Page 81 of Rogue with a Brogue
Peter clapped Howard on the shoulder. “Ye’ve lost yer coach, ye’ve had to hide from damned Campbells, and now ye’re driving a farmer’s wagon. Why havenae ye fled back to London, Howard Howard?”
The driver shrugged. “I suppose I’m curious to see what happens next. Most people I drive a mile or two and then they go on their way and I never set my eye on ’em again. Since I met you lot I’ve helped rescue a lady, hit a fellow with a club, lost my coach, dined with proper gentry, and been farther from home than I ever thought to see in my life. It’d be a privilege to see Lord Arran and Lady Mary wed.”
When Arran met Mary’s gaze, even in the starlit dark he could see her smiling. He took her hand. “Perhaps ye could stand in fer the bride’s family, Howard. Ye are part of our clan, now.”
The wagon nearly ran into a hedge. “I’d be honored. Truly.”
Mary leaned her head against Arran’s shoulder, and he tucked her in against his side. Perhaps he could keep danger away from her, but he was abruptly seeing Ranulf’s actions in agreeing to a truce with the Campbells and bringing in the Stewarts, in addition to his dancing about with Sasannach lords, in an entirely new light. Because his primary concern was no longer defending clan MacLawry. It was doing whatever was necessary to protect his bonny, bonny lass.
“I love ye, Mary,” he murmured, resting his cheek against her autumn-colored hair.
“I love you, Arran. In a day or two I may even ask you to marry me.”
He laughed. “I do hope so.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Any sign of them?” the Marquis of Fendarrow asked, as Charles and another nephew, Arnold Haws, stomped into the Manchester Arms. Why he’d been cursed with a single daughter when his siblings had been blessed with multiple sons in addition to gaggles of girls, he had no idea. Had his son William lived, the circumstances today would have been completely different. He could simply have disowned Mary, turned his back on this mess, and stayed in London.
“Nothing,” Charles answered. “Traffic headed in both directions on the three nearest roads, but no one’s seen anyone resembling Mary or MacLawry.”
“I’m thinking they wrecked that old coach deliberately, to slow us down,” Arnold added, gesturing for a glass of whisky. “They had another vehicle waiting, and they’re already in Scotland.”
From the low grumbling that circled the inn’s private room, Arnold wasn’t the only one to have come to that conclusion. The lads wanted MacLawry blood, and the longer he kept them waiting here, kicking their heels and drinking whisky and beer, the more frustrated and unruly they became. Which meant when they did find MacLawry, they weren’t likely to listen to anything the lad had to say in his own defense—but neither would they heedhim.Of course that could keep him from being blamed when someone shot the bastard. It could also lead to something bloody and public that he would never be able to turn into the mysterious disappearance of an extremely troublesome fellow. Yes, he was walking a very fine line, and some blasted news would be welcome.
“How long do we wait here, Uncle?” Charles asked. “Wherever MacLawry is, he’s still breathing. And that does not sit well with me.”
“And you think it sits well with me, Charles?” Walter snapped back. This washischase, andhewould control the outcome—whether he wanted it to appear that way or not. “Do you think I’m pleased that a MacLawry ruined an alliance and took my daughter, and that he’s been doing God knows what to her for over a week?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then stop making ridiculous statements. I believe they are still nearby. However, if we haven’t heard anything by this time tomorrow, we will divide our numbers and take all three roads north.”
His nephew had narrowed his eyes, and the abruptly sinister expression reminded Walter that Charles had the reputation of being a rather deadly opponent. “If they reach Scotland ahead of us, they’ll likely marry, my lord.”
“And if they do, you’ll be Mary’s second husband. I assume you’ll have no objection to marrying a widow, if the dowry’s favorable enough.”
“I do not. But if they marry and sign a register, MacLawry’s death will have to be made known or I won’t be able to marry her at all.”
Fendarrow hadn’t actually considered that. Once MacLawry and Mary signed the church register at Gretna Green or wherever they were headed, they would leave behind a written record. And convenient though it might be, the Campbell would not approve the burning down of a church to obliterate a piece of paper. He glared at Charles for a moment. Perhaps Arnold would have been a less demanding choice for a son-in-law.
“Not if we give a generous enough donation to the priest,” Walter’s youngest brother, Angus, spoke up. “Something worth a page of a register, say.”
Walter nodded. “Precisely.” As long as the equation ended with Arran MacLawry dead, he didn’t particularly care how complicated or expensive the route might be.
Two more of his lookouts had returned, and four others had gone out, by the time the damned lazy innkeeper brought luncheon into the private room. Considering he’d rented the entire Manchester Arms, the service should have been a bit more… grateful. This was why he detested the countryside. The northern countryside, in particular.
The door linking them to the common room slammed open. Half the men with Fendarrow reached for weapons before Fergus Campbell stumbled into the room. His clothes were ripped and dirty, his face bruised and caked with mud.
“Fergus,” Angus said, striding forward. “What the devil happened to you, son?”
“MacLawry,” the boy panted, collapsing into a chair.
“You saw him?” Charles demanded, lurching to his feet.
“Is he dead?” the marquis added. With any luck their troubles could be over. All that remained would be to collect Mary and dispose of anyone else accompanying her.
“He attacked me. From behind, the dog.” Fergus took Arnold’s glass and drained it, then began sputtering and coughing.
