Page 52 of Rogue with a Brogue
“I doubt anyone has figured out where we are yet, Peter. But I’m still not ready to stop looking over my shoulder.”
“Ye should be looking in front of yerself, as well, ye know. She is a Campbell. Aye, she’s pretty, but ye can nae trust a Campbell. She’ll smile at ye while she puts a dagger into yer gizzard.”
“My gizzard is safe. Mary wouldnae hurt me.” Not physically, anyway.
“If ye say so. I dunnae trust either of those females.” He sat back again and took another swallow. “So we’re to keep strolling aboot this damned soft country and staying at these cozy inns while death comes hunting ye? Because even if they’ve nae found our trail yet, they will.”
“Death may be hunting me, but I’d wager it’s still looking in the wrong place.” That was why they’d decided to avoid the North Road; once the Campbells—and Ranulf—realized what had happened, they would search along the quickest route north. Except that his odd little party was half a hundred miles west of it.
“If ye say so. I know yer brother, though, and he knows ye. How much will ye wager that he’ll nae come to the conclusion that ye didnae take the easier road?”
That was a good point, dammit all. “Let’s speed our pace a little tomorrow, just to be safe,” he said. “We dunnae want to make it look like we’re fleeing, but enough to get us to the Highlands by the end of the week.”
“Aye. That’s the best news I’ve had in a fortnight. Once we get there, though, do ye still mean to marry the Campbell lass?”
“I do, if she’ll have me. I suppose it depends on whether she prefers being Alkirk’s granddaughter to being my wife.”
“Bah.”
“Bah?”
“Ye’ve become too civilized, lad. A MacLawry doesnae allow anyone else to decide the course of his life. He sees what he wants and finds a way to claim it. Tooth, claw, sword, rifle, or mind.” He tapped a forefinger against his temple. “Just like yer brother’s doing. If ye want her, take her.”
Arran frowned even as a second tankard arrived to replace the first one. Its contents disappeared just as quickly. “Ranulf’s turning himself into a Sasannach,” he grumbled. “I want no kinship to that. Because he’s nae laying claim to Charlotte; he’s twisting himself inside oot to be what she wants.”
“She proposed to him, ye know. He didnae bend a knee nor bow his head, from what I heard.”
“He’s bowing now.”
“Why, because he’s talking to the Stewarts and those Sasannach lords? How else could he purchase their land in the Highlands? I reckon those prissy lords are the ones bowing to him. And well they should. By the end of the month he’ll own more of Scotland than Prince Georgie does. At least that’s what Owen says.”
What?Why hadn’t he known that Ranulf was purchasing land? He was generally the one in whom his brother confided. Yes, Ran had asked for support, but Arran had thought the marquis had become set on making friends with the English lords because it pleased Charlotte for him to do so. Just as he’d decided to ally with the Stewarts to gain their trade contacts. He had no idea Ranulf had been purchasing English- and Stewart-owned land.
Peter began to look concerned. “Should I nae have said anything aboot that? I know his lairdship didnae want to argue with ye aboot spreading our cotters thin, but Owen didnae say it was a secret. And we all know we need the land, with us taking in Campbell and Gerdens and Daily cotters. So—”
“It’s fine, Peter,” he interrupted. Whatever he’d missed, it was his own fault. Had he been that distracted by London? By Mary? And he’d accused Ranulf of losing his head over Charlotte. Far from it, evidently. His brother had been using his time in London to make more room for their own people, even the newly adopted ones. And now he’d gone and destroyed the truce with the Campbells—at a time that couldn’t have been worse for any of this.
“Thank ye fer saying so, Mr. Fox,” Peter drawled, looking relieved.
“Nae. Thank ye, Peter. I may have been a damned fool, and nae even realized it.” And he would more than likely never be forgiven for it. But had it been worth it? He could answer that with every beat of his heart. If she loved him, it was worth it.
“Well, I’d best get back to watching the road,” the footman said, rising a bit unsteadily. “With his one eye, that Howard’s only half a lookout, at best.”
Arran forced a grin. “Dunnae fall out of the hayloft. Ye’d send all the Highlands lasses into mourning.”
“Aye. And half them Sasannach ones, too.” Peter buttoned up his coat and pulled a pair of rough gloves from his pocket. “I nearly forgot,” he commented, freeing an envelope from the tangle of gloves. “I saw that female bringing this doon fer tomorrow’s mail, and I thought ye might want a look at it.”
“Which female?” Arran asked, taking the letter and flipping it over to see the Mathering House address neatly written across the front.
“The square-jawed one. Crawford. I thought she might be sending word of her whereaboots to Campbell kin or someaught.”
“Aye, it’s someaught.” He didn’t even hesitate before tearing open the plain wax seal. Whatever it was, Crawford was not going to be sending letters to Mary’s parents. Swiftly he unfolded it.
“Dear Lord Fendarrow,” he read, his eyes narrowing and growing anger making his fingers clench into the paper. “On the chance that my previous letter missed you, I again inform you that Lord Arran MacLawry has forcibly taken Lady Mary and myself from the Giant’s Pipe Inn. We are presently in the village of Wigmore, and will resume traveling north in the morning. I will once again do my utmost to slow our flight, but our kidnapper is determined to drag us into the Highlands. After that, it will be too late to prevent this catastrophe from being known. It may be too late already. Please come in all haste! Ever your servant, Eunice Crawford.”
“Peter,” he said, keeping his voice low and even, “ye and Howard hitch up a fresh pair of horses. Then come up and help me get the luggage down. We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”
“Aye, m’laird. Might I ask—”
