly not Juliet. This wasn’t love at first sight. But there was something. They’d begun something, touched something, she and Arran. They’d said they would end it when the time came, but given the way she felt at this moment, she wasn’t certain how she would have parted from him.
“Go up to bed, Mary,” her father finally ordered, pausing his pacing. “For the world at large I blame MacLawry. Privately, I am most disappointed in you. And some things are going to alter. This indulgence we’ve shown because of your grandfather’s fondness for you stops. Clearly you cannot be trusted not to act in ways that weaken this family.”
That sounded even more ominous. Protesting now after she’d already stated that she’d become friends with Arran would only make her father more furious. With a stiff nod she stood and walked to the office door. “Good night, Father. Mother.”
They didn’t answer. In her entire life she’d never seen them so angry. Certainly she’d never given them cause to be disappointed or even annoyed with her before. But thiswasher fault. She couldn’t say she was proud to be a part of clan Campbell, because she’d never truly felt challenged about it. She was proud of her grandfather and how well respected he was, and she was proud to be his granddaughter. For the most part her parents did as he requested, which made them seem almost like an extension of him. Would the Campbell be as angry as they were? Was he truly the one who’d pushed the alliance with the MacAllisters? What would he say now that she’d ruined it? Would he not wish to see her or write her letters or send her bits and baubles from the Highlands any longer?
Crawford waited for her upstairs and helped her change out of her fine violet evening gown and into her night rail. The maid was clearly near to bursting with “I told you sos,” but Mary didn’t give her the opportunity to use them. Of course she knew better. The risk had seemed worth it. It still did, actually.
She spent most of the night awake, half hoping that Arran would climb through her bedchamber window—not to ravish her or help her run away, but so she would have someone with whom she could discuss what had happened. So they could attempt to make sense of events and figure out what they needed to do to fix things.
He didn’t appear, and then Crawford began throwing open curtains shortly before eight o’clock in the morning. “We need to hurry, my lady,” the maid said, pulling a rather plain green and brown muslin from the wardrobe.
“Why are we hurrying?” Mary asked, brushing the night’s restless knots out of her hair. “No one will be out and about for hours.”
“I don’t know, my lady. Your father the marquis said you were to come down to breakfast at once.”
