Rogue with a Brogue (27 page)

“Neither do I, lass.”

“No. I mean I don't want to go back and marry Charles or be locked away somewhere for being defiant. I want to get to the Highlands, and I want to be there with you.”

His expression eased a little. “I want those same things, bonny Mary. But if we flee at a run now, I dunnae think we'll last till Fort William. This way we still have time and room to maneuver.”

Of course he meant that
she
wouldn't last, but at least he hadn't worded it that way. Once again, though, she lacked the practical experience to argue with his decision. There didn't seem to be anything meaningful she could contribute. And now she was slowing them down.

“When it's time to ride,” she said, holding his gaze, “we will ride. I will not falter, and I will not slow us down.”

He lifted her hand to kiss her knuckles. “I dunnae doubt it fer a moment. Ye are a Highlands lass, after all.”

 

Chapter Fourteen

Arran barely noted the runny eggs that the unsavory proprietor of the nameless inn set before them. For all the attention he paid, he might as well have been eating straw.

She'd said she wanted to be in the Highlands. With him. And this time, he believed her. He heard it in her voice; Mary Campbell wasn't still looking for a way to reclaim her previous life, or to escape what would have been a disastrous marriage to Calder. Of course, there was still the chance that she was now in such a hurry to get away because that would keep her from actually having to choose between her family and him. If they were caught, she would have to make a stand.

With a quick, hard breath he choked down a last mouthful of breakfast. She'd never told him anything but her honest, true thoughts, so if he had any doubts all he need do was ask. And he would never do so—because whatever her reasons, and however much she counted on circumstance and a favorable wind, she'd chosen him.

Therefore, all he need do was see to it that they reached the Highlands ahead of the Campbells. Once in Scotland they could marry without all the fuss English law required. And once in the Highlands, amid the valleys and mountains and rivers, anyone looking for them would have quite the task before them.

The part he didn't want to think about was that he wanted to give Mary a home, and that would be nearly impossible while they were being pursued. And while hiding would be easier in the chaos of renewed hostilities, his family—and hers—would be at the forefront of any conflict, and the idea that Ranulf or Bear might be injured or … killed because of him clawed at his heart.

If Mary's father had been more reasonable, and if Ranulf had been willing to listen for a damned minute, they might have found a peaceful path. For God's sake, it was a union of MacLawry and Campbell. It might have united the clans, instead of setting them after each other again. They'd all been stupid and foolish, but he had no intention of giving up Mary because of that.

“Let's get yer riding habit,” he said, taking a last swallow of tepid milk and rising.

“Arran, if we're not going to beat my family to the border, what are we going to do?”

“At the moment I plan on hoping they're on the wrong road,” he drawled. “If they do catch us, I suppose I'll be ready for however unfriendly they choose to be.”

“You said you wouldn't hurt my father.”

“I dunnae mean to. But I dunnae mean to let him drag ye back to Calder, either. And yer
athair
willnae be alone. In fact, he may not even be along. Calder's just as likely to have ridden ahead. Him, I dunnae mind shooting.”

She stopped halfway around the long table. “You can't do that.”

“I believe I can.”

“He's the Campbell's grandson, Arran. If you kill any of them, they'll never stop hunting for us.”

He looked at her for a moment. “I'm Glengask's
bràthair,
ye know. I'm his heir at the moment, unless he's already disowned me. Why isnae Calder worried aboot killing me?” he asked, then winked at her. Whatever needed to happen would happen. Deciding now which lines could or couldn't be crossed would only make him hesitate later. And that could be deadly.

Mary favored him with an exasperated smile. “I'm certain in Charles's mind you kidnapped me against my will.”

“Which makes putting a ball through my head perfectly acceptable,” he finished. “And here I am, unwilling to see my bonny lass weep.” He put his hands on the table, leaning in close to her. “Have ye ever been on a fox hunt?”

She wrinkled her nose, which made him want to kiss it. “Yes, once. I didn't like it.”

“I imagine the fox gave ye quite a run.”

