Chapter 4 #3
“Have him join us. Charlotte’s father issued the invitation, and Uncle Myles will be there. Allen’s attending, as well. And Tollifsen. I’m attempting to show a proper front.”
“I have plans,” Arran repeated, with more heat than he intended. “Ye can be proper and English withoot me. And ye dunnae need me fer Allen until ye settle on how much land I’m worth.” He handed Duffy’s reins over to Debny, the head groom Ran had brought down with him from Glengask.
Ranulf blocked his path to the house. “Allen and Tollifsen have good merchant contacts here in London, and they’ll nae do business with men who’re naught but dragon-wrestling Highlanders.”
“Who won’t? The Stewarts, or the merchants?”
“Neither of them.”
“Well, it’s yer good fortune, then, that ye’ve been turning yerself into a Sasannach fer the past two months, isnae?
” Arran moved around his brother, stripping off his riding gloves as he did so.
“I recall a few months ago when ye didnae care what the Sasannach thought of ye. And when the clan MacLawry was strong enough to stand against any family in the Highlands withoot bringing in pinky-lifting tea drinkers fer support.”
“Which tea drinkers? The Stewarts, or Charlotte’s family?”
“Both of them.”
“Arran.”
“If ye want to prove ye’re civilized, why dunnae ye have luncheon with the Campbell? Or Lord Fendarrow?”
“That’s enough.”
He kept walking. “Then stop my flapping gums with yer damned fist, Ran.”
“It’s nae yer gums I’m trying to convince, Arran. It’s yer mind.”
“Then dunnae bother. I’m nae the chief. Do as ye will.”
If Ranulf wanted to disregard or excuse centuries of conflict with the English, excuse Highlanders being forbidden to carry weapons or wear kilts or play the damned pipes, or even being burned off their land by other Highlanders, he could do so.
But at the moment Arran was the heir to Glengask—at least until Ranulf married Charlotte and she gave him a son—and he refused to let his brother forget who was paying the price for his new, proper ways.
It seemed he wasn’t going to be granted that luxury himself, and fair was fair.
Owen pulled open the front door as he reached it. “Did ye have a good run, then?”
“Aye, Owen. I very nearly kept heading north.”
The footman-butler chuckled. “If ye decide to do that, make certain ye take me with ye.”
So he wasn’t the only one growing uneasy in London—though Owen had been there several weeks longer than he.
Handing over his hat and gloves, Arran trotted upstairs.
Yesterday afternoon he hadn’t been certain Mary would actually meet him today.
And then he’d defied his brother’s orders and his own better instincts and not only sought her out last night, but kissed her.
Why, he wasn’t certain, except that she’d looked lovely and sinful in scarlet and he’d wanted to do so.
They’d found themselves in very similar situations, but that kiss hadn’t been about commiseration.
The actual truth would have to wait until he’d deciphered it.
Because all he knew for certain at that moment was that he meant to keep his rendezvous at the Blue Lamb Inn, and that he’d lied to and insulted his brother in order to do it.
All for a luncheon with a Campbell. All when he should likely be planning a luncheon with Lady Deirdre.
Still without a valet, he pulled off his sweaty riding clothes and stepped into the bath of cold water he’d requested.
Chilly as it was, it still seemed less breath-stealing than a swim in Loch Shinaig.
Then he dressed in a plain gray jacket, brown waistcoat, and buckskin breeches tucked into some impressively shiny Hessian boots.
There. Suitably English, but not fancy enough to warrant a second glance. Or so he hoped.
“Hail me a hack, will ye, Owen?” he asked the butler as he headed back downstairs.
“Aye, m’laird. Do ye nae want one of the lads with ye, though?”
“Nae.” He took his gray beaver hat and set it on his head. Until last week he’d never worn such a useless thing. “We’ve a truce, didnae ye hear?”
“I heard. Dunnae believe it’ll last, though.”
“Good. Ye keep that up, Owen.” He followed the new butler outside, waiting on the front steps as Owen walked to the end of the drive and signaled a passing coach.
A moment later he returned, the hack trundling up beside him. “Yer brother the marquis says to trust a wee bit more than we have been,” he said, as he pulled open the door. “The Sasannach, I mean.”
“Ye do that, then. I’ll be keeping both my eyes open.
” With a smile he didn’t feel, Arran climbed into the short, narrow vehicle.
“Crane House, on Madox Street,” he said loudly enough for Owen to hear, naming William Crane, Viscount Fordham’s, address for effect.
