Rogue with a Brogue (37 page)

“I beg yer pardon?”

“Buttermilk. It tastes pleasant, but it's a great deal of work and I could certainly live without it, without even giving it a second thought.”

“I cannae help wanting to protect ye and purchase ye pretty, silly things, Mary.”

“You
are
protecting me. You've already saved me. And purchase me pretty things if you like, if we can afford them. But I don't
need
them. I
need
you.” She shifted around to look him squarely in the face, though he didn't know what she could see in the dark. “Have I made myself clear, Arran MacLawry?”

What he hadn't realized in all this was that Mary Campbell was as occupied with looking after his best interests as he was with looking after hers. Having her in his life made him happy. Why would that be any different for her? “Aye,” he said aloud. “I reckon I understand ye.”

“Good.”

He grabbed her by the lapels of her oversized coat and tugged her up against him. “And now ye understand this,” he growled. “Ye're mine. If ye're sad or hurt or angry or lonely, ye'll tell me aboot it. Ye'll nae keep it to yerself because ye think I'd be happier nae knowing. And if I choose to make it my business to see ye happy, ye'll just have to put up with it. Have I made myself clear, Mary Campbell?”

She smiled and kissed him softly on the mouth. “Aye.”

“Och. Now I've a tear in my eye,” Peter said from in front of them.

“Ye'll have my boot in yer arse if ye dunnae find us a place to spend the night, ye heathen.”

With that incentive they found a promising spot a half mile or so farther on, just over a hill from the road. Arran jumped to the ground to guide the wagon into a stand of trees, and then helped hobble all four horses by the small stream running along the base of the hill.

That done, and with an apple smuggled to Duffy for putting up with him for being such an
amadan
when he'd last come this way, he sat on the ground against a wagon wheel. Mary sat beside him, handing over a piece of cold roast ham. “It's all I could wrestle from the lads,” she said, indicating the two men seated across from them.

“Nae true, m'laird,” Peter protested. “We gave the lass half the carcass.”

“I'm teasing, Peter.”

“Lass,” Arran said, brushing a strand of her long, curling hair from her face, “ye know there's a good chance yer family or mine or some other fools looking to make trouble may decide they cannae let us be.”

She nodded. “We may not be able to remain in Scotland.”

Of course she'd already realized that. “I've heard that Virginia is a fine, fertile land,” he said slowly. “With milder winters than up in the Cairngorms.”

“Ye mean we have to be Yankees?” Peter asked.

“Do they have ale there?” Howard lifted the bottle they'd purchased from the inn. “And whisky?”

“Aye. They also have horses, I hear. And fiddles.”

“Well, if someone there can play the pipes and they have some good tobacco, then what are we waitin' fer?” the footman announced.

“We're waiting because we're Highlanders,” Mary said, removing Arran's jacket and putting it over his shoulders, then shifting to sit between his legs and lean back against his chest. “We'll make a go of it here, first.” She took his arms and pulled them around her shoulders.

“I'm yer blanket now, am I?” he muttered, kissing her hair.

“You're my everything,” she whispered back, tilting her head back to kiss his chin. “Now. Tell me this plan you have for tomorrow.”

Arran grinned. If his lady didn't so much as blink an eye at the idea of traveling across an ocean to make a new life, she certainly wouldn't be troubled by a bit of subterfuge. As she said, they were Highlanders. And so with a bit of the luck that had been journeying with them so far, in twelve hours or so he would be a married man—and not a dead one.

 

Chapter Nineteen

“This is the worst idea in the history of bloody bad ideas,” Peter complained, turning his back on Arran. “I said I'd be a Yankee, but this is going too far.”

Arran shot Mary a quick grin, then fastened the buttons running up the footman's back. “I dunnae fit in the battle-axe's gown. Ye do. Now shuck yer trousers.”

Peter turned around again, his face going scarlet beneath the matronly gray bonnet they'd liberated from Crawford. “Nae in front of Lady Mary,” he grumbled, and stalked behind the wagon.

“Coward.”

“I didn't dress in front of
him,
” Mary said, tucking her oversized shirt into her taken-in trousers and wishing she'd had time to do a bit more sewing. “It's only fair.”

“But ye didnae dress in front of me, either, and that's nae fair. Let me look at ye, lass.”

