Rogue with a Brogue (28 page)

Mary chuckled, the sound warm as sunlight on his skin. “And you can thank me for keeping those men from breaking that handsome nose of yours.”

Peter snorted as he brought their two horses over. “Everyone can admire everyone until the Campbells catch us up, or we can get back going north again.”

Arran nodded. “Aye. North it is.”

*   *   *

“This
is
pretty,” Mary said, as she and Juno trotted over an old stone bridge, Arran and Duffy beside her. “I have a few second and third cousins about here, as I recall.”

Arran sent her a sharp look, the jauntiness of his appearance somehow increased by the bruise on the left side of his jaw. “Somewhere close enough that anyone chasing us could find a hot meal, fresh mounts, and reinforcements?”

“Possibly.”

Why hadn't she thought of that before? The pair of horses they'd harnessed at the last inn seemed better suited to the plow, which meant her clan was catching up to them even more quickly. She needed to outthink her family, as well as outrun them, and to stop being distracted by the lovely day and the handsome man beside her. Yes, he'd fought four men earlier, and given far worse than he'd received, but he'd done it to protect her. It was past time she did more than take in the scenery.

“There's also my aunt Morag somewhere north of town,” she continued. “She married an English banker, and none of us have seen her in years. My grandfather said that Uncle Sean was more Irish than English, and that made him twice as unacceptable.”

“Imagine what he'll say aboot us, Mary. Ye know he may refuse to see ye, whether they put me under the ground first or nae.”

“Stop saying that!” she ordered, sudden horror tightening her voice.

He urged Duffy closer and reached over to touch her cheek. “I dunnae mean to die, bonny Mary. But it's a possible outcome. And if it happens, ye need to be ready. Ye need to be wise and choose the path that most favors ye.”

Mary pushed his hand away with her own. “Choose what?” she snapped. “Do you think you're a derby horse? If you fall I simply change my wager?” She clenched her fist tightly around the reins. “I already chose. If something happens to you—I … I won't allow anything to happen to you.”

Of course that wasn't realistic; considering how little she'd done to aid her own rescue it was even laughable. But she was
not
going to prepare herself for his death, because even the idea of it was unacceptable. Unfathomable. It didn't matter that she'd known him only a short time. He'd become vital to her. Vital to her heart. Did he not believe that?

Arran's shoulders lowered. “I know ye chose. I apologize fer pushing at ye. Just … dunnae surrender to less than ye want. Ever.”

That was it, then. He thought she would give in to her father and even to Charles if pressed to do so. If he wasn't there to protect her. Well. It wasn't anything she could prove to him, one way or the other, unless disaster struck.

“I hope you do the same,” she said aloud, “if the MacLawrys catch us and put
me
under the ground.” There. Let him see how much he liked hearing such nonsense.

“If one of mine harmed ye,” he said in a low, flat voice, “he'd be a dead man.”

She didn't have to question if he was serious; she heard it in his voice. “Then we're agreed,” she said briskly, a little shaken. “So let's stop talking about it.”

He seemed inclined to listen, because for the next mile or so they rode in silence. Or in relative silence, rather. The squeaking coach behind them drowned out the songs of any birds or insects that might have been audible along the pretty, tree-lined lane. Howard kept saying she was just complaining about being so far from London, but Mary had begun to have her doubts that the vehicle would still be in one piece when they reached the Highlands.
If
they reached the Highlands.

“What's yer favorite flower?” Arran asked abruptly.

She sent him a sideways glance, and then a second one simply because he looked magnificent with the noonday light on his face and the wind ruffling his thick black hair. The MacLawrys thought themselves princes of the Highlands, Charles had said on several occasions. She was inclined to agree that they were. Or this one was, anyway. “Why?”

“Because we're to be married, if ye ever ask me to be yer dear husband,” he returned. “I'd like to know what kind of flower ye favor.”

Mary pursed her lips. No one could ever accuse Arran MacLawry of being predictable. “White roses,” she said. “And purple thistle. I am a Highlands lass, you know.”

