Page 7 of Rogue with a Brogue
“I—”
“I appreciate it, I suppose, considering how many of yer cousins were at the party last night. I might have got my nose broken. That would make the lasses at home weep.”
“Oh, please,” she retorted, a chuckle bursting from her chest.
His own mouth curved in a smile before he even realized it. “But the question I have fer ye, Lady Mary Campbell, is why?”
She actually looked startled. “Why would I wish to keep a brawl from beginning?”
“Aye. I’ve spent my entire life spoiling fer a good fight with a Campbell or a Gerdens or a Daily. I’ve thrown my share of punches. And I know fer a fact that most of yer kin would dance a jig on my grave.”
“There’s a truce,” she said, though she didn’t disagree with his statement. “Your own brother arranged it with George Gerdens-Daily, and my grandfather agreed to it.”
Arran wished he were facing her so he could see her expression more clearly. “So if I’d stumbled across ye a fortnight ago ye would have stomped on my toe and told me to go to the devil?”
Mary Campbell stopped again, putting her hands on her slender hips and glaring at him with her moss-colored eyes. “I’m tempted to do that at this very moment,” she snapped. “Not because you’re a MacLawry, either. Simply because you’re being rude and provoking.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I—”
“How should I know what I would have done a fortnight ago?” she continued over his protest. “Everything’s different now. What wouldyouhave done if you’d danced with me a fortnight ago and realized I was the Campbell’s granddaughter?”
For a long moment he gazed at her. The answer should have been clear and simple. Whatever truce Ranulf had managed, the Campbells had burned out their own cotters, bullied their allies to do the same, and used the profits they’d made by turning the vacated land over to sheep to build new alliances in England. Their sway in the Highlands might have waned, but elsewhere they were as strong as ever. And they were the enemy.
But was she the enemy? He looked at all five feet and a few inches of her. Aye, she was a Campbell, and one with a temper, too. At the same time, she was also a very pretty young lady with an air of confidence about her that most ladies seemed to lose when confronted by an actual Highlands male. Deirdre had barely looked him in the eye during their brief conversation last night. He couldn’t even recall what color her eyes were, and he had a reason to remember that.
“I’d have danced with ye, I ken,” he answered, then grinned. “And then tossed a few of yer cousins over my shoulder later fer fun.”
Her shoulders beneath her pretty blue walking dress lowered. “Well. I suppose hat shopping to be a poor substitute for Campbell-thrashing, but if you’d care to join me, I shan’t object.” She gestured at the door of the small shop behind him.
Mary half expected Arran MacLawry to announce that he’d had his fill of bantering with a Campbell for one day, and that he’d truly only tracked her down to inform her that he knew who she was. She half hoped he would, because she had other things to consider, and he was… distracting. Instead, he turned around and pulled open the door, holding it for her and a clearly concerned Crawford. Her maid wasn’t Scottish, but she certainly knew to whom Mary should or should not be speaking. This tall, lean, black-haired devil was clearly in the “should not” category. In fact, he was at the very top of that particular list.
Moving past him into the shop and hoping that it was indeed a milliner’s, for a moment Mary wished he would close the door on Crawford so she could ask him some questions without worrying over whether every word of the conversation would be reported to her father. But for heaven’s sake, she’d never met a member of a rival clan before. She’d been raised in southern England for that very reason. And now she found herself excessively curious, even when she’d been expressly ordered not to be.
“I thought all the MacLawry men had cloven feet and breathed hellfire,” she noted, stopping to peruse some hair ribbons. That was a lucky thing; for all the attention she’d paid, this might have been a cutlery shop. And the two of them in a room filled with knives would be unwise.
“Nae,” he returned. “It’s ten toes and air fer the lot of us.” He spoke with the same deep, teasing brogue he’d used during the waltz—when he hadn’t known who she was. Did that mean they were on friendly terms again? She rather hoped so, because she didn’t generally converse with men about whom she knew so little. Or ones as fierce as Arran MacLawry was reputed to be.
“That information might have spared me some nightmares as a child.” She held up two ribbons. “Which do you prefer?”
“The light green one,” he said promptly. “It matches yer eyes and brings oot the red in yer hair.”
Something about the way he said it—along with the fact that this man had no reason in the world to flatter or humor her—sent pleasant little shivers down her spine. “You seem to have thought that through very thoroughly,” she commented, draping the green ribbon over Crawford’s arm and discarding the yellow one.
“It’s the truth. How long should a man take to consider it?” he said, shrugging. Then he grinned. “Aside from that, my sister says I’m the only brother with taste in other than what goes down his gullet.”
Mary laughed. He said it so matter-of-factly. “We’ll see about that.” She produced a swatch of yellow and white muslin from her reticule. “I need a hat to match this. It’s for a walking dress.” She sent him another glance. “Unless this isn’t manly enough for you.”
His smile deepened. “The more manly a lad, the less likely he is to complain over toting a lass’s reticule.” He took the material, their fingers brushing as he did so. The touch unsettled her, like the moments before lightning struck on a stormy day. She’d felt it last night, as well, when they’d waltzed. But today it seemed more pronounced. Perhaps because now they both knew to whom they were speaking.
Behind her Crawford made a choking sound, and she realized they both still held the muslin. Swiftly she released it, wiping her fingers into her skirt, and turned to see the maid staring at her. “We should be getting back, my lady,” Crawford said in a too loud voice. “Your dear mother, Lady Fendarrow, will be wondering where you’ve gotten to.”
It was more likely that Joanna Campbell would be wondering whether her only child had lost her mind. But from the expression on Arran’s face, he was aware as she was that it would be an excuse to escape his company. And she certainly didn’t wish to be seen as a coward. She was a Campbell, after all. And so her desire to remain had nothing to do with the fact that she was enjoying herself, that most men of her acquaintance didn’t challenge her wits or question her reasoning, that here she felt a certain… thrill both at the notion of speaking with a MacLawry and at the way this lean, tall, devilish-handsome man had gone well out of his way to find her.
“Mother isn’t expecting me until after luncheon,” she said. “And we’ve only just arrived here.”
“So ye’re nae afraid of me?” she heard him murmur, and she shook her head.
“Should I be?”
