Rogue with a Brogue (26 page)

“So ye reckon ye'd have ended up leg-shackled to him if ye'd never seen a MacLawry, and whether I'd ever kissed ye or nae.”

“I think I might well have. Without your presence, well, even though Roderick seems milder, I honestly wouldn't call him much of an improvement. And there would have been no one to ask what
I
wanted. There certainly wouldn't have been anyone to assist me when I said I didn't wish to marry Charles because he's cruel and a snake and I couldn't … tolerate him touching me the way you do.” Nor could she imagine herself conversing with any other man the way she could talk to Arran.

“Then I have another reason to be glad I came to London,” he said quietly.

She touched his arm again. It seemed vital to touch him every few minutes. “What about you, though? Do you regret that we met? You must have dozens of pretty Highlands lasses hounding you for a wedding. Deirdre, for example, is quite pretty.”

“Mostly the lasses hounded Ranulf. There was some talk last year aboot him marrying a Stewart, but naught came of it. Whenever he'd pointed Deirdre at me, I would have fought him aboot it, and whatever mess I've made between Ranulf and me, I'll live with it. But in general, aye, there are lasses in the clan MacLawry who wish to be MacLawrys in fact. They'd take any of us, I suppose.”

“I didn't mean because of your pedigree, though. I meant because of … Well, look at you. You're more handsome than any man I've ever set eyes on.”

“Am I?” he returned, a slight frown furrowing his brow. “That has naught to do with me. I dunnae carry a mirror in my pocket. I only know how I feel. And I've never felt as alive as I do when I'm with ye. I wouldnae have wanted to go through my life withoot feeling that. Or without knowing ye. So nae, I dunnae regret meeting ye, my bonny Mary. Nae fer a second.”

She sat back again, trying to hold in a sudden flood of tears. No one had ever said anything so splendid to her. If this was a fairy tale—and it was beginning to feel more and more like one—perhaps it was one of the few that could be true. Perhaps she could make a future somewhere with this dangerous, forbidden, devilishly handsome rogue. He certainly seemed to want to go forward with her.

If she could just look forward as well, stop worrying over what her father and her grandfather and all of her friends likely thought of her now, stop thinking she was a traitor to her clan because she'd dared to defy orders in favor of her own happiness, this could be her grand adventure.
He
could be her grand adventure.

Arran tilted his head at her. “I thought ye'd at least give me a kiss fer my gallantry,” he suggested.

She grinned at him. “Why is it that we can be fleeing for our freedom and our lives, and you still make me smile?”

“I'm a charming fella. And ye should kiss me. Now.”

“Hm. I'll have to consider th—”

He lunged halfway across the coach and captured her mouth. Before she even had time to brace herself, he had her on her back. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, settling into a long, deep, openmouthed kiss that sent excitement swirling down her spine and between her legs.

“When do we need to change horses?” she asked, putting one hand between them and pulling his shirt from his trousers.

“In a half hour or so,” he returned, breaking away from her mouth to look down at her. “Ye still need to ask me, bonny lass.”

She swallowed. A proper lady would never ask to be bedded. Of course, a proper lady wouldn't be alone with a man in a carriage fleeing for the Scottish border. A proper lady would be gathering her trousseau for a wedding she'd neither wanted nor agreed to.

“I want you, Arran,” she murmured, brushing hair from his face.

His mouth twitched. “Ye want me fer what? Lawn bowling?”

“I want you for … sex.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Aye? Tell me more.”

Her cheeks warmed. “I want you to take off my clothes and kiss me everywhere,” she ventured, and was rewarded by a smile and his mouth trailing along the base of her jaw.

“Anything else, lass?”

Considering she could barely remember how to speak, Mary thought she was doing quite well. She drew a shaky breath. “I … I want you inside me, Arran. Now, if you please.”

“Well, why didnae ye say so?” Rising up on his knees, one shoulder braced against the back of the seat for balance, he unbuttoned his trousers and shoved them down to his thighs. Judging by his jutting manhood, he wanted her as badly as she wanted him.

