Page 56 of Rogue with a Brogue
“Enough.”
“I’ll ride home and get my kit, then.”
Munro blocked his friend from the door. “Nae. Ye know the words on the coat of arms. ‘Always a MacLawry at Glengask.’ Ye’ll be staying here.”
Lach frowned. “I’m nae a MacLawry.”
“Yer grandmother was. And the clan knows it. I need ye here, especially if we’re stirring up trouble.”
After a moment the viscount nodded. “I’ll agree to it only because of what this could set in motion, Bear. Because ye ken if ye run across any Campbells, it’ll mean a fight.”
“Aye. That’s my hurry. If anyone’s to murder Arran, it’ll be Ranulf. Or me. Damned fool.”
Perhaps he wasn’t as razor-witted as Arran, but he knew well enough that if his brother had truly run off with Mary Campbell, they’d begun a disaster. He couldn’t see a way through it that didn’t include bloodshed. And more than likely the blood would be Arran’s.
“Damned fool,” he repeated.
***
Mary awoke from a dream in which her father became a great bear and slashed his claws through Arran’s chest as she and Arran slept together in a cozy bed in a cozy cottage up in the Highlands. She sat upright, startled, and banged the back of her head on something.
“Ouch,” Arran said mildly, rubbing his chin. “What woke ye, lass?”
They weren’t in a cozy cottage in the Highlands. They were still in the badly sprung carriage fleeing north. And evidently she’d fallen asleep on Arran’s shoulder, with his arms wrapped around her. Still, though, the terror of that moment, the horror of the… loss she’d felt, lingered. “It was just a dream,” she said aloud, though it felt like far more than that.
No one in her family was a witch or a warlock, however—as far as she knew. No one could portend the future in dreams or tea leaves or tarot cards. And she seriously doubted her father could become a bear. An angry dog, perhaps, barking and howling at the moon, but if she had anyone as fierce as a bear in her family it would be her grandfather.
“Was I in this dream of yers?” he asked slyly, tucking a strand of her red-brown hair behind one ear. “Were we naked?”
“Yes, you were in my dream,” she returned, still trying to banish the lingering cobwebs, “and no, we weren’t naked. At least I don’t think we were. We were in a bed with blankets over us.”
“Together? Then I’m certain we were naked.”
“Arran.”
“What disturbed ye aboot it, then? It seems a fine dream to me.”
“It was, until my father found us, turned into a bear, and clawed you to death.”
“Well, then. Thatwouldbe upsetting. Except that yer father’s nae a bear and there are nae bears in Scotland, anyway. Nae any longer.” He grinned. “Ye snore, ye know.”
With an indignant laugh and truly grateful for the distraction, she slapped him on the knee. “I do not!”
“Ye do,” he insisted. “It’s a wee, delicate sound, like a lamb bleating.”
“Well, you sound like an elephant trumpeting when you snore,” she countered, because it seemed plausible.
“I didnae snore, because I didnae sleep.”
Mary shifted into the far corner of the coach so she could take a look at Arran. Really, truly see him. His lean expression remained easy and amused, his sunrise-blue eyes darker but sharp in the dimmer light inside the coach. Beyond that, though, shadows swooped at the edges of his jaw and beneath his eyes, and she abruptly wondered when he’d last managed a good night’s sleep. Likely not since they’d left London.
“Sleep now,” she said, reaching out to run a finger along his jaw. “I’ll keep watch.”
He studied her face as intently as she’d been looking at his. “Do ye regret this, Mary Campbell? Do ye wish we’d nae met?”
Vulnerable.That was how he looked. And if she chose to, she could wound him badly. “I’ve wondered about that,” she admitted. “And I’m not so sure my circumstances would have altered all that much. The moment the truce began, my father went looking for Roderick—at my grandfather’s behest, I assume. And if the truce had lasted long enough, I would have married him. If it hadn’t, well, Charles practically sleeps on our front porch. Neither of them… light a spark in my heart.” Not the way Arran did. “And I would have had no one to ride to my rescue.”
She sighed, trying to think through what she wanted to say before she spoke the words aloud. “Before your family rode into London, my grandfather kept telling my parents to give me time. Eventually I would have had to choose someone of whom they approved, though, so I suppose it was all only an illusion of free choice. And I have a good idea now that my father would have pushed for Charles Calder, regardless of my opinion. After all, no one’s spent more time or effort to ingratiate himself with my parents than Charles has. He’s lavished more attention on them, in fact, that he ever did on me.”
