Rogue with a Brogue (7 page)

His brother didn't look convinced. “I never know what's rattling aboot in that clever head of yers, but fer my sake, know Charlotte better before ye decide she willnae do fer me. Ye've only been here a few weeks.”

That, at least, seemed fair. “I said I would, Ran, and so I will.”

“Good.” The marquis opened the door again. “Get yerself dressed, then. I expect ye're the only one who'll enjoy
Hamlet
tonight, anyway. Damned Danes.”

It was clearly meant to be a jest, so Arran forced a grin. Once Ranulf left, he dropped the expression. He'd always,
always
supported his brother and his vision for the clan. Schools, farms, mercantile to be sold to Highlanders who'd been pushed off their lands all the way to America—it had all been about bettering the clan and staying out from under the thumb of the English.

Their own mother had been English, and she'd swallowed poison rather than live on in the Highlands with four children. For years after that they'd never even mentioned her; to this day Ranulf referred to her as Eleanor rather than as his mother. The rest of them followed suit.

And now Ran had changed the rules because it suited him to do so. That was his prerogative as the clan's chief. But it served to make Arran feel not a whit of guilt about going to luncheon with Mary Campbell tomorrow, and not telling another soul about it.

 

Chapter Four

“Were your parents furious?” Elizabeth Bell whispered, sitting beside Mary and taking her hand. Behind them two sets of parents chatted, evidently highly amused that their daughters had claimed the front seats of the box—as if they hadn't been encouraged to sit there all along. They couldn't show well from the dark rear of the theater box, after all.

“Yes,” Mary returned in the same tone, and sighed as she tried to push back against her increasing cynicism. Whatever was wrong with her, she wasn't certain she liked it. “I explained that Lord Arran surprised me and that I was trying to avoid a scene, but they still wanted to yell.”

“You can hardly blame them. What if your cousin Charles had realized with whom you were waltzing?”

She'd thought about that, actually, and in a brawl she wasn't certain which of the two men would have emerged victorious. Charles had a certain sharp meanness about him, but Arran MacLawry seemed very … capable. And extremely confident. Or at least he'd been so both last night and this morning.

Not even Liz knew about him accompanying her to the milliner's, though, and she'd sworn Crawford to secrecy. Because while he'd surprised her with his presence twice now, she could easily have declined to spend time with him this morning. And she couldn't explain at all why she'd agreed to meet him yet again tomorrow.

“I told you crimson was your color,” Elizabeth pointed out, gesturing at the heavy, embroidered silk gown Mary had chosen to wear tonight. “You look very dramatic.”

“Thank you. Mother thinks it makes me look forward, but as no one's allowed near me without a half-dozen people's approval, that hardly signifies.” And aside from that, the gown made her feel decadent. If she was to be forced to wed Lord Delaveer, she wasn't likely to have another chance to indulge herself.

Liz giggled. “No wonder everyone's in a panic about you running across Lord Arran, then. He couldn't possibly be on the approved list.”

Yes, they were in a panic, and that was why she'd done her best to be tolerant of it. If not for the niggling thought that her family was more concerned that she'd done something scandalous than they were worried she'd been in danger, she would likely have been a great deal more understanding. Of course the clan came first—but she was part of the clan, for heaven's sake. Why had she been chosen as the Campbell sacrifice? Because her grandfather didn't think she was a drooling half-wit like he did most of his other grandchildren?

Elizabeth squeezed her hand, shaking her back to the present. “Oh, look! The Duke and Duchess of Greaves. I didn't even know they were in Town. And the Earl of Westfall. The new one. It was so sad that his brother was killed in that silly duel.”

Mary sat forward, looking across the theater at the opposite row of boxes. Since Greaves had married a commoner, he and his wife spent most of their time in York. Sophia Baswich had flaming red hair and a reputation for speaking her mind, and she'd reportedly once worked at The Tantalus Club—a gambling club for gentlemen and staffed solely by females. Mary wondered how in the world the two of them had managed not only to meet and to fall in love, but to have the courage to marry. Even with half the theater staring at them, they looked happy, sitting close to each other, her arm tucked around his.

