Rogue with a Brogue (6 page)

“Ye couldnae know about the MacAllisters already,” Arran countered.

“Nae. But as we're after the same thing with the Stewarts I'm nae surprised, either. Give me yer word, Arran.”

“Ye have my word.” And the Blue Lamb Inn was nowhere near Campbell territory, thankfully. “Now if ye dunnae bring that tray here, I'm going to set this beastie loose again. And he smells rather foul.”

Pocketing the paper rather than discarding it—no doubt his way of pointing out that he had no intention of forgetting the incident—Ranulf hefted the tea tray and held it flat against the wall just above the wastebasket.

“Ready?” Arran asked, beginning to feel the ache in his arms from the effort of keeping control of the trapped animal.

“Aye. Ready, and … now.”

Arran tilted the top of the bucket away from the wall. Moving at the same time, Ranulf slid the tray down, turning it into a lid. A paw with massive digging claws jabbed out, catching Arran's sleeve, and then he pushed the container closed again.

Still moving together, they turned the wastebasket upright and set it down on the floor. Arran sat on the tea tray with the badger snarling and rocking beneath him. “Some rope, do ye think?” he asked.

Straightening, Ranulf nodded. “I'll fetch some.” He flashed a grin. “Dunnae go anywhere.”

“I'm near dying from laughter. Take the dogs with ye; they arenae helping anything now.”

The marquis whistled both dogs to his side, and the three of them trotted for the staircase. Almost immediately the badger began to quiet, and aside from a few halfhearted snarls, it seemed fairly content to be there in the close dark.

Poor fellow, out hunting for someaught, then flung about by Scottish deer hounds and carried back to a proper London house to be skinned. It wasn't much of a stretch to see his own situation reflected in the badger's. After all, he'd only left Glengask after Ranulf's letters from London began to speak of a troubling obsession with a Sasannach lass.

His presence hadn't stopped Ran from falling in love and proposing marriage to Charlotte Hanover, nor had he done anything to help this truce with the Campbells along—except to get a pistol pointed at him and his sister; the very thing that had prompted Ranulf to make a cease-fire agreement with old enemies.

And now that he'd been designated a part to play, he found himself reluctant to take on the role. He wouldn't have liked being forced into a marriage, regardless, but now … He'd waltzed with Mary Campbell by accident. And whatever his original reason for hunting her down this morning, he'd lingered because she was … unexpected. As for tomorrow, at the moment he could put that down to curiosity. It was more a test of her courage than his, and why he'd decided that was important, well, he'd figure it out later. It wasn't as if a conversation or two with her would keep him from doing his duty by the clan and marrying pleasant Deirdre Stewart, after all.

“So, Master Badger,” he drawled aloud, “what should we do with ye? I dunnae suppose, if given the choice, ye'd prefer to be turned into a lady's wrap or work gloves.”

The tray under his arse bumped.

“Nae, I didnae think so. Ye shouldnae have gotten yerself caught, then. Once ye're caught, yer fate's nae yer own.”

“Are ye finished chatting with the beastie,” his brother asked from the doorway, “or should I leave ye be?” Without waiting for an answer he squatted down beside the wastebasket to run rope through the tea tray's handles.

“I was only pointing oot the risks of handing his life over to someone else.” Arran slid off the lid, holding it closed with both arms so his brother could bind it to the bucket.

“Deirdre Stewart's a pretty lass,” Ranulf said, rising again.

“Aye. Ye should marry her,” Arran retorted. “A shame ye went and followed yer heart. But then ye can always throw yer obligation at someone else, so all's well.”

The marquis tilted his head. “Is yer heart leading ye somewhere?”

“Nae. Of course not,” he answered, hoping he hadn't answered too vehemently.

“Then shut yer mouth and stop making trouble.”

Arran hefted the snarling, wriggling wastebasket and carried it down the hallway, down the stairs, through the foyer, and out the front door. Setting it down on the drive, he sat on it again to keep it from tipping over and rolling away. His older brother looked at him for a long moment, stone-faced, then faced the milling servants.

“The excitement's done with,” the marquis said, “though there's a bit of a mess upstairs. Back inside with ye.”

Owen began urging servants toward the front door. “What do ye mean to do with that thing?” he asked.

