Page 45 of Rogue with a Brogue
Arran laughed. And as excellent as his English accent was, for some reason his laugh sounded Scottish. Perhaps it was the fresh joy in it, or the complete absence of fear. Whatever it was, Mary liked it. She wanted to hear it about her always.
She chuckled, and their gazes locked. The two of them alone or in some clan or other, on ancestral land or somewhere new, the idea of keeping that laugh, that joy, in her life held a great deal of appeal.Heheld a great deal of appeal.
“Ye have a fine smile, lass,” he noted, as the innkeeper went to greet a new arrival. “It warms my heart.”
“No, I won’t be dancing this evening,” Crawford stated, making Mary jump. Heavens, she’d nearly forgotten anyone else was there.
“Crawford, it’s perfectly fine, you know.”
“No, it isn’t, my lady. Not for you, either. A village assembly? You’re the Duke of Alkirk’s granddaughter.”
At least the maid kept her voice down. “Not tonight, I’m not,” she returned. “Tonight I’m Mrs. Fox. And you’d best stay in tonight to rest your foot, Mother.”
“What aboot me, m’… Mr. Fox?” Peter put in from beside Arran while Crawford continued to look daggers at the lot of them. “I’m nae part of this family, but I do like dancing a reel. Nae that we’re dressed fer it, a’ course. A man cannae dance a proper reel withoot a kilt.”
“That’s enough, Peter. I’m a Sasannach at the moment, if ye’ll recall.”
The footman’s brow furrowed. “Aye, I recall. I dunnae like it, though. I cannae talk like them.”
“That’s why ye’re my Scottish footman. And I’d prefer if ye’d stay here and keep a watch fer trouble.”
“That I can do, Mr. Fox.”
Despite the fact that the trouble he would be watching for consisted of her relatives and allies, Mary found herself relieved that someone was determined to help them whether he agreed with what they were doing or not. It was more than she could say about Crawford, certainly.
Once they finished dinner, Arran sent a meal outside for Howard, who’d insisted on sleeping in the coach tonight. Evidently he feared someone would make off with it—or her, as he referred to the vehicle. She wondered what the one-eyed coachman made of all this, but thus far he hadn’t raised a note of complaint over their selection of less-traveled roads.
The round cook appeared from the kitchens and shed her stained apron to reveal a pretty yellow silk gown. Mary was abruptly grateful she’d gone back upstairs to don the deep green silk and lace gown Arran had somehow procured for her. It was far simpler than anything she would wear in London, but here in Wigmore, it was perfect.
“Let’s be off,” Mr. Castleman said, and led the way outside and on down the narrow lane lined with spicy-scented summer roses.
With her hand wrapped around Arran’s arm, his long stride shortened to match hers and the Castlemans’, Mary couldn’t help smiling. This was the sort of evening she might have been able to experience in the Highlands if she’d been permitted to spend time there. And being in this tiny, quaint place with a man who’d showed himself to be anything but an enemy made her feel light inside, as if her feet weren’t quite touching the ground.
“A penny fer yer thoughts, my bonny Mary,” he murmured.
She shook herself out of the fairy tale again. “I’m not thinking anything worth that much.”
“Ye were smiling like moonlight.”
“And what does moonlight look like when it smiles?” she asked, deciding that talking was better than thinking.
“Mysterious, with a wee touch of magic,” he replied promptly.
And now he had her sighing again. It was unfair, to be pursued by a man as charming as Arran. How the devil was she supposed to resist him, whatever her best interest might be? “I do wish you weren’t a MacLawry.”
He slowed a little more, putting distance between the older couple and themselves. “Are we back to that again? Campbells and MacLawrys?”
“It never left. Do you know what would happen to you if Charles and my other cousins catch up to us? Have you ever seriously considered it?”
“Mary, I’ve hated yer family fer my entire life, same as they’ve hated me. The rumor is that my own father was killed by Campbell allies. But from the moment I set eyes on ye, everything upended.” He put his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. “So to answer yer question, aye, I know what would happen if the Campbells tracked us doon. I reckon they’ll try to kill me, in which case I will try to kill them back. And if the MacLawrys found us, I’d fight them off too before I’d let them step between us.”
He said it so matter-of-factly. For a long moment she gazed at his profile, at the nearly shoulder-length black hair lifting from his temple in the light breeze, at his self-assured step and his cool gaze that seemed to notice everything and still stayed focused on her. “You’re not the least bit frightened, are you?”
His sensuous mouth curved upward at the corners. “Of yer kin, nae. Of ye finding some reason we shouldnae be together, aye.”
They resumed their walk, and a few moments later the church came into view in the moonlight, a dark shape with luminous tombstones surrounding it. The Castlemans crossed the edge of the cemetery, but Arran veered around the low stone border.
“Nae sense walking over some poor lad who’s nae done a thing to us,” he said by way of explanation. “The innkeeper’s likely related to ’em.”
