Rogue with a Brogue (4 page)

“It's just that this conversation feels a bit like a saber dance.”

“Ye're the one who didnae tell the truth last night,” he returned. Perhaps she wasn't accustomed to conversations as careful as chess matches, but
he
was. “I gave ye
my
name.”

“And if I'd given you my name, we would never have finished that waltz. Something would have happened, and you would have ended up in a fight with my cousins. So I saved you by withholding the truth, Arran MacLawry.”

“That's the way ye mean to view it, then? That ye did me a favor by flirting with me and naming yerself Lady Vixen?”

She stopped to face him, jabbing a finger into his chest. “
You
called me that. I simply chose not to disagree with you. Don't try to turn this into a battle, when all I did was try to avoid one. On your behalf, I might add.”

Hm. He'd expected a wilting flower, a lass who would be cowed and frightened once she realized he'd discovered her identity. But Mary Campbell had her chin lifted, and her forefinger still stuck into his ribs. For such a petite thing she had better than a full portion of courage, to stand toe-to-toe with him.

Arran tilted his head. “Then ye want me to thank ye, I suppose?”

The finger she had dug into his sternum twitched, then abruptly retreated. “No. You don't need to thank me.” Slowly she turned to face the row of shops again and resumed her walk. “I was only attempting to explain why I deceived you. Or rather, neglected to tell you the truth.”

He caught up to her, sending a glance at Mary's older, frowny companion. “So ye had my best interest in mind, did ye?”

“I—”

“I appreciate it, I suppose, considering how many of yer cousins were at the party last night. I might have got my nose broken. That would make the lasses at home weep.”

“Oh, please,” she retorted, a chuckle bursting from her chest.

His own mouth curved in a smile before he even realized it. “But the question I have fer ye, Lady Mary Campbell, is why?”

She actually looked startled. “Why would I wish to keep a brawl from beginning?”

“Aye. I've spent my entire life spoiling fer a good fight with a Campbell or a Gerdens or a Daily. I've thrown my share of punches. And I know fer a fact that most of yer kin would dance a jig on my grave.”

“There's a truce,” she said, though she didn't disagree with his statement. “Your own brother arranged it with George Gerdens-Daily, and my grandfather agreed to it.”

Arran wished he were facing her so he could see her expression more clearly. “So if I'd stumbled across ye a fortnight ago ye would have stomped on my toe and told me to go to the devil?”

Mary Campbell stopped again, putting her hands on her slender hips and glaring at him with her moss-colored eyes. “I'm tempted to do that at this very moment,” she snapped. “Not because you're a MacLawry, either. Simply because you're being rude and provoking.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I—”

“How should I know what I would have done a fortnight ago?” she continued over his protest. “Everything's different now. What would
you
have done if you'd danced with me a fortnight ago and realized I was the Campbell's granddaughter?”

For a long moment he gazed at her. The answer should have been clear and simple. Whatever truce Ranulf had managed, the Campbells had burned out their own cotters, bullied their allies to do the same, and used the profits they'd made by turning the vacated land over to sheep to build new alliances in England. Their sway in the Highlands might have waned, but elsewhere they were as strong as ever. And they were the enemy.

But was she the enemy? He looked at all five feet and a few inches of her. Aye, she was a Campbell, and one with a temper, too. At the same time, she was also a very pretty young lady with an air of confidence about her that most ladies seemed to lose when confronted by an actual Highlands male. Deirdre had barely looked him in the eye during their brief conversation last night. He couldn't even recall what color her eyes were, and he had a reason to remember that.

“I'd have danced with ye, I ken,” he answered, then grinned. “And then tossed a few of yer cousins over my shoulder later fer fun.”

Her shoulders beneath her pretty blue walking dress lowered. “Well. I suppose hat shopping to be a poor substitute for Campbell-thrashing, but if you'd care to join me, I shan't object.” She gestured at the door of the small shop behind him.