As she looked at the rest of the boxes, her breath caught. In the fourth box from the stage the Marquis of Glengask stood greeting the pretty blond woman she knew to be Lady Charlotte Hanover. Mary didn't know her well—she was four years younger than the earl's daughter, after all—but to marry Lord Glengask, the chief of clan MacLawry, seemed exceedingly daunting.

Nor were they alone in the box. Charlotte's parents, Lord and Lady Hest, had joined them, and so had the other daughter, Jane. Next to her sat Lady Rowena MacLawry, moving her hands animatedly as she chatted about something with the fourth young lady present. Mary frowned. With her dark hair and pale skin, there was no mistaking Lady Deirdre Stewart. Her father, Lord Allen, was there, as well, speaking with Glengask. What were the Stewarts doing with the MacLawrys? That thought, though, vanished as
he
left the gloom at the back of the box. Arran MacLawry.

Where his brother had a certain mountainous presence, Arran seemed more like a wolf than a lion—sharp, predatory, and alert for weakness. Except that he'd been charming and clever at the masked ball and even this morning, after he'd learned who she was. Yes, she was wary in his presence, but if she'd been truly frightened, truly concerned for her safety, she would have made her entire family aware of his activities. And she never would have agreed to meet him tomorrow.

At that moment he turned, meeting her gaze. From across the theater she couldn't make out the color of his eyes, though she knew them to be a light blue. Nor could she see any details of his expression, but a warm shiver ran down her spine, regardless. If he'd been other than a MacLawry, she would have called herself intrigued, and interested.

“Oh, my goodness,” Liz whispered from beside her, shaking her out of her thoughts. “Lord Glengask. And he's seen you, I think. Lord Arran has, I mean.”

“Well, he's not likely to attack from over there,” Mary returned, deliberately and with some difficulty turning her gaze toward the stage at the front of the large room. Quite likely it was only the fact that she'd been ordered to stay away from him that left her so conscious of his presence. It made him a dangerous rogue, and what woman wouldn't notice someone like that gazing at her? Or inviting her to luncheon?

“The Stewarts, eh?” her father muttered from behind her. “So the MacLawrys don't have any more faith in the truce than I do.”

“The Stewarts must be desperate for MacLawry resources if they're willing to hand their prettiest gem over to Glengask's brother,” an additional voice said from behind Mary, and with a carefully hidden scowl she turned to look. The son of Malcolm MacAllister stood there shaking hands with her father and Mr. Bell, and complimenting the two mamas.
Oh, dear.

“Thank you for inviting me tonight, Fendarrow,” Roderick MacAllister said warmly.

Then she noticed the man standing slightly behind him, and her frown deepened. Charles Calder, the son of her father's youngest sister, smiled at her as well, though the expression didn't quite fit his face.

That wasn't her cousin's fault, she supposed, since Charles had simply been born narrow. Narrow shoulders, lidded eyes, thin lips—they'd all called him Otter until he'd turned sixteen and bloodied his older brother Adam's nose over it. Which made him narrow-minded, as well. Still, if he'd wanted to distance himself from the nickname, he likely should stop slicking back his straight, black hair and wearing nothing but black clothing.

“You know you're always welcome to join us, Roderick,” her father returned. Lord Fendarrow glanced at her, his smile too rushed. “I know you enjoy a good
Hamlet,
so we've saved you a front row seat.”

So
that
was why her father had suggested she would be able to see better from the middle seat of the three in the front row. So Lord Delaveer could sit beside her. At least he wasn't trying to match her with Charles. She certainly didn't view Roderick … romantically, but at least she didn't feel the need to bathe after speaking with him. In fact, she didn't feel much of anything. Was that because she'd only seen him as part of the pack of potential beaux? If she set her mind to it, could Roderick stir her pulse as … Oh. No, no, no. That … No. She wasn't smitten with Arran MacLawry. That feeling was only nerves, because she wasn't supposed to be anywhere near him.

Roderick took the vacant seat beside her, and she jumped. “Good evening, Mary, Miss Elizabeth.”

