Page 41 of Rogue with a Brogue
With a nod, Peter pushed to his feet. “I’ll be off, then. The groom said there’s a blanket in the stable fer me. Hopefully it isnae too close to Howard. He has an odor aboot him, that fella does.”
Stifling a grin at the man’s pitiful tone, Arran held out one booted foot. “Help me get these things off and I’ll give ye half the bed. I’ll nae be needing the space tonight.” And at this point he supposed that half an ally was better than none at all.
In the morning he rose before everyone else, had Duffy saddled, and rode up the hill to the tiny village of Crowley. If he’d known when he left Gilden House that he would be paying the travel expenses of four people, he would have brought more ready blunt with him. He could send bills on to Glengask or back to London, of course, but then finding him—them—would be a simple matter.
Still, if they were careful, they would manage. He spent a few quid on dresses and a hairbrush and most of the other items on the list Crawford had written out for him. The pretty bay mare at the stables, though, would take most of the blunt he had to hand. He could forgo purchasing it and take himself out on Duffy when he couldn’t tolerate Crawford any longer, but truth be told, he wanted Mary close by him. A man couldn’t convince a lass of anything if he couldn’t even manage a word or two with her.
Finally he hit on a solution, and had the bill for the animal sent to William Crane. Lord Fordham would pay it without question, and then Arran could reimburse his friend when he was able to do so. And when news of Mary’s disappearance reached Ranulf’s ears, hopefully his brother wouldn’t think to call on William and ask about bills.
When he returned to the Twice-Struck Oak, he carried his two sacks of purchases upstairs and knocked on Mary’s door. It cracked open, and one baleful eye looked out at him. “Mr. Fox.”
“Mother Graves,” he returned. “I’ve brought ye some things. Have Mary doon fer breakfast in thirty minutes, if ye can. I’d like us to make an early start.”
“Lady—I mean, Mrs. Fox—cannot possibly be dressed that quickly. I’m certain none of these things will fit her adequately, anyway.”
“I’ll be down in thirty minutes,” Mary’s voice came from farther back in the room. “Thank you.”
“Ye’re most welcome.” He returned his gaze to the maid. “I bought ye someaught, too, but dunnae go thinking that means I’ve a yen fer ye.”
“Humph.” The maid snatched the sacks and shut the door again.
“Old bat,” he muttered beneath his breath, then returned to his own room to wake Peter and get his own things packed.
It was far too early to declare their escape a success, but they’d survived the first night without being run down by a herd of angry Campbells or MacLawrys. And to himself he swore that tomorrow morning it wouldn’t be a footman in his bed. He meant to convince Mary they belonged together. He knew one certain way to demonstrate that they were, and it wasn’t by sleeping in separate rooms.
***
Lady Charlotte Hanover sent her fiancé a glance, at least the fifteenth one with which she’d favored him this morning. Ranulf MacLawry was not a man who went about with a grin on his face, but he had been known to smile a time or two—particularly at her. Not today, though. Not for four days, now.
“You didn’t have to come with me, you know,” she finally said, keeping her voice pitched well below that of the priest standing behind the pulpit several feet in front of and above their seats.
“A civilized man attends church, doesnae?” he returned in the same tone.
“Yes, he does. But I believe I informed you that a sermon from Father Gregory was more akin to torture than anything else.”
“Hush, Charlotte,” her mother whispered from her left. On the far side of Ranulf, his sister and hers were making even more noise, but then Winnie and Jane weren’t betrothed to a Highlands devil.
“I’m looking fer some insight into forgiveness,” Ranulf continued, lowering his voice still further.
Of course she immediately knew to what he was referring; she doubted there was anyone in London who hadn’t heard about Arran MacLawry being discovered at the Penrose dinner party with the Marquis of Fendarrow’s daughter on his lap. At first she hadn’t even believed it. Not of sensible, logical Arran. But Ranulf had confirmed it, himself.
“I don’t know Mary well, but she’s always seemed very nice,” she breathed back. “And very prett—”
“I’m nae discussing it,” he said flatly. “Arran’s marrying Deirdre Stewart.”
Father Gregory sent the marquis an uncertain look, then resumed droning on about the sins of excess. Charlotte took a breath, deciding that if Ranulf wanted an argument they would be better off waiting until they were somewhere more private. And with better insulated walls.
Jane leaned around the two MacLawrys, one petite and delicate, and the other mountainous and iron-muscled. “Elizabeth told me that Lady Mary left London at dawn two mornings ago,” she whispered. “And I saw the announcement in the newspaper this morning. She’s engaged to that Charles Calder. He’s her first cousin.”
“I ken who he is,” Ranulf growled. “No doubt Delaveer cried off—the MacAllisters are a squeamish lot. And her father was right to send such an ill-mannered lass away before she could cause more trouble.”
“But Arran likes her,” Rowena said, her own expression far less happy than Charlotte was accustomed to seeing. “And he said Charles Calder was a poor excuse for a hu—”
“I dunnae care what Arran said,” Ranulf broke in. “Another word aboot him, and ye can take yerself back to the Highlands, too.”
Rowena, her expression aghast, folded her hands in her lap and faced forward again. Jane did the same thing, likely more as a show of unity and support than because she thought her future brother-in-law could send her away, as well.
“That was mean,” Charlotte stated. If he thought he could banishher,he had another think coming. “Winnie loves her brother.”
