Page 4 of Rogue with a Brogue
And this from a man set on something at least as scandalous as dancing with a Campbell—taking an English bride into the Highlands. Yes, Charlotte Hanover had more spleen and wit than most Sasannach, but before this wee holiday in London, Ranulf would have burned his own bed before he’d share it with an English lass.
“Ye’re the one who went and made a truce with the Campbells,” Arran pointed out, reflecting that a few short weeks ago he would have been choosing his words much more carefully. Evidently he owed Charlotte some thanks for improving his brother’s temperament, now that he considered it.
“So we could stop killing each other, Arran. Nae so ye could waltz with one of ’em.”
“And do ye know a better way to test the Campbell wind? Because I dunnae believe this peace’ll last the week, myself.”
Of course his argument only worked as long as Jane and Winnie didn’t blurt out that he’d had no idea who the vixen was. Shaking his head, he held out his hand to young Jane as the music for their quadrille began. Evidently he preferred being accused of doing something wrong to doing something foolish.
At the same time, he trulydidn’tthink the truce would last. None ever had before now. And so he’d made a point of learning which of the Campbell men were about, their appearance, and their disposition. He knew their allies, and he generally knew when any of them was within twenty feet of his brother or sister. But then the trouble had come from somewhere he didn’t expect.
And vixen, fox, wolf, or Campbell, tomorrow he meant to go hunting. Mary Campbell was not allowed to think she’d made a fool of a MacLawry. Especially not when he was in London to look after his family. Especially not when for a moment he’d thought her smile and her wit attractive. That was when he’d thought her someone else.
“Where’s this Deirdre Stewart ye want me leg-shackled to, then?” he asked brusquely. “Let’s get on with it before blood begins spilling again.”
“What?” Rowena asked, wincing as Jane made an abrupt sound like a wounded cat.
“I didnae say ye had to marry her,” Ranulf countered, covering half his frown as he lowered his panther mask again. “Nae until I’ve a word or two with Viscount Allen, anyway. Go dance yer quadrille, and stay clear of Campbells while I go speak with the Stewarts.”
At least Ranulf hadn’t said he should bare his legs or show his teeth so Lord Allen and his daughter could view him to best advantage. If the two clans required a marriage to seal an alliance he would give them one. But at the same time he wondered if waltzing with Mary Campbell and then tracking her down tomorrow would be the last independent act permitted him.Thatdidn’t sit particularly well. As a man accustomed to action, he felt far more comfortable with the idea of giving Lady Mary a piece of his mind than with having tea with his little finger held out for Lady Deirdre’s benefit. But the clan came first. It always did.
***
“Your aunt Felicia even commented that you put all the other young ladies to shame last night, Mary,” Joanna Campbell, Lady Fendarrow, said with a smile, as she strolled into the breakfast room. “Even with her own Dorcas attending. Thank heavens I convinced your father that a swan mask would never suit you.”
Smiling back, Mary tilted her cheek up for a kiss as her father joined them. She didn’t recall that particular conversation, and likely neither did Walter Campbell, the Marquis of Fendarrow, but if her mother wanted credit for such a small thing, she, at least, was quite willing to let her have it. “It was a grand evening,” she agreed.
Her mother paused at the sideboard. “That’s all you have to say?”
Mary busied herself with pouring her father a cup of tea. “What else should I say?”
“Well, for instance, who was that tall, broad-shouldered gentleman with whom you waltzed?”
Drat. “Do you mean Harry Dawson? You know him, Mother.” She sipped at her own cup.
Her father sat at the head of the table and leaned forward to pull his tea closer. “She means the man in the fox mask. Arran MacLawry.”
The tea she swallowed went into her lungs. Mary began coughing, choking, trying to draw in a dry breath until Gerns the butler came forward to pound her between the shoulder blades. Her mother stood frozen, a slice of toast held delicately in a pair of tongs, while her father coolly sipped at his own tea.
“Thank you, Gerns,” she rasped, motioning the butler away again.
“Of course, my lady,” he intoned, returning to his station at her father’s shoulder.
“MacLawry?” the marquis prompted.
“He… surprised me,” she finally managed, still sputtering.
“Hm.”
Mary scowled at her father. “Hedidsurprise me. I was crossing the room to see Elizabeth, and he ran into me. When he asked me to waltz, I couldn’t refuse him without… insulting him.”
“You could easily have said you already had a partner,” her mother countered, slight color returning to her generally pale cheeks. “I daresay your father or any of your cousins would have been pleased to dance with you if you’d so much as wiggled a finger at them. And what about that handsome Roderick MacAllister? You know your father expressly wanted you to dance with Lord Delaveer.”
“Ididdance with Roderick. I dance with him quite frequently.”
“A country dance. That barely signifies.”
“And I certainly have no qualms about insulting a MacLawry,” her father put in. “Particularly in favor of a MacAllister.”