Mary half expected Arran MacLawry to announce that he'd had his fill of bantering with a Campbell for one day, and that he'd truly only tracked her down to inform her that he knew who she was. She half hoped he would, because she had other things to consider, and he was … distracting. Instead, he turned around and pulled open the door, holding it for her and a clearly concerned Crawford. Her maid wasn't Scottish, but she certainly knew to whom Mary should or should not be speaking. This tall, lean, black-haired devil was clearly in the “should not” category. In fact, he was at the very top of that particular list.

Moving past him into the shop and hoping that it was indeed a milliner's, for a moment Mary wished he would close the door on Crawford so she could ask him some questions without worrying over whether every word of the conversation would be reported to her father. But for heaven's sake, she'd never met a member of a rival clan before. She'd been raised in southern England for that very reason. And now she found herself excessively curious, even when she'd been expressly ordered not to be.

“I thought all the MacLawry men had cloven feet and breathed hellfire,” she noted, stopping to peruse some hair ribbons. That was a lucky thing; for all the attention she'd paid, this might have been a cutlery shop. And the two of them in a room filled with knives would be unwise.

“Nae,” he returned. “It's ten toes and air fer the lot of us.” He spoke with the same deep, teasing brogue he'd used during the waltz—when he hadn't known who she was. Did that mean they were on friendly terms again? She rather hoped so, because she didn't generally converse with men about whom she knew so little. Or ones as fierce as Arran MacLawry was reputed to be.

“That information might have spared me some nightmares as a child.” She held up two ribbons. “Which do you prefer?”

“The light green one,” he said promptly. “It matches yer eyes and brings oot the red in yer hair.”

Something about the way he said it—along with the fact that this man had no reason in the world to flatter or humor her—sent pleasant little shivers down her spine. “You seem to have thought that through very thoroughly,” she commented, draping the green ribbon over Crawford's arm and discarding the yellow one.

“It's the truth. How long should a man take to consider it?” he said, shrugging. Then he grinned. “Aside from that, my sister says I'm the only brother with taste in other than what goes down his gullet.”

Mary laughed. He said it so matter-of-factly. “We'll see about that.” She produced a swatch of yellow and white muslin from her reticule. “I need a hat to match this. It's for a walking dress.” She sent him another glance. “Unless this isn't manly enough for you.”

His smile deepened. “The more manly a lad, the less likely he is to complain over toting a lass's reticule.” He took the material, their fingers brushing as he did so. The touch unsettled her, like the moments before lightning struck on a stormy day. She'd felt it last night, as well, when they'd waltzed. But today it seemed more pronounced. Perhaps because now they both knew to whom they were speaking.

Behind her Crawford made a choking sound, and she realized they both still held the muslin. Swiftly she released it, wiping her fingers into her skirt, and turned to see the maid staring at her. “We should be getting back, my lady,” Crawford said in a too loud voice. “Your dear mother, Lady Fendarrow, will be wondering where you've gotten to.”

It was more likely that Joanna Campbell would be wondering whether her only child had lost her mind. But from the expression on Arran's face, he was aware as she was that it would be an excuse to escape his company. And she certainly didn't wish to be seen as a coward. She was a Campbell, after all. And so her desire to remain had nothing to do with the fact that she was enjoying herself, that most men of her acquaintance didn't challenge her wits or question her reasoning, that here she felt a certain … thrill both at the notion of speaking with a MacLawry and at the way this lean, tall, devilish-handsome man had gone well out of his way to find her.

“Mother isn't expecting me until after luncheon,” she said. “And we've only just arrived here.”

“So ye're nae afraid of me?” she heard him murmur, and she shook her head.

“Should I be?”

“Today? Nae.”

“But you're to lunch with Lord Delaveer, my lady. Your father would be most angry if he—”

“I am not,” she returned firmly. “You know quite well that I'm lunching with Lord Delaveer on Thursday.”

“Delaveer?” Arran took up, his brow lowering. “Roderick MacAllister.” He paused, assessing her again. “Ah.”