“It dragged us all over the countryside.” She covered his left hand with her right. “But eventually the fox died, Arran. I don't like this analogy.”

The inn door scraped open, letting a misshapen rectangle of morning sunlight flood the room. “The horses are harnessed, Mr. Fox,” Peter said.

Well, that was poor timing.
“They know we're running and close to where we are, Peter,” Arran returned. “May as well give up on Mr. Fox.”

“But I've just got to where I remember it.” The footman took a deep breath. “The coach is ready, m'laird.”

“Get yerself and Howard someaught to eat, first. Ten minutes, Peter.”

“Aye, m'laird. Thank ye.”

He returned his attention to Mary. “My point was that hunting a fox isnae a straightforward matter. He's a sly fellow, a fox is. And my other point is that once we reach Fort William there's nae a man who can catch me. Nae in the Highlands.” He grinned at her. “Up there this fox has a thousand dens.”

She stood, kissing him on the cheek. “I will hold you to that. But I think we should hurry, anyway.”

Back outside, Arran clambered up to the top of the coach and unstrapped the lid of Mary's trunk. Pulling out the riding habit and boots he'd purchased for her, he handed them down to her, then jumped back to the ground.

“I'd rather change inside the coach than somewhere in there,” she said, indicating the inn.

“I dunnae blame ye.” He pulled open the carriage door and helped her inside. “And I want ye to know I'd join ye in there if I didnae have to keep watch.”

With a smile she leaned out the door. “If you did join me I'd never manage to get dressed.”

He tilted his face up and kissed her. “I ken ye wouldnae,” he murmured, lust tugging at him again. Arran caught the front of her gown, holding her there. “Ye know ye're mine, lass.”

Green eyes sparkled. “And you're mine.”

Slowly he released her again. “Aye. That I am.”

When she shut the door he leaned back against one of the coach wheels. Generally he enjoyed problem-solving. If Ranulf wanted to build a new school, he would be the one to find the location that would be the most easily accessible to the most children of the MacLawrys' cotters; he would hire the builders, and he would find a teacher who could tame—but not break—wild Highlands children.

But that had been before. Now the problem involved keeping away from Ranulf, along with all the MacLawrys and all the Campbells. And, if possible, keeping them from killing each other. The best solution he could think of would be a great-grandchild for the Campbell, with him and Mary wed and established somewhere neutral. Yes, he could likely bribe some Sasannach priest to marry them without the banns being read or a license procured, but a wedding of this import needed to be performed in Scotland, and by a Scot. Aside from that, in Scotland they wouldn't need a Canterbury marriage license at all.

All of that, though, hinged on the two of them actually making it to Scotland. And whatever he said about foxes and fox hunts, the odds of that did not look good. On his own he had little doubt that he could outride and outmaneuver the Campbells, and likely remove a few of them from the hunt permanently. But he wasn't on his own. And if Lord Fendarrow appeared and ordered Mary to return with him—and especially if he promised she wouldn't have to marry Charles Calder—Arran wasn't entirely certain she would refuse.

At the same time, for his pride or some other damned reason, he wanted to be what she
did
choose—and not simply because he'd really left her no alternative, either. He wanted to know that she wouldn't regret this, because
he
certainly wouldn't. Yes, he would miss his brothers and his sister, but he did not regret taking Mary for himself, whatever came of it.

“You look very serious,” Mary said, from the coach's window.

“Do I?” he asked, stirring. “I was just noticing the morning. It's nae as stunning as the Highlands, but I'll admit it's pretty.”

“Come in here and button me, will you?”

Arran straightened and pulled open the door. “Ye dunnae have to ask me twice, lass.” If this adventure would end with him under the ground, he meant to enjoy every moment with Mary he had left.

When he stepped to the ground again, though, the smile on his face froze. The empty stable yard had found some occupants. Four of them. And none of the four looked particularly friendly. They also had their attention on him and the coach behind him.
Damnation.
Mary would have stepped down behind him, but he shifted sideways to block her exit. “When I move forward, shut the door,” he murmured.

