Page 87 of Rogue with a Brogue
“Nae. They’re done fer.”
“Well, what do ye think?” The footman spread his arms and made a slow turn. The dress fit him reasonably well, especially with the extra cravats they’d stuffed into his bosom. Mary had lengthened the dress as much as she could, and though it was still only at Peter’s ankles, if he hunched over a little it didn’t seem overly short.
“Try saying good morning,” Arran suggested.
“Madainn mhath,”Peter said, his voice high and squeaking.
“Lower. Crawford didnae have a dainty voice. Sound like her.”
“Madainn mhath,”the footman repeated, his voice half an octave lower.
“Aye, that’s better. Why are ye speakin’ Gaelic?”
“Because yer dear mother’s Scottish. She prefers nae to speak English.”
Arran frowned at him. “The Campbells speak Gaelic, ye know.”
Mary put a hand on Peter’s shoulder and pulled the bonnet forward just a little so that it shadowed his face without looking obvious. “Not all of them do. But I think it’s a fair idea, Peter. We are in Scotland, after all.”
“Practice walking, both of ye,” Arran instructed, returning to the wagon.
She wasn’t surprised to see him checking the knife in his boot and tucking another into his waist at the back of his coat. As she and Peter navigated their way around the wagon in unfamiliar shoes, she kept her gaze on the man she meant to marry. A pistol went into each pocket, and after he and Howard pulled the trunks off the wagon he wedged a rifle under the driver’s bench.
“For a man who doesn’t mean to kill, you’re exceedingly well armed, Arran,” she noted.
“That’s because I dunnae mean to be dead, either.” He narrowed his eyes. “Ye sway yer hips too much, lass. It makes a man take notice. Use yer toes more.”
“If I walk aboot in these contraptions much longer, I’ll be crippled,” Peter said, coming to a stop.
Mary took a deep breath, anticipation still winning over nervousness in the battle going on inside her chest. “Peter’s correct. We’ve practiced enough.”
Arran’s shoulders rose and lowered. “Aye. Howard, ye wait here with Duffy and Juno and the trunks. If we dunnae return, sell ’em and get yerself back to London, or wherever else ye wish to go.”
“I know the plan.” Grimacing, Howard offered his hand to Arran. “Best of luck to you both. I’ll be here when youdoreturn.”
Peter clapped the hack driver on the shoulder. “Ye’re a good man, Howard Howard. Now let’s get on with it. Help me into the damned wagon.”
Once Peter had seated himself and arranged his skirts, Mary handed him the bouquet of thistles and daisies they’d gathered. Arran climbed up to the driver’s bench and then leaned sideways to offer her a hand up. Keeping in mind that she was a spry, trouser-wearing young man, she stepped up and clambered onto the seat.
“Are ye ready fer this, lass?” Arran asked her. “It’s nae a brilliant plan, but it’s the only one I can think of that doesnae have us trying to avoid the Campbells fer another three days.”
“I’m ready. And I like your plan.”
He grabbed her shoulder and kissed her. “And nowI’mready.”
With a whistle he got the team moving and carefully maneuvered the wagon over the hill and back onto the faint road. Then they turned south for Gretna Green.
Mary’s hands felt clammy, and she fought the urge to clasp them together. Instead she lowered the brim of her hat a little and slouched on the hard seat. She and her brother were bringing their mother to the church to lay flowers on their father’s grave, and to pay their respects to the pastor. And that was all.
“Do we need names?” she asked abruptly.
“If I ever have lads, I mean to name ’em Angus and Duncan,” Peter said from behind them in his oddly pitched voice.
“Then I’m Angus Gilling and ye’re Duncan Gilling, lass,” Arran provided. “And ye’re Una Gilling, Peter.”
“Ye named me after Laird Glengask’s dog, didnae?” the footman grumbled. “Una. Saint Bridget.”
“It’s a fine Scottish name.”
