Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Finding Mathering House, the Mayfair residence of the Marquis of Fendarrow, had been a simple matter even for a relative stranger to London.
It stood large and white and proud on the corner of Curzon Street and Queen Street, directly across from the even larger Campbell House.
Arran briefly wondered if the Campbell’s eldest son and heir enjoyed seeing what he would one day inherit, or if he resented that the Campbell showed no sign of being ready to turn up his toes.
But whether the Campbell was presently in the Highlands or not, Arran could tell just from the pricking of the hairs at the back of his neck that he was not in friendly territory.
In fact, it was entirely possible that he’d lost his bloody mind.
For the devil’s sake, he was supposed to be on his best behavior while Ranulf negotiated him into a marriage, and instead he’d deliberately gone looking for a Campbell.
He had his reasons, of course; last night Mary Campbell had made a fool of him.
She’d taunted him and teased him, and had likely reported to her father how easily a MacLawry could be led about by the nose.
That could not be allowed to stand. It put him—and every MacLawry and ally—in a position of weakness.
Without a balance of power, there would be no reason for the Campbells to continue the truce, and no incentive for the Stewarts to ally with the MacLawrys.
And he was not about to allow clan MacLawry to be brought down by a pair of pretty green eyes.
Even if in the sunlight those eyes looked the color of moss beneath a waterfall.
Even if her long, curling hair took on a golden bronze that continued to defy description.
He drew a breath. She looked like a princess of some fairy realm, a lass about whom Shakespeare would have waxed poetic.
Sweet Saint Bridget and all the heavenly angels.
“I thought we might walk in the same direction fer a bit, if ye’ve no objection,” he drawled, mentally shaking himself.
This was about what she’d attempted to do, not how she looked.
Deirdre Stewart had perfectly pleasant features and fine dark hair, and he’d been relieved to discover that she didn’t squint or stammer.
That was what—who—he needed to keep in mind. His almost betrothed.
Mary glanced over her shoulder as if looking for reinforcements.
As he’d followed her down three streets before making his presence known, he was fairly assured that other than her well-seasoned companion, she was alone—a position in which no one would ever find a MacLawry female.
He couldn’t imagine permitting his sister to venture into public without at least one armed man to protect her.
The lapse made the Campbells all the more foolish.
“Well, lass?” he pursued. “Dunnae ye at least have a slap or a good set-down for a MacLawry? Or is the joke nae as amusing now that I ken who ye are?”
Mary tilted her head as she studied his face for a long moment.
He had no idea what she thought to see; everyone in the Highlands knew that the second MacLawry was the current heir to the Marquis of Glengask, that he’d served four years in the British army on the Continent, that he was a crack shot, that he wasn’t to be trifled with.
Except that she had trifled with him, damn it all.
“I’m on my way to Bond Street to meet some friends,” she said after a moment. “You’re welcome to escort me. Do MacLawrys purchase bonnets?”
“Nae me personally,” he returned, hiding his surprise and falling in beside her when she started off again. “My sister’s been known to wear them with some frequency.”
“Your younger sister, yes? The peacock mask from last night.”
Arran clenched his jaw, fighting the deep-rooted mistrust in having a conversation with a Campbell. Especially when the conversation turned to his family. But he’d approached her—twice, now. “Aye,” he said aloud, nodding. “Rowena. The youngest among us. She turned eighteen just a few weeks past.”
“And there’s your oldest brother, Lord Glengask. Are you the second or the third brother?”
“The second. Munro’s between Rowena and me.”
“He’s the one they—you—call Bear.”
“Aye. And ye’re the only child of Fendarrow, who happens to be the heir to the Duke of Alkirk.
” There. He could recite her lineage, too, now that he knew who she was.
When he glanced sideways at her, she was already looking at him, a half smile on her oval face.
“What do ye find so amusing then, lass?”
“It’s just that this conversation feels a bit like a saber dance.”
“Ye’re the one who didnae tell the truth last night,” he returned. Perhaps she wasn’t accustomed to conversations as careful as chess matches, but he was. “I gave ye my name.”
