Page 92 of Rogue with a Brogue
“And if I’m nae mistaken, ye were to wed Lady Deirdre Stewart before ye began this wee holiday.”
Of course the Campbell would have heard about a potential alliance between the MacLawrys and the Stewarts. What angered Arran was the way the duke referred to their flight as a holiday, as if it had no significance. As if it could be easily done away with. “So I was. We’ve neither of us done well by our clans, I suppose. But if ye think ye can put a stop t—”
“Arran.” Reaching sideways, Mary abruptly gripped Arran’s arm with her left hand. “I love him,seanair,” she broke in, “and none of you left us any choice but to go behind your backs. We came to Scotland so no one would be able to part us.”
“There are still several ways to part ye, my dear,” Alkirk replied coolly.
Her fingers tightened convulsively.That was damned well enough of that. Arran broke away from her and walked up to the Campbell, ignoring the weapons bristling in his direction as he approached. “So ye think to stand here like a great bully and frighten yer own granddaughter? Ye think she hasnae been frightened enough over the past weeks, from her parents trying to barter her away and then promising her to a coldhearted weasel, to a gaggle of armed men chasing her all the way from London? Mary adores ye, and ye’re aboot one sentence away from trampling her respect fer ye into the mud. From all she’s told me aboot ye, I expected… better.”
“I dunnae answer to a MacLawry. Especially one who’s poached my kin. I could put a ball betwixt yer eyes and nae even blink.”
“I’d make ye blink, I reckon,” another, more familiar voice said. A big bay Thoroughbred cut through the clearing, stopping beside Bear. Ranulf swung to the ground and continued forward on foot, his gaze on Alkirk and an angry, bristling Fergus pacing beside him like a massive gray hellhound.
“Saint Bridget,” Arran swore. “We came here to get away from the lot of ye.”
“Then ye chose a poor way to go aboot it,bràthair,” Glengask shot back at him, his voice clipped with fury.
“Nae.Yedid. Ye call a truce, and then all either of ye do is try to increase the size of yer armies so ye can get back to killing again. And then ye clobber us, fer what? Fer being yer best chance fer a true and lasting peace? What do ye want, then? Peace, or more blood spilled?”
“That’s enough, Arran.”
“Aye, it is. Kill us, kill each other, or shake yer damn hands. Those are yer choices. Mary is my wife. Ye’ll have to murder me to separate us.” He dropped his pistols onto the ground. “I’m finished with yer proud nonsense.”
“Glengask, control yer brother. He began this, by stepping where he wasnae permitted.”
Arran felt Mary walk up behind him more than he heard her quiet footfalls. The knife clattered to the ground beside his pistols, and then her hand caught his. Almost without thinking he twined his fingers with hers.
“We began this latest mess,” she said, her voice shaking a little, “and we are ending it. If you kill Arran, you may as well kill me, because if you don’t, I will. And you’ll be killing your great-grandchild as well,seanair. A bairn who would be your best excuse for peace in a hundred years. For both clans.”
As he listened, Arran’s heart stopped and then began roaring like thunder in his chest. He faced her, ignoring the stunned faces of the onlookers. “Are ye carrying my bairn, lass? Why did ye nae tell me?”
“I wanted to wait until we were somewhere safe,” she returned quietly, tears in her moss-colored eyes. “But I don’t know if we will be.”
Instinctively he pulled her into his arms, tilting her face up to kiss her tears away. A bairn. A child.Hischild. His and Mary’s. And if nothing changed—and it looked like a very good chance that nothing would—not only would he be unable to ensure that he would be present to see the young one grown, but the babe had only the slimmest of chances of surviving a clan war. He lifted his head again.
“Tell me what ye want, then. Both of ye,” he said. Because whatever his own plans, the MacLawry and the Campbell were the ones with the power, the ability to put things right or allow them to crumble into bloody dust. “What’s the price for ye to stop hounding us, so I can hold my bairn in my arms and nae fear that he’ll lose his father to this stupidity the same way I lost mine? Tell me. Please. If it’s in my power, I will see it done.”
Ranulf cocked his head. Gazing intently at Arran, he slowly reached down to pat Fergus on the deerhound’s growling, low-held head. “Off, Fergus.”
The dog sat on his haunches, clearly not pleased with the order, but obeying anyway. Arran, though, kept his head high and his arms tightly around the sobbing Mary, both to comfort and protect her. He wasn’t a damned dog, after all, to blindly follow his brother’s orders. Not any longer.
“That tune ye’re singing is different than the one ye blasted at me in London,” Ranulf finally said, his tone neutral.
Arran nodded. “Aye, it is. And I’m aware that I put ye in a bad spot, and that I judged ye unfairly, as well. I thought ye were bowing to the Sasannach and turning us into merchants to please yer Charlotte. It wasnae aboot pleasing her, though, was it? It was aboot making a place where she could be safe.”
The Campbell was studying the three of them like a cat studied a mouse. With the knife in his boot Arran figured he could still set his claws into the old man if it came to it, so he returned the duke’s gaze evenly. Hopefully Alkirk realized that calm and reasonable didn’t mean helpless, and that he’d meant every word he’d said. This was the clans’—both of them—last chance. If nothing could be resolved, then he and Mary would be leaving as swiftly as they could reach the coast. Or they would die here and now. There was no other option for them if the chiefs couldn’t see beyond their own stubborn noses.
“So ye want peace, do ye, Arran MacLawry?” the Campbell uttered.
“I do. They say ye and my father were friends once, Yer Grace. Ye must’ve wanted peace yerself, at least fer a while. And now it’s time fer ye to decide if ye want Mary in yer life.” He looked at his brother. “And are ye done with me, Ran? Ye said ye were. Because honestly, once I brought Mary to Alkirk my next task would have been to purchase us a berth on a ship bound fer America.” Yesterday that wouldn’t have been strictly true, but now everyone knew where they were and what they’d done. Hiding away had become a much more difficult proposition.
“You aren’t listening to this rogue, are you, Father?” the Marquis of Fendarrow snapped, stalking up to the small group at the center of the clearing. “MacLawry, Campbell, or… Jones, he had no right to make off with Mary against my wishes. And yours. We had plans. The MacAllisters will never trust us again.”
“And yer grand solution was fer Mary to wed Charles Calder?” the Campbell returned, lifting an eyebrow. “Do ye think I want that lunatic closer to becoming chief of this clan than he already is? I suppose ye thought him a pup to lie at yer feet and worship ye.” The duke snorted. “Mary’s got the right of that; if she’d come up to see me I’d have put a stop to it.”
The marquis flushed. “I’m sorry you didn’t approve of my choice. She embarrassed all of us, and I didn’t care to give her a chance to make things worse by dallying with a MacLawry. She couldn’t wed him if she was already married, and Charles offered to help.” He gestured at Arran. “You cannot want Glengask’s heir this close to your throne, either.”
Mary lifted her head, her face streaked with tears. “Iwant Arran,” she said simply. “I won’t be without him. So banish me like you did Aunt Sarah, and we’ll be away from here.”
