Chapter 4 #2
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.
With another murmured apology to the rest of her box mates, Mary made her way to the curtain at the rear and slipped into the hallway beyond. A few other audience members wandered past her, outnumbered by footmen toting drinks and opera glasses and warm wraps—and even a small, fluffy dog.
Leaning back against the wall, Mary closed her eyes for a moment.
Yes, she was one-and-twenty, and yes, even with her grandfather’s indulgence she’d always known she would eventually have to marry according to the clan’s will.
But not yet. For goodness’ sake, if anything the truce with the MacLawrys should have removed any urgency from her impending union, not created it.
She took a deep breath and opened her eyes again—then let it out with a barely stifled squeak as she spied the man topping the stairs and heading in her direction.
He was not a footman, and he was not carrying a dog.
He was, however, wearing a splendid kilt of black and white and red.
Before he could approach her parents’ box; she straightened and hurried toward him.
“What are you doing here, Arran?” she whispered, starting to reach for his arm and then stopping herself. They weren’t friends; they were … they were new acquaintances who were never supposed to have met. And she happened to find him somewhat, barely, attractive.
“Hamlet seems a bit too close to my life,” he drawled in his deep, rich brogue. “And I keep wanting to yell at Hamlet to kill his uncle and stop all that lunatic talking to himself and the play-within-a-play nonsense.” Light blue eyes regarded her. “What sent ye fleeing, lass?”
“The same thing, I suppose. Too much subterfuge. I prefer the comedies.”
“Aye.” He glanced past her at the closed curtains of the Campbell box. “Calder wasnae blaming ye fer dancing with me, I hope.”
Had he come all the way around the theater into enemy territory just to see if she was well? “You blamed me for it, as I recall.”
That wicked grin touched his mouth again. “Ye’re nae a shy lass, are ye?”
She edged closer, wishing he would lower his voice just a bit more. For heaven’s sake, her cousin Charles was twenty-five feet away. And her almost betrothed, only twenty-seven. “I can be diplomatic. But I prefer to be direct. It makes for fewer misunderstandings.”
“Direct it is, then. Has Delaveer offered fer ye?”
Mary lifted an eyebrow. “Have you offered for Deirdre Stewart?”
“Nae.” He shifted his feet, glancing beyond her in the direction of her parents’ box. “Between ye and me, lass?”
He was asking for her discretion. She should have been shocked and surprised, but she wasn’t. The entire time they conversed was only for the two of them. “Yes. Just between us.”
“Then I’ll offer fer her, once her father and uncle decide how much of their grazing land they’ll return to their cotters, and Ranulf decides it’s enough of a concession.”
“Do you want to marry her?” It was a stupid, silly question, but she asked it anyway.
“Nae. She’s … pleasant, I suppose, but she’s nae warm-blooded enough fer me.” He glanced down. “And Delaveer?” he continued, meeting her gaze again. “Ye didnae answer my question.”
“He and my father are negotiating,” she said slowly. “Along with his father and my grandfather.”
“Do ye want to marry him?”
“No,” she returned, in the same tone he’d used, realizing that there was no one else in the world with whom she could—or would—have this particular conversation.
“He’s not warm-blooded enough for me. If the Campbells and MacLawrys were still fighting it would be Charles Calder after me, though, and that would be even worse. ”
Arran scowled. “Calder? That dog needs to be put down.”
Mary gazed at him. With the gray coat that couldn’t hide his broad shoulders, the trim black waistcoat, and the bold MacLawry plaid of his kilt, he looked magnificent, no matter which name he carried. She wondered what he might be thinking about her. “I don’t like Charles, but he is my cousin.”
Arran shrugged. “I ken who ye are. I also reckon I may have caused ye trouble withoot meaning to. And yet, I dunnae intend to apologize fer it.” He took a slow step closer. “What do ye say to that?”
“I don’t know what to say. And I don’t think it matters, anyway. We marry who we’re told to marry, do we not, Arran MacLawry? For the good of our clans?”
He tilted his head. Then, before she could move, he closed the short distance remaining between them, leaned down, and touched his mouth to hers. He tasted of warmth and whisky, and sin. It was surprisingly delicious.
Realizing she had a hand splayed against his chest, Mary swiftly lowered her arm, curling her fingers into her palm. “You … You just kissed a Campbell,” she whispered, her voice sounding husky to her own ears. “Lightning may just strike you dead.”
He shook his head, a lock of his wavy black hair falling across his brow.
“I nae kissed a Campbell. I kissed ye, Mary.” With a half grin he backed away, then turned on his heel.
“And I say, let the lightning come if it will. I’m nae married yet.
And neither are ye.” Arran glanced over his shoulder at her.
“I’ll see ye fer luncheon tomorrow, lass. ”
Mary gazed after him, then belatedly touched her fingers to her lips. He was a MacLawry, and she was a Campbell. They were not friends. But whatever it was they were, she was abruptly beginning to find it very interesting.
* * *
Ranulf met Arran on the front drive as he returned from his morning ride with the dogs and his quick-footed black Thoroughbred, Duffy.
Though calling it a ride was somewhat of a stretch, since even Rotten Row had been packed with gentlemen seeking the morning air.
Or to be seen in their fine riding gear. He wasn’t certain which.
“Ye’re going to have to wear someaught else to White’s,” Ranulf said, taking Duffy’s bridle. “They’ll nae admit stableboys.”
As Arran dismounted, nearly as breathless as the dogs and the horse, he took a moment to study his brother’s easy expression.
However he felt about the chief of his clan—his own brother—marrying a Sasannach, Charlotte did make Ranulf happy.
And he could be grateful for that. “I’m nae going to White’s,” he returned.
“I’m meeting Fordham for luncheon.” Or at least that was what his old army comrade would vouch, since he’d arranged for it during his ride.