With a grin, he closed in for a swift kiss. “I do know that.”

“M'laird,” Peter called from behind them, with his usual abominable timing.

Arran reined Duffy in as the coach rocked to a halt. “What is it?”

“Howard cannae keep his one eye open, and I'm near dead on my feet. Or arse, rather, begging yer pardon, m'lady.”

“We cannae stop,” Arran said, frowning. “I'll drive, and the two of ye can sleep in the coach.”

“Nobody drives her but me,” Howard grumbled, narrowing his one eye.

“I'll be gentle. I need ye ready to drive us after dark, Howard. I dunnae have the skill fer that.”

Mary was fairly certain he was lying, but she nodded. “We'll need you at your very best tonight, Howard,” she added.

“So you think you can charm me into cooperating, eh?” the driver muttered. “I suppose you can.” He shoved down on the brake handle. “You certain you can drive a team, Mr. my lord Fox?”

“Aye. And I told ye to call me Arran.”

The driver and Peter climbed to the ground. “I'm not grand enough to be calling lords and ladies by their Christian names. Now let's tie up those mounts of yours before I curl up here on the grass.”

Arran swung down and walked over to hold his arms up to Mary. She took a moment to look down at him. If everything went as they hoped, in a very few days this man would be her husband. Heat simmered beneath her skin. He would look at her in just that same fond, amused way every day. She would fall asleep in his arms and wake in them in the morning.

“Ye keep smiling at me like that, Mary, and I'm like to burst into song,” he murmured. “Come here.”

She leaned into his arms, and he lowered her to the ground, bending his head to kiss her before he released his grip on her waist. “I'll ride up top with you,” she decided.

“Aye. I doubt ye'd get any rest with those two inside, snoring.” He flashed her a grin. “Besides, having ye with me will improve the view.”

Peter tied their mounts behind the coach, and then he and Howard climbed into the coach, shut the door, and pulled the curtains closed. With no perceivable effort Arran lifted Mary to the top right front wheel, and from there she pulled herself up to the high, narrow seat. He moved around the front, checking the horses' traces, then hiked himself up easily onto the seat beside her.

“
Can
you drive a coach?” she whispered.

“Aye. Or a wagon, more like.” Arran gathered up the ribbons, released the brake lever, and clucked to the team. With a creak the coach lurched into motion. “When I imagined sweeping in to rescue ye,” he drawled, “this was nae what I had in mind.”

“You imagined rescuing me?”

“I'm here, nae?”

“But you imagined it first. How? What did you imagine?”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment she thought he wouldn't answer. The MacLawrys were a strong, wild, manly set, after all. If they had romantic hearts, they likely didn't make that known.

“It was more of a dream, I suppose,” he said finally, clear reluctance in his deep brogue. “I rode up, stole ye from Calder while the priest and yer family stood with mouths agape, lifted ye up into the saddle in front of me, and we rode north faster than a flash of lightning. I found an abandoned castle overlooking a loch, and ye were mine and I was yers, and we lived happily ever after.”

“I like your dream.”

“So do I. We had naught to do with broken-down inns or badly sprung coaches, and our clans let us be.”

She leaned against his shoulder. “Perhaps other than the part with the inns and the coaches, it can still come true.”

Briefly he rested his cheek against her hair. “That's why we're here, isnae?”

“Yes, it is.” And that was why they had to find somewhere safe and hidden from both the MacLawrys and the Campbells. Neither clan could see beyond the lines they'd drawn on the ground, and so neither of them could be allowed to find her or Arran.

He must have been at least as exhausted as the two men presently snoring below them, but Arran showed no sign of it as he drove them along at the fastest pace the broken-down coach and horses could manage. Even though her father at best was still hours behind them, Mary couldn't help glancing over her shoulder every mile or two all through the lengthening shadows of the afternoon.

Once again that was all she could do. One of her cousins—George Gerdens-Daily, as she recalled—had once taught her to drive a curricle, but she'd only been ten or eleven at the time and had run it into a hedge. So as much as she wanted to take the reins and tell Arran to try to get some rest, she knew quite well that that would likely lead to disaster. The best she could do, then, was to help keep watch and talk to him.