He heard her quick draw of breath, her hand lowering to his shoulder. “I don't recognize them,” she whispered back. “I don't think they're Campbells.”

And he'd thought she might caution him not to jump to conclusions, or to ignore the men and escort her back to the inn. Instead she'd caught onto the meat of the matter and simply given him the most useful piece of information. With a slight nod he stepped forward, and the carriage door closed behind him with a faint click.
Good lass.

“Ye've found me on a fine morning, lads,” Arran drawled, assessing muddy boots and worn jackets. Locals, likely drovers or farmhands. “What might I do fer ye?”

The one standing farthest from him spat onto the muddy ground. “Heard your friends inside the inn. One of 'em called you a lord. Seems you're a long way from home, lord.”

“Aye,” the biggest of them grunted, grinning around a missing front tooth. “Ireland's a long way from here, lordship.”

Arran sighed. “Aye. I agree: Ireland's a long way from here.” Stupid thugs, they were—which didn't mean they couldn't hit hard, but it did comfort him somewhat. They weren't there on behalf of the Campbells.

Two of them looked at each other, as if they weren't certain what to do with a fellow who was both agreeable and unafraid of them. Arran gave an exaggerated shrug. With all the bile aimed at him by both friend and foe over the past week or so, a dustup seemed just the thing to help him work out a bit of pent-up frustration.

“Why don't you hand over your purse, lordship, and we'll let you go on your way?” the spitting man offered.

“Why dunnae ye come over here and take it from me?” Arran returned, and grinned.

Toothless charged forward like a bull. Sidestepping, Arran stuck out one foot, sending him headfirst into the door of the coach. With a dull thud Toothless went down. Spittle was right on his heels, followed closely by the other two.

Arran shifted, taking a fist to the jaw as Spittle slammed into his chest. Now it felt like a to-do. He sent an elbow into the ear of the lad on the left, then hefted Spittle off the ground to throw him feetfirst into the fellow on the right. That gave Toothless time to climb to his knees—until the coach door slammed open on his head and then neatly closed again. The big man dropped once more.

Sending a fist into the face of the next man to close on him, he took a blow to the left shoulder. If these lads didn't discourage soon, he was going to have to stop playing. He blinked blood out of one eye and dove in again. A heartbeat later he heard a gravel-voiced curse in Scots Gaelic, and the pile of them went over sideways. Peter Gilling, the old scrapper, flashed by him, Toothless heaved over his shoulder.

A pistol shot cracked into the air. For a frozen heartbeat Arran thought the Campbells had ridden them down, after all.

“That's enough, gentlemen!” Mary declared, tossing the spent pistol behind her into the coach and hefting a second one. “You've had your fun, and now you're getting my husband muddy.”

Now
that
was a proper Highlands lass.
His
Highlands lass. “Ye heard the lady,” he said aloud, straightening to dust off his trousers. “Thank ye fer the exercise.”

The four lads stumbled back to the lopsided door of the inn, Spittle helped along with a swift kick to his arse delivered by Peter. Howard their one-eyed driver stood close by, a piece of lumber gripped in his hands. So Arran and Mary weren't alone in this, after all.

“Well, that was refreshing,” he said, walking up to slide the pistol from Mary's fingers with one hand, and tug on the neckline of her gown to pull her in for a kiss with the other.

“You're mad, you know,” she commented a bit breathlessly. “Everyone says you're the clever MacLawry, and there you were, grinning the entire time you were punching people.”

“Aye. Fisticuffs is just a Highlands how-do-ye-do.” The same smile still tugging at his mouth, he took a moment to gaze at her. “Ye're a
tapaidh
lass, Mary.”

“All I did was strategically open a door. That's hardly brave, Arran.”

“Tell that to the lad with the knot on his skull.”

“Oh, very well.” She smiled back at him. “I know you likely wrestle bears and lions for amusement, but four-to-one odds didn't seem fair.”

It seemed just about right to him, but she hadn't grown up with a pair of large brothers. “Let's get away from here before they find friends, and ye can spend the day telling me how manly I am and how fine the day looks with me riding aboot in it.”