Rogue with a Brogue (3 page)

“Thank you, Gerns,” she rasped, motioning the butler away again.

“Of course, my lady,” he intoned, returning to his station at her father's shoulder.

“MacLawry?” the marquis prompted.

“He … surprised me,” she finally managed, still sputtering.

“Hm.”

Mary scowled at her father. “He
did
surprise me. I was crossing the room to see Elizabeth, and he ran into me. When he asked me to waltz, I couldn't refuse him without … insulting him.”

“You could easily have said you already had a partner,” her mother countered, slight color returning to her generally pale cheeks. “I daresay your father or any of your cousins would have been pleased to dance with you if you'd so much as wiggled a finger at them. And what about that handsome Roderick MacAllister? You know your father expressly wanted you to dance with Lord Delaveer.”

“I
did
dance with Roderick. I dance with him quite frequently.”

“A country dance. That barely signifies.”

“And I certainly have no qualms about insulting a MacLawry,” her father put in. “Particularly in favor of a MacAllister.”

“I do, Walter. The MacLawrys are dangerous beasts. Didn't you see that brawl they caused at the Evanstone ball? They nearly killed Lord Berling. Your own cousin.”

“My second cousin,” Lord Fendarrow amended. “And a fool. But yes, you are correct, my dear. You didn't need to insult him, but you shouldn't have danced with him, either, Mary.”

Mary nodded. “There is a truce, though, is there not? Arnold and Charles and all my other cousins aren't going to murder Arran MacLawry for dancing with me, are they? Because I don't think he had the slightest idea who I was.”

And she'd rather enjoyed that, actually. To him she'd been Lady Vixen, and they'd simply chatted. Yes, she'd needled him a bit, but then he was a MacLawry. He hadn't become flustered or annoyed or defensive at her barbs, though. Rather, he'd shown more wit and humor than she'd expected—after all, she'd grown up on tales of the goat-faced, hairy-knuckled MacLawrys.

She wished she could have seen more of his face, because his mouth with that cynically amused quirk of his lips, the way the lean fox visage seemed to fit his features—he didn't seem remotely goat-faced. In fact, he intrigued her, just a little.

“To be perfectly clear,” her father said, shaking her out of thoughts of black, wind-blown hair and a lean, strong jaw, “you aren't to dance with Arran MacLawry or Ranulf MacLawry, or Munro MacLawry if he should venture down from Glengask. Nor are you to befriend Rowena MacLawry. Or the Mackles or Lenoxes or MacTiers or any other of their clan or allies.”

“I—”

“I know you're aware of your place, Mary,” he continued over her interruption. “I know you've been told a hundred times that as my daughter, as your grandfather's granddaughter, you have a value to both allies and enemies. It wasn't as … vital when the MacLawrys kept to the Highlands, but they're here in London now. And simply because my father decided we should at least pretend some diplomacy with the Marquis of Glengask doesn't mean
you
need to do so.”

“I understand, Father,” Mary said hurriedly, hoping to avoid being bombarded by the entire speech. Because she hadn't heard it a hundred times; she'd heard it a thousand times. “Truly.”

“Good. Because the present circumstances have provided us with an opportunity we don't mean to let pass by.”

“An opportunity that hinges on you,” her mother put in, finally taking a seat. “Even though I was married by one-and-twenty, it seems your … stubbornness and your grandfather's indulgence have now actually benefited us.”

“Indeed,” the marquis resumed. “Your previous reluctance to marry hasn't helped ease any clan tensions. But your grandfather agrees that this truce can be used to our advantage.”

So far it didn't seem to be much of an advantage for her, except for one waltz with a man she would otherwise have been forbidden to look at through a spyglass. Then she realized just which opportunity they must be referring to. “You're setting me after Roderick MacAllister,” she stated, her heart bumping into her throat.

“This truce won't last,” her father returned matter-of-factly. “The Campbell's favorite granddaughter marrying the MacAllister's son will give us the numbers to challenge the MacLawrys, and the MacAllisters wouldn't make that bargain, sweet as it is, without this cease-fire. We must strike now.” He leaned forward, putting a hand over her teacup before she could lift it for another sip. “And that is why you are not to risk upending this truce by waltzing with Arran MacLawry.”