Last night he'd been slow and careful and gentle. None of that seemed to be on his mind today. Rather, he seemed very single-minded about what he wanted. Being the recipient of his lust was quite thrilling, really.

Arran wrapped his hands into the bottom hem of her gown and gathered the material up, past her knees and over her hips. Then he went down again with his hands above her shoulders, spread her legs with his knees, and pushed inside her.

She gasped, the sudden sensation of his large cock filling her making her jolt into a sudden ecstacy of pleasure. Biting her lip to keep from crying out, she dug her fingers into the muscles of his back and arched against him.

Good heavens.
They both still wore most of their clothes, and even so it felt like the most intimate, erotic moment of her life. When she could breathe again she pulled his face down for a kiss, their bodies rocking as he drove into her again and again. The world fell away until only the two of them remained, the only sounds the creaking of the carriage, their hard breathing, and his low exclamations of pleasure.

Faster and faster, deeper, harder, until with a moan she climaxed again. He followed immediately, pushing hard into her and holding himself there as he spilled his seed. This was the moment she'd already come to relish, when there were no doubts about the future or their present circumstances, or anything else. This … this was perfection. And they could only find it with each other.

Finally he lifted his head from her shoulder and kissed her again. “The part ye asked fer, with me kissing every inch of ye, will have to wait till we next find a proper bed,” he murmured.

“I'll hold you to that.”

A fist pounded on the roof of the coach, making her jump. “M'laird, coaching inn ahead. Howard wants to change the horses.”

“Aye,” Arran called out, the sound shuddering into her. “We could stand to stretch our legs and find someaught to eat.”

Grimacing, he pulled out of her and rose up on his knees again to refasten his trousers. Not wanting to be caught on her back with her dress hiked up around her waist, Mary sat up and smoothed down her skirts. “How long have we been traveling?” she asked, finally pushing aside a curtain to see filtered sunlight lengthening the shadows of the trees to the east.

“A little better than seven hours. We'll have breakfast here and then push on north. If ye want to change into yer riding habit we can travel on horseback until the next change of horses.” He favored her with a wicked smile. “Or we could stay in here and make ourselves comfortable.”

“That sounds delightful,” she returned, “but I think I'd prefer to ride for a while. I swear the coach's springs are rusting away with every mile, if it had any to begin with.”

“They may be,” he agreed. “She's nae much fer comfort, but she does have some speed. And today I'm glad fer that.”

In less than a minute they turned off the road and pulled to a halt. Still a bit shaky and out of breath, Mary waited until Peter opened the coach door and flipped down the steps before she emerged into the early morning chill. “Where are we?”

“Howard reckoned we're just south of Bunbury,” Peter replied. “I told him that meant as much as the devil's laugh to me, so then he said we're aboot thirty miles south of Manchester.”

Neither man looked particularly satisfied with that answer, either. And Mary wished she'd paid more attention to her geography lessons. “I believe that puts us approximately eighty miles south and west of York,” she offered.

Arran's expression cleared. “Nae good enough, but it's progress,” he said. “I could say I wish now we'd taken less time to stroll aboot the countryside, but that would be a lie.”

She knew what he meant. As much as they could have used the distance now, staying at quaint inns and going to the Wigmore assembly to dance had been the most magnificent set of days of her life. “How much farther to Fort William?”

“If we're as far from York as ye say, I'd wager aboot two hundred miles, lass. In this coach, on these roads, three days at the very least.”

Just from Arran's tone she could tell what he was thinking. That it would more likely be four or five days, and that the rackety old coach wouldn't be able to stay ahead of the Campbells. They would be caught. “Arran, I—”

“Let's get someaught to eat, Mrs. Fox,” he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “I, fer one, am famished.”

“So we're to wait until disaster strikes?” she asked, wrapping her hand around his sleeve.

“Disaster hasnae found us yet. And there are several roads leading north. We've nae been run down so far.”

