Page 34 of Rogue with a Brogue
“Yes, but then Charles’s argument was that if I didn’t agree to marry him, he could well feel the need to extract from the MacLawrys the price of the damage Arran and I did to the Campbells. Not a gentleman to be seen.” She clenched her jaw. Charles had clearly been anticipating the fragmenting of the truce, and then while it teetered he’d threatened to push it into the abyss himself. And her parents had seemed almost grateful to him for “offering” for their disgraced daughter. If it hadn’t felt so tragic, it would have been ridiculous.
As it was, her parents had already placed the announcement in the newspaper and set the date. And she knew why they’d done that, as well. The more quickly they made the arrangements, the less likely her grandfather would be able to intercede. Of course she had no idea if the Campbell would have done anything to save her, given the opportunity; he’d wanted her wed to Roderick, and she’d stomped that plan into the dirt. Aside from that, Charles Calder had licked her grandfather’s boots for years, and the Duke of Alkirk couldn’t possibly view this mess any less seriously than did the Marquis of Glengask. And Glengask had sent his own brother away. The duke had several granddaughters. Perhaps Beatrice or Mavis would simply take her place as his favorite.
The timbre of the wheels changed, and she blinked the world back into focus as the coach turned into an inn’s stable yard. The Giant’s Pipe Inn already. They were making good time, likely because she hated every moment that brought her closer to Fendarrow Park.
Thomas the footman pulled open the coach door and flipped down the steps. “Gordon says the roads have been good, so you’ve an hour for luncheon and to stretch your legs while we change the horses, my lady.”
Mary took the hand he offered and stepped down to the ground. “Thank you, Thomas.” She turned toward the inn as the footman handed Crawford down. Had it only been two months since she and her parents had last stopped at this coaching inn at the beginning of the Season? It seemed like years. Decades.
Inside, Crawford requested a platter of baked ham and fresh bread, and they sat at one of the scattering of long tables and benches. At midday the inn’s common room was crowded, both with travelers and locals stopping in for a bite. Previously she’d enjoyed the light, friendly banter darting around her. Today, it didn’t fit her mood.
She was halfway to requesting a private room where she could sulk and close the shutters when she caught sight of the man seated at the back of the room, a floppy straw hat on his head, a pint in his hand, and light blue eyes gazing straight back at her. Her breath caught.
In addition to the farmer’s hat Arran had also donned a worn, patched brown coat, but she recognized him immediately. Her heart began to pound, the twisted knot in her chest to loosen. Perhaps their moment wasn’t yet finished. Had he read her return note? Did he merely want the chance to say good-bye in private? To say he wished she’d refused to dance with him that first night? She almost wished for that, herself—she’d had the barest taste of passion and possibility, just enough to make her yearn for impossible things.
Arran angled his head toward the rear door, then stood and left the common room. Mary found herself on her feet almost before she’d decided to move. “I’m going to walk down to the stream,” she said. “I need to clear my head.”
“Of course, my lady.” Crawford climbed to her feet, as well. “Shall I fetch your parasol?”
“No. Stay here and finish eating. I’ll be in sight of everyone in the yard.” She forced a smile. “I have a great deal of thinking to do.”
From Crawford’s expression, the maid thought it was far too late to begin considering things logically now. She was correct, of course, but nothing about Arran and the way he swept her into a windstorm was logical. Logically she should never have spoken a word to him. Logically they should hate each other simply because of the surnames with which they’d been born.
Mary stepped outside, and a warm hand pulled her around the corner of the inn. “What are you doing here?” she asked in a low voice, fighting the urge to kiss him right there.
“Nae here,” he murmured in that enticing brogue she’d thought she would never hear again. “This way.” Taking her hand in his, he led the way into the scattering of trees behind the inn. Down the eroding stream bank, across a questionable bridge of stones, then up the far side again. Finally he faced her again. “I took a bit of a detour on the way north,” he drawled. “I wanted to have a conversation with ye, lass.”
When his mouth curved in a slight, rueful smile, she couldn’t stand it any longer. Grabbing his lapels, she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. In response, Arran pressed her back against a tree, molding his mouth against hers. Hungry. She’d been hungry, and this—him—was the only thing that could sate her.
“I read yer letter,” he said, cupping her face and kissing her again. “Ye asked fer advice.”
“Advice that doesn’t include murdering my cousin,” she returned, a bit alarmed by the determined glint in his eyes.
He backed off just a little. “Did ye agree to marry him?”
“I… Yes. He made good use of my parents’ alarm. And of course he mentioned shredding the truce, and you, if I didn’t agree to his so-called offer.”
Arran gazed into her eyes for a long moment. She didn’t know what he might be looking for, or hoping to see, but finally he ran the back of one finger along her right cheek, in a way that gave her little shivers. “Tell me if I’m in error, Mary, but I see two doors fer ye. The first door gives ye all this shite yer family decided fer ye.”
“We did instigate this, you know.”
“Aye. I ken we shouldnae have met and shouldnae have decided we like being together. They made a truce, and still willnae have anything to do with each other. Instead both sides spent their time looking fer more soldiers to man their battlements. I ken I didnae get asked why I kissed ye. Did anyone ask ye a reasonable question?”
“No. No one did. And they’ve made certain my grandfather won’t know anything about the wedding until it’s too late.” Mary tilted her head. “Where does the second door open?”
“It opens with ye going missing from the Giant’s Pipe. And then the two of us head north and see what happens with no other MacLawrys or Campbells or MacAllisters or Stewarts in sight.”
She’d half thought he might say something like that, but the words sounded so utterly scandalous to her ears that she couldn’t help a slight shudder. “What about Lady Deirdre? Have the Stewarts withdrawn?”
He grimaced. “Nae. They want a piece of what the MacLawrys hold. I’m nae inclined to provide it to them. Nae if we’ve a chance of someaught, Mary.”
“I’ll be ruined, you know. More ruined.”
“Aye, ye will, as far as the world’s concerned. But between us, I’m nae here fer an afternoon’s mischief, lass. I’ve known a lady or two, and I’ve never… I feel a bit mad when I’m about ye, Mary, and I think ye feel the same way. I want to know where this would go if we were Mr. Highland and Miss Fox.” He took her hand, gripping her fingers. “And I swear to ye, if we decide we dunnae belong together, I’ll walk ye up to the Campbell’s front door myself. At least ye’ll be able to have a word with yerseanairbefore ye’re shackled to Calder.”
Her heart stuttered. Never in her entire life had she considered running away. Yes, a few times when she was younger she’d imagined taking the mail coach up to the Highlands to see her grandfather—herseanair,as Arran called him—but that had been years ago. Later the consequence had always seemed more dire than the moments of anger or frustration.
Mary closed her eyes. Every part of her knew that this was not a decision she could make logically. It was about hope, and attraction, and trust. And whichever clan Arran belonged to, he was still the only one she’d thought about, her only regret. And he was also the only one who’d done a thing to extricate her from an untenable situation.