“And if I’d given you my name, we would never have finished that waltz. Something would have happened, and you would have ended up in a fight with my cousins. So I saved you by withholding the truth, Arran MacLawry.”
“That’s the way ye mean to view it, then? That ye did me a favor by flirting with me and naming yerself Lady Vixen?”
She stopped to face him, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You called me that. I simply chose not to disagree with you. Don’t try to turn this into a battle, when all I did was try to avoid one. On your behalf, I might add.”
Hm. He’d expected a wilting flower, a lass who would be cowed and frightened once she realized he’d discovered her identity.
But Mary Campbell had her chin lifted, and her forefinger still stuck into his ribs.
For such a petite thing she had better than a full portion of courage, to stand toe-to-toe with him.
Arran tilted his head. “Then ye want me to thank ye, I suppose?”
The finger she had dug into his sternum twitched, then abruptly retreated. “No. You don’t need to thank me.” Slowly she turned to face the row of shops again and resumed her walk. “I was only attempting to explain why I deceived you. Or rather, neglected to tell you the truth.”
He caught up to her, sending a glance at Mary’s older, frowny companion. “So ye had my best interest in mind, did ye?”
“I—”
“I appreciate it, I suppose, considering how many of yer cousins were at the party last night. I might have got my nose broken. That would make the lasses at home weep.”
“Oh, please,” she retorted, a chuckle bursting from her chest.
His own mouth curved in a smile before he even realized it. “But the question I have fer ye, Lady Mary Campbell, is why?”
She actually looked startled. “Why would I wish to keep a brawl from beginning?”
“Aye. I’ve spent my entire life spoiling fer a good fight with a Campbell or a Gerdens or a Daily. I’ve thrown my share of punches. And I know fer a fact that most of yer kin would dance a jig on my grave.”
“There’s a truce,” she said, though she didn’t disagree with his statement. “Your own brother arranged it with George Gerdens-Daily, and my grandfather agreed to it.”
Arran wished he were facing her so he could see her expression more clearly. “So if I’d stumbled across ye a fortnight ago ye would have stomped on my toe and told me to go to the devil?”
Mary Campbell stopped again, putting her hands on her slender hips and glaring at him with her moss-colored eyes. “I’m tempted to do that at this very moment,” she snapped. “Not because you’re a MacLawry, either. Simply because you’re being rude and provoking.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I—”
“How should I know what I would have done a fortnight ago?” she continued over his protest. “Everything’s different now. What would you have done if you’d danced with me a fortnight ago and realized I was the Campbell’s granddaughter?”
For a long moment he gazed at her. The answer should have been clear and simple.
Whatever truce Ranulf had managed, the Campbells had burned out their own cotters, bullied their allies to do the same, and used the profits they’d made by turning the vacated land over to sheep to build new alliances in England.
Their sway in the Highlands might have waned, but elsewhere they were as strong as ever. And they were the enemy.
But was she the enemy? He looked at all five feet and a few inches of her.
Aye, she was a Campbell, and one with a temper, too.
At the same time, she was also a very pretty young lady with an air of confidence about her that most ladies seemed to lose when confronted by an actual Highlands male.
Deirdre had barely looked him in the eye during their brief conversation last night.
He couldn’t even recall what color her eyes were, and he had a reason to remember that.
“I’d have danced with ye, I ken,” he answered, then grinned. “And then tossed a few of yer cousins over my shoulder later fer fun.”
Her shoulders beneath her pretty blue walking dress lowered. “Well. I suppose hat shopping to be a poor substitute for Campbell-thrashing, but if you’d care to join me, I shan’t object.” She gestured at the door of the small shop behind him.
Mary half expected Arran MacLawry to announce that he’d had his fill of bantering with a Campbell for one day, and that he’d truly only tracked her down to inform her that he knew who she was.
She half hoped he would, because she had other things to consider, and he was …
distracting. Instead, he turned around and pulled open the door, holding it for her and a clearly concerned Crawford.
Her maid wasn’t Scottish, but she certainly knew to whom Mary should or should not be speaking.
This tall, lean, black-haired devil was clearly in the “should not” category.
In fact, he was at the very top of that particular list.