“That's laddy, if ye don't mind,” she ventured, lowering the timbre of her voice as much as she could.

With only her small hand mirror to view her appearance, she would have to rely on him. But she thought she looked very like a lad of fifteen or sixteen, clad in handed-down, altered brown trousers, the clearly cut-down coat of some other undescribable brown color, and the worn shirt that had once been white.

“I wish Howard's shoes fit ye better,” he said, and took her around the waist. “I know I willnae mistake ye fer a lad.”

“Will anyone else, though? That is the question.”

“Here. Try this.” He set his floppy-brimmed straw hat over the tight knot of hair she'd put at the top of her head. “And dunnae smile. Ye're far too lovely when ye smile.”

Well, that was very nice. “Howard's coat is too small for you,” she returned, tugging at the lapels. “But with his cap on, you do look less like you.” She met his gaze, his light blue eyes the precise color of the sky this morning. “Is this going to work?”

“I'd be happier if we didnae have such a fine day,” he commented, glancing toward the clear sky. “It's a good omen fer a wedding, but I'd like it better if we had cold and rain so we could bundle ye up a bit more.”

“Arran, you're a … large, strapping man. If they're inside that church, they'll recognize you.”

He shook his head. “They'll nae be inside the church. That's one thing all Highlanders agree on. A church is sacred and holy. If they're in Gretna Green, they'll be watching the ootside of the building. And they'll be looking fer a proper lady and a handsome, roguish Highlander. Nae two farm lads and their mother bringing flowers to the church.”

“I'm beginning to think we might just declare ourselves handfasted.”

He grinned. “And so we are. But we need to sign that church register as husband and wife. It's proof, and evidence, and it's in Scotland. And once the church is involved, both the Campbells and MacLawrys will have to be a bit more … careful in the way they proceed.”

She knew that, of course. A church wedding would provide an additional layer of protection for both of them. That was always his aim—to keep her safe. But it would keep him safer, as well. Their marriage would be recorded. No one would be able to make him simply disappear, as her father had been planning.

Arran ground his fine Hessian boots into the earth, scuffing and dirtying them beyond repair, then pulled them on. They couldn't hide his height or his broad shoulders, but in ill-fitting clothes and a worn hack driver's cap and dreadful-looking boots, he would at least raise some doubts. Together with a younger brother and a frumpy mother, perhaps he would go unnoticed altogether. Not by Mary, of course.

“I hope ye dunnae expect me to clean those ever again,” Peter said, gesturing at Arran's boots as he hobbled around the side of the wagon.

“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 you
do
return.”

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 now
I'm
ready.”

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.”

Mary knew what Arran was doing; with his usual good humor he meant to keep them at ease as long as possible. Considering that any weapons were likely to be pointed at him, she could only admire his courage—and do her damnedest to see that the plan succeeded.

For all that it remained on the lips of every young pair of English lovers who felt the need to elope, Gretna Green was something of a disappointment in daylight. It barely qualified as a village at all, with perhaps a dozen houses along the lane, a single tavern, and a blacksmith's forge. According to rumor the smith could also perform weddings, but she and Arran required the church.

And then the quaint little building came into sight at the top of a gentle rise just above the village. The butterflies in her stomach turned into bats. And not just because they might well be driving into a trap. Choosing to marry Arran was the most momentous decision she would ever make in her life. Perhaps she shouldn't have been as certain as she was, but she simply couldn't imagine
not
spending the rest of her life by his side.

“Three horses at the rear of the tavern,” Peter whispered.

“I don't suppose it could just be three men breaking their fast.” Mary kept her gaze straight ahead, even though more than anything she wanted to turn around and see if she recognized the horses.

“Could be,” Arran said. “Two more horses under the trees up here. Two, nae, three men. Relax, my bonny lass. Ye can be curious of strangers. Dunnae pretend ye dunnae see 'em.”

“Why are you so … proficient at this?” she whispered.

He shrugged, keeping the team at their leisurely walk up the slope. “Anyone nae wearing yer clan colors could mean ye harm. I grew up with that.” With a sideways glance at her, he sent them past the waiting men and circled the wagon so they were facing back down the hill. “I also got myself caught behind French lines once,” he went on conversationally. “Had to steal a corporal's uniform and pretend to be French fer three days.”