Page 42 of Rogue with a Brogue
She could practically hear his teeth grinding, his jaw was clenched so hard. “Do ye think I’d risk ye up at Glengask, knowing we’d stumbled from skirmishing into open war with the Campbells? Arran very nearly accomplished that, after only one bloody fortnight of peace. And that doesnae put me in a forgiving mood.”
Father Gregory cleared his throat. Loudly. For a moment Charlotte thought Ranulf would walk out of the church. Evidently he’d weighed the satisfaction of escaping the priest’s nasal, nonsensical droning against the renewed rumors and whispers about his uncivilized behavior, though, because he sank back on the hard seat and sent the pastor an elegant wave of his fingers. “Go on, then,” he intoned. “‘The muddy waters of pleasure.’”
Somehow in the middle of all this he’d kept track of the sermon. She favored his still profile with a slow smile. “You’re a remarkable man, Ranulf.”
His mouth softened. “If the priest knew what I was thinking right now aboot pleasure, he’d have an apoplexy.”
That left her nearly unable to sit still for the remainder of the sermon. Ranulf had been the one to teach her about pleasure, after all.
Finally they all recited the Lord’s Prayer and Father Gregory dismissed them with the admonition to think of others before succumbing to self-indulgent pleasures. Ranulf stood to offer her a hand up. When he offered the same hand to his sister, Winnie took it, but let it go as swiftly as she could do so.
“May we go now?” she asked, looking everywhere but at her brother.
“Aye. I’m aboot out of patience, myself.”
As they left the church, heading for Ranulf’s barouche, a horse galloped into the yard and skidded to a halt directly in front of them. Ranulf stepped between them and the horseman before Charlotte even grasped that they might be in danger.
“M’laird!”
To Charlotte’s surprise, Owen, Ranulf’s butler, leaped down from the horse and sprinted forward, unmindful of the other worshipers exiting the church yard. Every single one of them, though, seemed to turn and look at him.
“What is it, Owen?” Ranulf barked, meeting the servant in the middle of the yard. “The Campbells didnae hunt down Arran, did they?” His voice was tight and hard, a fairly equal mix of anger and concern.
“Nae, m’laird. I dunnae ken so, anyway. But ye need to get back to Gilden Hoose to find oot fer certain. They’re there. The Campbells, I mean.”
Behind them, Rowena gasped. Ice shot down Charlotte’s spine. Not now. Not when she’d finally convinced Ranulf that the Highlands didn’t frighten her, that she would be safe there.
“Which Campbells?” Ranulf asked, striding for his barouche.
“Laird Fendarrow. And Charles Calder. I wouldnae allow ’em into the hoose, but they’re nae too pleased to be left standing in the front drive. I decided to come fetch ye myself.”
Nodding, the marquis turned to take Charlotte’s hand. “Can ye find another way home?”
“Yes, for the others. But I’m going with you.”
“Ye are, are ye?”
“Yes, I am. If they intend violence, having a witness there will give them something else to consider.”
“I’m coming, too!” Winnie announced, moving around them to climb into the barouche and towing Jane with her.
“Nae. I’ll nae have ye in danger. None of ye.”
Charlotte’s father stepped forward to hand his wife into the barouche. “You’ve made us a part of your clan, Glengask. And I prefer to learn of any trouble firsthand.”
With a curt nod Ranulf helped Charlotte into the vehicle, as well. “So be it, then. I’ve nae time to argue with ye.”
The driver, Debny, rushed them up the street at far too fast a pace, but it still seemed too slow. The newspaper’s betrothal announcement about Lady Mary Campbell had named Charles Calder as the groom. However Calder had ended up in that position, had he taken exception to Arran kissing his betrothed? Had he hunted down Ranulf’s sharp-witted younger brother?
Charlotte’s heart pinched. If something had happened to Arran, it would destroy Ranulf. He could be angry enough at his brother to spit, but they were still brothers, and the closest of friends. And that meant everything to him.
Two men on horseback waited on the Gilden House drive as the barouche turned in. She immediately recognized the pepper-haired Lord Fendarrow and the sleek, black-clothed Calder. They were alone, but she had no idea if that was a promising sign or not.
“Fendarrow,” Ranulf said crisply, stepping down from the open carriage. “What brings ye to my door?”
The older marquis dismounted. “Not out here.”
“This is my clan. I’ve naught to hide from them.”