“So your oldest brother is Ran, Munro is Bear, and Rowena is Winnie,” she said. “Why don't you have a family nickname?”

“Fer a time Bear tried calling me Book, I suppose because I like to read. But I gave Winnie a button every time she refused to call me that, and eventually he gave it up.”

“You didn't want to be called Book?”

Arran shrugged. “It's nae a proper nickname if yer own
bràthair
takes a fortnight to decide what it should be. It either comes to ye naturally, or ye shouldnae be using it.”

“How many buttons did it cost you?”

“I cut 'em off Bear's coats and trousers, so it didnae cost me anything.”

Mary laughed. “That makes me wish I had brothers and sisters.”

“I'd share mine with ye, if I could.” He looked down at his hands for a moment, then straightened again.

She wasn't the only one giving up a life she'd otherwise been happy with. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

Frowning, he glanced sideways at her. “Sorry? Fer what? Fer being witty and lovely and honest? Fer making me look at the world with wiser eyes? Dunnae apologize fer that, Mary. It's what I love aboot ye.”

Her heart stopped beating, then thundered to life again.
Love
. He'd said it so easily, as if it were something she should already have known. In a sense she supposed she did; a man did not upend his own life, abandon his family and his clan, and put himself directly in harm's way for a casual affair. But now he'd said it aloud, and that meant something, too. Had she actually done anything to deserve it, though?

She took a slow breath. “Arran, I—”

With a great crack the coach lurched out from under her. Shrieking, Mary grabbed for the seat to steady herself as they plunged sideways. Abruptly strong arms swept around her, pulling her against a hard chest. They careened against a wheel as the coach flipped onto its side and slammed into the road. She followed, curling against Arran as he thudded hard onto his back on the packed earth amid what seemed like an entire herd of screaming horses.

Mary rolled to her feet as luggage began falling around them. “Arran!” she shrieked, turning as she realized he hadn't followed her upright.

He lay faceup in the road, a thin line of blood trickling from his forehead and past one ear. The plunging, squealing horses had torn one harness loose from the shaft and were bucking in their traces less than a foot from him, but he didn't stir.

“Peter! Howard! Are you injured? I need help!” Dodging the horses, she grabbed for Arran's right boot, slid free the long blade he kept there, and edged in to saw at the remaining fastening.

The noise nearly deafened her, but all she could think was that Arran was injured and if she couldn't free the horses, he might be killed. The hard leather parted, and the horses, still harnessed together, stumbled forward and disappeared around a curve in the road.

She dropped the knife and flung herself onto her knees beside Arran. Anything might have struck him—the coach, a horse, the falling luggage. Whatever had injured him, he still hadn't moved. “Arran,” she said shakily, taking one of his hands and squeezing it tightly. What was she supposed to do? What if he …
No, no, no
.

At the upturned side of the coach, the door flung open. More debris smacked into the ground around them. “Be careful! Arran's hurt!”

With a curse Peter clambered out of the coach, then held down an arm to haul up the one-eyed driver. The footman jumped to the ground and knelt down beside her. “M'laird Arran?” he quavered, leaning over Arran's still face and then slapping him lightly. “Lad? Can ye hear me?”

One light blue eye rolled open. “God's sake, Peter Gilling,” Arran mumbled, “I didnae want to see yer ugly face looming over me.”

“Oh, thank God,” Mary stammered, and threw her arms around his chest.

Arran hugged her tightly before he released her again. “Are ye hurt, lass?”

“Just a few bumps and bruises, thanks to you.” She kissed him, only relenting when he winced. That had been far too nearly a disaster. The idea that she might have lost him felt like a black, screaming mass in her mind that she couldn't penetrate. The thoughts and images of what might have happened simply wouldn't form, as if she would die if she thought about not having him in her life.

“Oh, my poor lady,” Howard wailed, laying his hands on the coach's broken undercarriage. “What did they do to you?”