“Why didnae ye shoot it?” Peter, the footman, seconded. “Damned thing near frighted me to death, coming back to life like that.”

“Do ye remember where ye and the dogs flushed it, Peter?” Ranulf asked the footman.

“Aye, I reckon I do, m'laird. Ye want me to find more of 'em fer ye? Though if ye mean to carry them aboot in buckets, I dunnae know why ye want them.”

“Hitch up a wagon and take it back.”

Peter stared, clearly baffled, at the marquis. “Are ye mad, m'laird? If ye dunnae want to ruin the pelt, I'll droon it fer ye.”

Ranulf sent another glance at Arran. “Nae. Arran's gone and named it Munro. We cannae kill it now.”

“After yer own brother, Laird Arran?” Now the servant seemed concerned that at least one of the MacLawrys needed to be carted off to Bedlam.

“Aye,” Arran answered, caught between surprise that Ranulf wasn't suggesting
he
be hauled away and drowned, and reluctant amusement. “If ye please, take wee Munro back to where ye found him.”

The footman sighed. “I'll do it fer ye, m'laird, but I'd nae be yer true and faithful man if I didnae speak my mind.”

The marquis nodded solemnly. “Say yer piece then, Peter.”

“I think ye've been in London too long, m'laird. The madness of these Sasannach is seeping into yer brain.”

“Ye may have the right of it,” Ranulf returned, sending a glance at Arran. “But I'll nae leave here withoot Lady Charlotte. Ye'll have to keep a close eye on us until we're safely back to Glengask.”

Peter drew himself up even straighter. “Aye, m'laird. I'll see to it ye keep to the Highlands way.” With that he claimed the wastebasket and hauled it off in the direction of the stable.

“And what is the Highlands way?” Arran asked, trying to decide whether attempting to slip the note from Ranulf's pocket would be worth the additional scrutiny if he was caught at it. More than likely he'd explained it away well enough, and the next time Ranulf looked at it he would simply discard it rather than bring up the topic of Mary Campbell again. Best to leave well enough alone.

“I dunnae. Kilts and brawling and nae saving badgers, I suppose.”

“The badger didnae mean to end up at Gilden House with deer hounds nipping at his heels.” Arran looked over at Ranulf as they walked back to the house. “I dunnae see myself as the badger, ye know. I killed my share of men over in Spain and France, so I'm nae squeamish. Ye know I'll hunt fer food, but I've nae eaten badger. The—”

“You made a good point, Arran,” his brother interrupted. “I likely should have been the one to marry a Stewart. But I'll nae have any lass but Charlotte. And there wasnae a chance fer an alliance anyway, until ten days ago.”

“As ye say.”

Owen held open the door as they entered the house again. From the look—and smell—of the morning room just off the foyer, the badger had visited there, as well. Several footmen and maids were in there already, removing torn couch cushions and sweeping up broken vases and candy dishes. The whole room was so … English that Arran tended to avoid it. The smell of badger piss might even make for an improvement.

“Ye'll be able to tell Rowena aboot it tonight,” Ranulf continued. “She and the Hanovers are meeting us at the theater.”

Damnation
. “
All
the Hanovers?”

As he turned toward his office, Ranulf paused. “Jane thinks ye handsome and charming.”

Arran narrowed his eyes. “Ye cursed me, didnae? All I said was fer ye to be certain ye wanted to bring an English lady to live in the Highlands.” He'd thought it a valid question, given the way their own lives had gone.

“And all
I
said was that I hoped ye found a lass who agreed with yer every word and nae gave ye a moment of trouble. Mayhap ye should be grateful I found ye someone else.”

It wasn't an improvement. At the time it had sounded deathly dull. Now, after having firstly become the focus of eighteen-year-old Jane Hanover's infatuation, and then having an equally bland Scottish lass thrown at him, the idea of being married to just such a creature gave him nightmares. Nightmares that would soon become real.

“Ye're nae a nice man, Ranulf,” he said aloud, as his brother would be expecting some kind of response.

“A word of advice,
bràthair
: never advise a man nae to marry the woman he cannae live without.”

“Is this Deirdre shite revenge, then?”

“Nae. It's survival.”

