Page 6 of Rogue with a Brogue
“Was yer mind on a masquerade ball, by any chance?” a deep, rolling brogue asked from off to her left.
Starting, she whipped around. “Arran.”
He leaned against a tree trunk, calm and still as if he’d been there for hours. A predator waiting for his prey. Black hair lifted off his temple in the light breeze. With the fox mask on, his parts—jaw, mouth, shadowed blue eyes—had hinted at a handsome face. Without the mask, adding in high cheekbones, a straight nose, and slightly arched eyebrows, he was a dream—a dark Highlands prince who likely ate wildcats for breakfast.
“Aye. Arran MacLawry,” he affirmed, finally straightening. “And how do ye do this fine morning, Mary Campbell?”
Chapter Two
Finding Mathering House, the Mayfair residence of the Marquis of Fendarrow, had been a simple matter even for a relative stranger to London. It stood large and white and proud on the corner of Curzon Street and Queen Street, directly across from the even larger Campbell House. Arran briefly wondered if the Campbell’s eldest son and heir enjoyed seeing what he would one day inherit, or if he resented that the Campbell showed no sign of being ready to turn up his toes.
But whether the Campbell was presently in the Highlands or not, Arran could tell just from the pricking of the hairs at the back of his neck that he was not in friendly territory. In fact, it was entirely possible that he’d lost his bloody mind. For the devil’s sake, he was supposed to be on his best behavior while Ranulf negotiated him into a marriage, and instead he’d deliberately gone looking for a Campbell.
He had his reasons, of course; last night Mary Campbell had made a fool of him. She’d taunted him and teased him, and had likely reported to her father how easily a MacLawry could be led about by the nose. That could not be allowed to stand. It put him—and every MacLawry and ally—in a position of weakness. Without a balance of power, there would be no reason for the Campbells to continue the truce, and no incentive for the Stewarts to ally with the MacLawrys. And he was not about to allow clan MacLawry to be brought down by a pair of pretty green eyes.
Even if in the sunlight those eyes looked the color of moss beneath a waterfall. Even if her long, curling hair took on a golden bronze that continued to defy description. He drew a breath. She looked like a princess of some fairy realm, a lass about whom Shakespeare would have waxed poetic.Sweet Saint Bridget and all the heavenly angels.
“I thought we might walk in the same direction fer a bit, if ye’ve no objection,” he drawled, mentally shaking himself. This was about what she’d attempted to do, not how she looked. Deirdre Stewart had perfectly pleasant features and fine dark hair, and he’d been relieved to discover that she didn’t squint or stammer.Thatwas what—who—he needed to keep in mind. His almost betrothed.
Mary glanced over her shoulder as if looking for reinforcements. As he’d followed her down three streets before making his presence known, he was fairly assured that other than her well-seasoned companion, she was alone—a position in which no one would ever find a MacLawry female. He couldn’t imagine permitting his sister to venture into public without at least one armed man to protect her. The lapse made the Campbells all the more foolish.
“Well, lass?” he pursued. “Dunnae ye at least have a slap or a good set-down for a MacLawry? Or is the joke nae as amusing now that I ken who ye are?”
Mary tilted her head as she studied his face for a long moment. He had no idea what she thought to see; everyone in the Highlands knew that the second MacLawry was the current heir to the Marquis of Glengask, that he’d served four years in the British army on the Continent, that he was a crack shot, that he wasn’t to be trifled with. Except that she had trifled with him, damn it all.
“I’m on my way to Bond Street to meet some friends,” she said after a moment. “You’re welcome to escort me. Do MacLawrys purchase bonnets?”
“Nae me personally,” he returned, hiding his surprise and falling in beside her when she started off again. “My sister’s been known to wear them with some frequency.”
“Your younger sister, yes? The peacock mask from last night.”
Arran clenched his jaw, fighting the deep-rooted mistrust in having a conversation with a Campbell. Especially when the conversation turned to his family. Buthe’dapproachedher—twice, now. “Aye,” he said aloud, nodding. “Rowena. The youngest among us. She turned eighteen just a few weeks past.”
“And there’s your oldest brother, Lord Glengask. Are you the second or the third brother?”
“The second. Munro’s between Rowena and me.”
“He’s the one they—you—call Bear.”
“Aye. And ye’re the only child of Fendarrow, who happens to be the heir to the Duke of Alkirk.” There. He could recite her lineage, too, now that he knew who she was. When he glanced sideways at her, she was already looking at him, a half smile on her oval face. “What do ye find so amusing then, lass?”
“It’s just that this conversation feels a bit like a saber dance.”
“Ye’re the one who didnae tell the truth last night,” he returned. Perhaps she wasn’t accustomed to conversations as careful as chess matches, buthewas. “I gave yemyname.”
“And if I’d given you my name, we would never have finished that waltz. Something would have happened, and you would have ended up in a fight with my cousins. So I saved you by withholding the truth, Arran MacLawry.”
“That’s the way ye mean to view it, then? That ye did me a favor by flirting with me and naming yerself Lady Vixen?”
She stopped to face him, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Youcalled me that. I simply chose not to disagree with you. Don’t try to turn this into a battle, when all I did was try to avoid one. On your behalf, I might add.”
Hm. He’d expected a wilting flower, a lass who would be cowed and frightened once she realized he’d discovered her identity. But Mary Campbell had her chin lifted, and her forefinger still stuck into his ribs. For such a petite thing she had better than a full portion of courage, to stand toe-to-toe with him.
Arran tilted his head. “Then ye want me to thank ye, I suppose?”
The finger she had dug into his sternum twitched, then abruptly retreated. “No. You don’t need to thank me.” Slowly she turned to face the row of shops again and resumed her walk. “I was only attempting to explain why I deceived you. Or rather, neglected to tell you the truth.”
He caught up to her, sending a glance at Mary’s older, frowny companion. “So ye had my best interest in mind, did ye?”