“I had no idea MacLawrys were such optimists.”

This time his eyes danced as he grinned, and that seemed like something of a triumph. All she'd done thus far in this flight was to insist that Crawford join them and then to shut the maid into a room when she'd finally believed the overwhelming evidence that the woman had betrayed them. So she had a balance of nought.

“Oh, aye,” he responded, thankfully not reading her mind. “We MacLawrys still believe in sylphs and fairy tales. Or at least my brother Bear does.”

The inn's roof sagged on the left side, and Arran had to shove on the door twice to get it open. All she could read of the hanging sign was Something Black Something, though from the faded drawing beneath she could guess it was Witch's Black Kettle. Or perhaps Cauldron. Whatever it was, the place didn't look terribly welcoming, and she edged closer to Arran as they stepped inside.

“The mail stage won't be by here until Monday,” a low voice grumbled from the darkness. “You'd be better off waiting for it in Manchester.” Evidently the innkeeper could only afford a single pair of candles, because that was the only light present. Nor did she see any windows that could be thrown open to let in the morning sunlight.

“We've our own transportation,” Arran said in his faux accent, this time mimicking that of the unseen man in front of them. “We could use a change of horses and some eggs and toast.”

“Can you pay for it?”

“Can you provide it?” Arran countered.

A squat, round man waddled out of the back of the common room. “I've a pair of horses that'll do for you, if you'll pay for the hay to feed the ones you leave behind until somebody collects 'em.”

“And food?” Arran prompted, still not moving from the doorway. He had his free hand in his right pocket, Mary realized belatedly. Was he carrying a pistol? Did he expect an ambush?

“I'll poach you some eggs. No toast, though, because I've no bread. Three shillings first.”

Arran released Mary and took a slow step forward, blocking her view of the stout man. “Do you have many people robbing you of poached eggs, then?” he asked succinctly. “Because I'm beginning to feel insulted.”

“The next inn's just south of Manchester,” the innkeeper said. “And they have poached eggs. And toast.”

With that deceptive speed of his, Arran flipped a coin at the man, who caught it just as deftly. “And some milk, if you please.”

Grinning crookedly, the fellow waddled off into the shadows again. “I'll bring it out when it's ready. The tables with the candles are cleanest.”

Once he'd gone, Arran led the way to the closest of the lit tables and pulled out the bench for her. “What was that about?” she asked.

“I wanted to see if he would try to keep us here.”

“You thought this could be an ambush, you mean.”

He sat down opposite her. “Anything
could
be an ambush. I'm just being cautious.”

Mary couldn't help looking over her shoulder at the dimness behind her. “How long do you think we'll have before they do catch us? And don't say something comforting; tell me the truth.”

Arran grimaced, his chivalrous, protective side clearly warring with answering her request for honesty. Gripping her fingers, he squeezed gently. “I dunnae, lass. I ken Crawford could have sent a letter two days ago, or four days ago from the Giant's Pipe. That note would have arrived in London better than two days ago. Figuring your
athair
and Calder left within the hour, unless they were already on the road and a courier had to catch them up, at worst they could be aboot sixteen hours behind us. At best, thirty hours.”

“That's good, then.”

“By nightfall they could be twelve hours behind us, and by tomorrow night they could be as close as five. This coach cannae outrun men on well-bred horses.”

A chill ran through her. “What if we left the coach behind?” He didn't have to finish the equation for her to know what it meant; by morning after next, the Campbells would be directly on their heels. And then … No. She didn't even want to think about it.

“Two hundred miles on horseback at a gallop, lass? Down bad roads?”

So Arran didn't think she could manage such a feat. That much was clear. But could she? She'd ridden for several hours at a time back at Fendarrow Park, but not for long at a gallop, and not for two or three days with very little rest. “Do we have an alternative?”

“Mary, this is someaught that once we decide, we cannae go back. I say we stay with the coach as long as we dare, then decide if we can make for the Highlands on horseback from there.”

“I don't want us to be caught, Arran.”