Ice trailed down her spine. Yes, she could have avoided a dance with a MacLawry—if she'd wished to do so. When she'd realized he had no idea who she was, she'd felt … excited, as if she were doing something forbidden and dangerous. As opposed to something … disquieting. Roderick MacAllister was pleasant enough, and she supposed at the back of her thoughts she'd known he was one of her beaux, along with every male cousin in the Campbell clan. But that didn't erase the fact that there had been something stirring about waltzing with a rogue.

Her father released the cup of tea and sat back again. “We likely should have had this conversation three years ago when you had your debut.”

“We did,” the marchioness countered, a fine line appearing between her brows. “But who would ever have expected the MacLawrys to come down from the Highlands? Not I, certainly.”

“Not to argue,” Mary said slowly, “but if we are attempting to keep this truce with Lord Glengask and his clan, should we not be more … friendly toward them? Perhaps with a dance or two we can avoid any future bloodshed. Surely that would be worth the risk.”

“Didn't you hear your father? If Charles Calder or Arnold Haws sees you partnered with a MacLawry, you'll be causing a fight. If you're seen favoring that rogue over Lord Delaveer, you will be jeopardizing the most significant alliance of the past hundred years.”

There had already been a fight—several of them, actually—between the Campbells and the MacLawrys this Season. In fact, she had no idea how Lord Glengask and her second cousin George Gerdens-Daily had managed to converse long enough to decide they should attempt to avoid killing each other. But they had, and now no one seemed to know quite what to do. Or rather, her family had decided to use the few moments of peace to nearly double their strength in anticipation of when the truce fell apart. And she was the linchpin.

She pushed to her feet. “So I am not to dance with a MacLawry, and not to be rude to a MacAllister. I believe I can manage that.” Mary came around the table to pat her father on the shoulder. “I'm off to find a new hat, then, and I will be going to luncheon with Elizabeth and Kathleen.”

“Oh, give my best wishes to Kathleen for her mother, dear,” the marchioness said. “I do hope she'll be recovered enough to attend the Dailys' recital on Thursday.”

“I'll tell her.” Mary kissed her mother's cheek, then made her way out to the foyer to collect her maid, Crawford, and the blue bonnet that matched her walking dress.

“Are you certain you don't want to take the coach, my lady?” Gerns asked, as the butler helped her with her matching blue shawl.

“We're only walking to Bond Street,” she returned with a smile, deciding she could use a few moments to clear her head. Because if her parents couldn't stop talking about one silly waltz with Arran MacLawry, her friends would wish to discuss nothing else.

Of course she knew that logically she shouldn't have danced with that lean, dark-haired fox half-mask. But for heaven's sake, to say that she wasn't allowed to waltz with a gentleman she'd never even met before simply because some man she hadn't yet agreed to marry might be angry? Ridiculous.

Of course marrying her would be a political coup, a way into clan Campbell's higher echelons. She'd known that for what seemed like forever. Just the same way she knew that her male cousins and the potential Campbell allies paid her special attention because of her bloodline and not because she was particularly charming or lovely. But Arran MacLawry had danced with her for the simple reason that they'd worn matching masks. It was utterly … mad that everyone had begun roaring and stomping because of a coincidence of costume.

Perhaps next her father would decide she couldn't waltz with anyone dressed in blue. Or black. Or would it be her husband who dictated that? For heaven's sake. She hoped she would at least have the chance to chat with Roderick before her family dragged her to a church. All she knew about him at the moment was that he danced tolerably and had a weakness for stinky cheeses. There was a vast difference between amiable chatting and attempting to discover whether a man would make a husband.

“Lady Mary, are we late?” Crawford panted from beside her, her skirts clutched in one hand.

Mary immediately slowed her pace. “I'm so sorry, Crawford. My mind was elsewhere.”

“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.
That
was 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. But
he'd
approached
her
—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?”