Mary glared at Crawford. She should be furious that the maid had revealed a Campbell alliance before it was finalized, but at this moment she felt more annoyed that Arran would likely leave now. “That is Thursday,” she said succinctly, her gaze on his face. “It has nothing to do with today.”

Arran sent a glance between her and Crawford, then squared his shoulders. “Well, then. Let's find ye a hat, lass.”

It meant something that he'd elected to remain rather than run off to tell Lord Glengask that the Campbells and MacAllisters were negotiating an alliance—because he had definitely realized that something of the kind was afoot. She could see it in his eyes. But he
had
stayed, and she liked that. Blinking, she turned to the rack of bonnets.

She spied one she liked almost immediately, a straw hat with a narrow brim and a flourish of yellow silk daisies with green silk leaves. Instead of selecting it, though, she made a show of trying on a dozen different unsuitable chapeaux.

“So are ye avoiding that hat because ye wish me to discover it,” Arran finally asked, indicating the one she'd been trying not to look at, “or because ye cannae think of another way to keep me aboot this morning?”

He certainly wasn't at all timid about speaking his mind. “You went to the trouble of finding me. I thought it impolite to give the impression that your assistance wasn't appreciated.”

With an amused snort he took the hat down from its peg and handed it to her. “Then I suppose I feel appreciated.”

Trying on the hat, Mary faced the large mirror that stood in the corner. At the edge of the reflection she caught him gazing at her. For a long moment they simply … looked.

For heaven's sake he was handsome, with that unruly black hair that badly needed a trim, light blue eyes that couldn't quite disguise the sharp intelligence behind them, and that mouth that seemed to want to smile far more often than she'd thought possible for a MacLawry. Her cousin Charles Calder had once accused the MacLawry brothers of strutting about like the last Highland princes. They were that, she supposed, admitting to herself what no other Campbell ever would.

After all, the MacLawrys had the largest property in the Highlands. And where most of the other clans, hers included, had been forced to sell off their land, turn out their own cotters, and exchange their people for Cheviot sheep, the MacLawrys had resisted. They'd paid for that stubbornness, as well, with the death of Arran's own father, schoolhouses burned down, and of course the hostilities between them and the surrounding clans. Her grandfather had called the MacLawry lads “arrogant, stubborn rogues” who would rather spill blood than admit to being wrong.

“Have ye ever been to the Highlands, lass?” he asked abruptly, blinking and then turning away from her reflection.

“Of course I have. I spent a fortnight there, spring before last.” She'd wanted to stay longer, but her family had deemed it too dangerous. Pulling off the hat and rather annoyed at her own contrary line of thought, she handed the thing over to Crawford and fixed her hair.

“But ye were raised English.”

She couldn't tell if he meant to imply that she wasn't truly Scottish, or if he was genuinely curious. But she didn't like it, regardless. “I was raised outside of Scotland,” she said slowly, “because my parents and my grandfather were concerned over my safety. Because Alkirk is but fifteen miles from Glengask.”

“So the Campbell feared the devil MacLawrys would harm ye?” he returned, stepping around to block her path.

Mary met his gaze. “I grew up hearing frightful tales about you and your kin. One of my cousins once told me that you captured the son of one of our chieftains, and you roasted and ate him.”

His sensuous mouth twitched. “Nae. He was too scrawny. We threw him back.”

A laugh passed her lips before she could stop it. “I'll grant you that the tale was perhaps a bit absurd,” she conceded, still grinning, “but surely you have similar tales about the Campbells.”

“Oh, aye.” He pulled out his pocket watch, clicked it open, and frowned down at it. “I'll tell ye some of them when we meet fer luncheon tomorrow at … Where do ye like to eat luncheon?”

Her favorite eatery in London was a small bakery just east of Bond Street, but it was likely to be stuffed with her friends and acquaintances. And perhaps Lord Delaveer, as well. “The Blue Lamb Inn on Ellis Street,” she said instead. No one she knew would be there, since it was owned by a distant relation of the MacDonalds. The Campbells hated them nearly as much as they did the MacLawrys. Aside from that, it was south of Mayfair, directly on the north bank of the Thames.