As Arran went upstairs to assess the damage done to his bedchamber and wall, he had to admit to himself that what Ran had said truly surprised him. Not the last bit, but the part about Charlotte. Yes, he'd heard his older brother say he loved Charlotte Hanover, and heard her profess the same to him. But Ranulf was one-and-thirty, four years his senior. He'd become marquis and chief of the clan when Arran had been eleven.

All the younger siblings knew their brother to be iron-willed, independent, and unwavering. To hear him say he couldn't live without Charlotte—it spoke of a need, a vulnerability, that Arran hadn't expected. In a sense, it was even unsettling. They'd all become so accustomed to relying on Ranulf, who relied on no one but himself. And yet after only a few weeks in England Ran had found an outsider, a Sasannach lass, and declared that he needed her.

Shrugging off his disquiet, if not his frustration, Arran shed his jacket. He pulled a few coins from his pockets, and then a piece of pretty yellow and white muslin. Mary's walking dress. For a moment he looked at it, turning the fabric over in his hands. He could discard it if he still had a wastebasket, but considering what had already happened with that, keeping it someplace safe would likely be wiser. With a glance at his half-open door he went to his wardrobe and tucked it beneath a pile of cravats. He wasn't being sentimental. Not over a Campbell. He was merely being cautious.

That done, he sat down to write Munro. Bear, as he'd been known since their father had prophesied that he would grow to be the size of one, had remained at Glengask to oversee the estate and the clan. He hadn't wanted to do so, but being the youngest brother—and the youngest sibling excepting Rowena—had to have some sort of penalty attached to it. Considering that Ranulf had thrown Deirdre at the nearest brother, Bear should count himself lucky that he'd stayed behind.

As he reported about the progress of Ranulf's engagement, his own soon-expected betrothal, and their luck thus far in keeping Rowena from falling for the charms of some weak-chinned Sasannach lordling, he left out any mention of Mary Campbell. Mary was … interesting, and she could possibly give him some insight into the Campbell clan. And that, he told himself, was the beginning, middle, and end of it.

Finally Owen knocked on his door. “Ye're to leave fer the theater in an hour, m'laird. Do ye wish help dressing?”

If he'd learned one thing about the English during his sojourn in the army, it was that they changed clothes every time they changed seats. “Nae, Owen. I'll see to it.”

“Ye know Laird Glengask gave me leave to hire ye a valet.” He scowled. “I'm certain that Ginger fellow valeting fer the marquis knows some others like himself.”

Arran grinned. “I'll manage. And ye may as well get accustomed to Edward Ginger. We'll have Lady Charlotte in the hoose, and ye can nae have only one Sasannach. They multiply, like toadstools.”

The old soldier laughed, then abruptly glanced behind him and sobered again. “I'll see the coach readied then, m'laird.”

“Thank ye, Owen,” Ranulf's voice came, and the butler fled. As Arran cursed beneath his breath, the marquis stopped in the bedchamber doorway. “Toadstools, are they?” he asked, folding his arms over his chest.

“Ye ken that I still have behind me twenty-seven years of hating everyone south of Hadrian's Wall, do ye nae? Whatever happened to change yer mind hasnae happened to me.” There. He was damned tired of walking about on eggshells where Charlotte Hanover was concerned.

Ranulf stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. “I'm nae asking ye to love the Sasannach. I'm telling ye that Charlotte is now a MacLawry, and so are her parents and her sister. Ye'll treat them as such. And if ye dunnae like that, ye'll still behave in a way that nae gives any of them—or me—any idea of that fact. Is that understood?”

He'd be a fool to disagree. “Aye,” he said aloud. “The Hanovers are a part of clan MacLawry. And so will the Stewarts be, I assume.”

“They make sense fer us, especially with Fendarrow going after the MacAllisters.”

“I ken, Ran. I dunnae like it one damned bit, but I ken.”

With a nod, his brother pulled open the door again, then hesitated and shut it more quietly. “I rely on yer counsel, Arran. Dunnae let me down. The times … everything is moving forward fast as the wind. We need to understand that, and to make the changes that help us survive.”

Evidently one of these changes was Ran falling for an English lass, while him dancing with a Campbell lass was not ever going to be acceptable. It all seemed hypocritical in the extreme, but Arran inclined his head. “As ye say, Ran.”