He’d hire another hack from there to take him to Ellis Street and the Blue Lamb.
If Ranulf learned anything about this, his brother would likely attempt to bloody his nose and put a boot in his arse, then order him home to Glengask to wait for his bride to be delivered.
But Ran couldn’t have it both ways; either they were the MacLawrys who trusted and relied on no one but themselves, or they were half-English lads making alliances and friendships with every Highlander who wasn’t a Campbell and every Sassanach who wished them good morning.
And until the Marquis of Glengask decided who they were and when he was to marry a Stewart, Arran meant to do as pleased him.
Since he’d kissed Mary Campbell last night, it pleased him to see her today.
It was also necessary, on the chance she’d taken offense and told Charles Calder or her father.
That would mean the end of the truce. If she hadn’t taken offense, well, that would be much more interesting.
* * *
“I have no wish to be sacked, my lady.” Crawford wrung her hands together as they stood beside a stable yard, around the corner from the Blue Lamb Inn.
“You’re doing as I ask. No one’s going to sack you. I won’t allow it.” She only half paid attention to the conversation; most of her was occupied with listening for church bells, waiting for them to chime one o’clock.
“It’s not the doing as you’ve asked part that troubles me,” the maid returned. “It’s the me not informing your parents that you’re doing something dangerous. You’re practically engaged to another man, Lady Mary.”
In ragged unison across London, bells began ringing in a single, discordant note.
One o’clock. Her last chance to regain her sanity and return home.
To be a dutiful, obedient daughter who would never have a carnal thought about a MacLawry—not even one as handsome as Arran.
“‘Practically’ means not yet. And I’m not doing anything dangerous, Crawford.
Now please, go purchase something pretty for yourself.
I’ll meet you back here at half two, or you can come in and fetch me. ”
The maid looked halfway to tears, but she nodded. “Very well, my lady. Please, please be careful.”
“I will be.”
She watched the maid cross the street toward the shabby shops lining the way. Crawford looked back over her shoulder every few feet, like some sad pup being told to leave home without supper. When she disappeared inside a milliner’s, Mary took a slow, deep breath.
London—not the best part of it, of course—bustled around her, but for the first time in what may well have been ever, she gazed at it alone. The maid had told her to be careful, and here she actually needed to be so.
Perhaps she didn’t generally have guards surrounding her, but she was never on her own outside of Mathering House. She should likely be nervous now, or even frightened. But she wasn’t. What she felt most, in fact, was an unsettled anticipation.
Of course if she didn’t go inside the Blue Lamb Inn, this would all be for nothing.
An enemy was waiting for her inside. A very roguish, attractive enemy she’d yet to find any real reason to dislike.
A man who kept her thoughts occupied so she didn’t have room to dwell on her impending doom.
Because that was what the idea of marrying Roderick felt like. Doom.
Mary squared her shoulders, walked up to the inn’s peeling blue door and pushed it open.
A dozen men and half that many women sat at various wooden tables in the main room.
It rather reminded her of the inns where they changed horses on the way up to Scotland, in fact, except for the strong London accents chittering around her.
Toward the back of the room a figure stood, and her heart skittered, her mouth curving upward before she could even think to stop it.
This was the moment, she realized. The moment when she chose to misbehave, when she chose to think of her own interests above those of clan Campbell—at least for one afternoon.
Moving as gracefully as she could with all her insides jittering about, she joined Arran at the table.
“You came,” she said, sitting on the bench opposite him.
He resumed his seat again. “And so did ye.”
For a brief moment he looked down at his hands, and she wondered if he meant to tell her that they were tempting trouble for no better reason than it was trouble, and that meeting for a stupid luncheon simply wasn’t worth the risk if they were discovered.
All that was correct, but she didn’t wish to hear it.
Not when it had made her feel so wicked and bold just to be here.
When he looked up again, his face bore the half smile that made her knees feel just a little wobbly. “I’ve an idea,” he drawled.
“And what might that be?”
“What if we begin from the beginning, as if we’d never heard of each other, of our families? What if I’m Arran, a lad from the Highlands, and you’re Mary, a lass from Wiltshire, neither of us with any other commitments, and we just … become acquainted?”
She offered her hand. Without a hesitation, he reached out and shook it. She could swear that where their skin touched felt electrified, though that might have been her nerves. “I agree,” she said. “I’m Mary. Pleased to meet you, Arran.”
His grin deepened. “So, tell me aboot yerself, lass.”