“Hello, Lord Delaveer,” Elizabeth returned, smiling. “I didn't know you enjoyed Shakespeare.”

“I enjoy the company.”

“I enjoy Shakespeare,” Charles put in from directly behind Mary. “Especially the tragedies.”

The light, mostly absent brogue in his voice annoyed her. Previously she was certain she'd barely even noted it, but tonight it sounded as though he couldn't decide whether he was English or Scottish. “What an odd thing to say,” she returned.

Perhaps that accent indecision was what made her hesitate about Roderick, as well; wherever she lived, she felt like a Highlander down to her toes. Arran, even if he hadn't had a deep, delicious brogue, could never be mistaken for anything but a hot-blooded, fearless Highlander. There was nothing mild or hesitant about him. On the other hand, Roderick had likely never unsettled a butterfly. And Charles probably pulled off their wings.

Charles furrowed his narrow brows. “How so?”

“Saying you prefer the tragedies is the same as saying you prefer death and murder and betrayal to love and happiness.”

“Perhaps it's merely that I find the tragedies more realistic.” He sank back in his seat, turning his gaze not toward the stage, but in the direction of the boxes at the far side of the theater. “You waltzed with Arran MacLawry.”

Her first thought was to tell Charles that who she danced with was none of his business. It wasn't really, but her cousin had already had several run-ins with Lord Glengask this Season, before the truce. And she had no intention of ruining that days-old truce by saying something flippant. “We were both wearing fox masks, and he had no idea who I was. I wasn't going to cause a scene.”

“Don't dance with him again.”

Mary took a breath and held it until she could hear the beat of her heart. “I don't know why I would,” she returned. “Out of curiosity, though, are we not at peace with the MacLawrys?”

“We're not killing them. That's a pause in battle. Not peace.”

She was still debating how to respond to that when Roderick chuckled. “Don't mind your cousin, Lady Mary. I enjoy peace. It provides some surprising—and welcome—opportunities.”

“Aye,” Charles countered, his voice lower and flatter. “Whereas war favors other individuals.”

Now that was interesting. And disturbing. Was Charles Calder so against this truce with the MacLawrys because of what her father had mentioned—that the MacAllisters would help bolster their ranks, but they didn't wish to be pulled into a conflict? Because if the Campbells and MacLawrys drew blood again
Charles
would be the one the clan wanted her to marry? A shiver ran down her spine.

So she seemed to be doomed either way, truce or not, and it was only a narrow window that made her groom Roderick rather than Charles. Who, though, was pushing her and Roderick together? Her father, or her grandfather? The Campbell himself seemed a more likely force, as he was the one who'd agreed to the truce. Which meant, she supposed, that she had another reason to be grateful to her grandfather. Because while neither Roderick nor Charles interested her, she easily preferred dullness to cruelty. Though if given a third choice, it would be to not have to marry either of them.

On the tail of that thought, the curtains opened. A more appropriate play would have been
Macbeth,
but she wasn't certain the several hot-blooded Highlanders in the audience would have been able to tolerate that.

On the other hand, she wasn't certain she could tolerate
Hamlet
tonight. Aside from the presence of a very troublesome man just across the stage from her, there were the plots within plots, lies, deceit, betrayals, murders, suicide—given all the soul-wrenching mayhem, this was likely Charles's favorite play. After forty minutes or so, she found herself once again gazing across the darkened space toward the MacLawry box.

Were the MacLawrys doing the same thing to Arran that her own clan had in mind for her? Or had he already been in pursuit of Deirdre Stewart before … heavens, was it only last night that they'd met? The Stewart's niece was considered a great beauty, after all. But if Arran was after Deirdre, what had he been doing asking a vixen mask to waltz? And what about this morning? And luncheon tomorrow?

“Excuse me,” she whispered, standing. “I'll be back in a moment.”

“I'll go with you,” Roderick said, starting to his feet.

“Nonsense. You'll miss a murder.”

“Mary,” her mother chided.

“I apologize. It was Charles who likes the murders. I will be back in a moment.” Evidently she'd convinced him that she didn't need his assistance to find a privy closet, because inclining his head, he sat back again.