Chapter 5 #3
And really, he’d only seen Mary Campbell—Saint Bridget, was it four times now?—and he wasn’t certain he had anything to confess, anyway. Burdening his sister with that kind of knowledge for no good reason wouldn’t be fair to either of them. “Another time,” he said aloud, pushing to his feet.
“Are you certain? Jane didn’t want me to say anything, but Deirdre Stewart likes you, you know. She told me you’re very handsome, and have a Highlands way about you.”
“What the devil does that even mean? I’m a Highlander. Of course I act like one.” Then again, Deirdre had Highlands blood, but he damned well didn’t see it in her. Mary Campbell, now … Wherever she’d been raised, she was a Highlander.
“I don’t know,” his sister returned. “Do you want me to ask her?”
“Nae. Now. Are ye expected back at Hanover House, or do ye care to try me at billiards?”
Rowena flashed her customary charming grin. “I have time for a game, and then you can see me back to the Hanovers after I thrash you.”
He followed her to the door, wishing all his troubles and concerns could be resolved as easily as his sister’s frown. “So ye say. I have my doubts.”
* * *
With a muffled curse Ranulf ducked backward into his office and slipped behind the half-open door, where he stood silent and unbreathing until his siblings had passed by and gone upstairs.
He wasn’t accustomed to sneaking or snooping about, and he could admit that he didn’t do it well.
But his family was supposed to come to him with their troubles.
That was the way it had always been. He wasn’t supposed to have to track them down and eavesdrop to discover what bothered them.
If he’d had any doubts that Rowena was becoming a keen-sighted young lady, her fine argument in favor of learning more about the English had answered them.
Now he only needed to worry that she would use the same logic of changing times against him and announce she’d found a Sasannach lordling she wanted to wed.
Perhaps ordering Lachlan MacTier, Lord Gray, to remain at Glengask as Bear’s lieutenant had been a mistake.
But the viscount’s lack of attention had been one of the reasons Rowena had decided she required a proper English Season in London.
And he’d ultimately agreed to it because his sister did need to view the people her own clan had spent so long fighting against. And of course because he’d met Charlotte.
The idea had been that distance would make Rowena’s heart grow fonder—after all, she’d spent the total of her first seventeen years telling all and sundry that she meant to marry Lachlan, until she’d abruptly realized that she was the only one doing the pursuing.
For Lucifer’s sake, he hoped this was one problem that would settle itself.
It was Arran who worried him more at the moment.
Something was afoot, and he didn’t like not knowing what it was.
Low as he’d stooped to convince Rowena to come and chat with the middle MacLawry brother, and as little as Arran had said, it did mean something that he wouldn’t confide even in his sister.
Whatever it was that troubled him, it was serious.
And whatever did bother him, he couldn’t continue going about London without telling anyone his destination.
Truce or not, Ranulf didn’t trust the Campbells or the Dailys or the Gerdenses any further than he could throw one of them.
Arran could handle himself, and well, but the MacLawrys and their allies were badly outnumbered here.
Arran certainly knew that, and yet he continued to vanish on a regular basis.
Was he trying to stir up trouble? That made no sense, unless he meant to escape a match with Deirdre Stewart by setting the MacLawrys and Campbells after each other again.
They all knew that only a fool would ally himself with a clan in the middle of a centuries-long feud—and the Stewart was no fool.
But that made no sense. Yes, Arran detested the Campbells, but he was also fairly logical.
They needed peace, and they could certainly make good use of the Stewarts, both for their trade connections and to keep all the damned Campbells from attempting something unwise now that it looked like the MacLawrys would be spending more time in London.
The last resort would be to send Arran back to Glengask for his own safety, and make him wait there until Deirdre Stewart could be delivered.
Before any banishment happened and caused a rift even Rowena couldn’t heal, he wanted—needed—more information.
And as soon as possible, before one or the other of them said something they couldn’t forgive.
* * *
“Crawford, you know you look ridiculous,” Mary commented, turning her mare, Alba, in a tight circle around the maid. “You can’t think to escort me on foot.”
“I will be close by, at least,” the maid returned. “Davis will escort you.” She gestured at the groom, a few feet behind on one of the numerous horses Mary’s father kept in his London stable.
“Davis always escorts me when I go riding. I don’t even know why you’re here.”
She did know, of course. All the previous times she’d gone for a morning ride in Hyde Park, she hadn’t yet made the acquaintance of Lord Arran MacLawry.
Now she had, and suddenly Crawford needed to be present.
And Mary tolerated it, because at least the maid hadn’t tattled about her luncheon with him.
“Just enjoy your morning, my lady. I’ll be close by.”
Before Mary could decide whether it was even worth going out this morning with the maid traipsing after her, she spied Elizabeth Bell and her older sister, Annabeth. “Liz,” she called, waving, and urged Alba down the path.
“Good morning, Mary. Is that Crawford?”
Mary sighed. “Yes, she detests horses, but she’s decided to follow me, anyway.”
“You could just send her away, you know.”
“Yes, but then she gives me a look like a little lost puppy. And she means well.” She reined in to trot beside them.
The park was crowded this morning, likely because the weather was so fine.
Within ten minutes her cheeks felt tired from smiling greetings at all her friends and acquaintances, from uttering admiring pleasantries to all the young bucks cantering about to show off their horsemanship and sterling riding attire.
It was like a great parade, where each person knew their role and played it each and every time the weather was agreeable enough for the cavalcade.
And then she spied someone riding against the tide.
A splendid black Thoroughbred sidestepped gracefully around a barouche and continued forward—toward her.
And the man riding him didn’t look as though he would willingly be a part of any prerehearsed pageant.
Unruly black hair tossed by the breeze, sharp, light eyes that practically crackled with humor and intelligence, and a lean, strong jaw and steady gaze that simply radiated confidence and power and pride. Highlands pride.
While Liz and her sister stopped to chat with an acquaintance in a phaeton, Mary backed Alba around and turned the chestnut mare toward a thick stand of trees.
She didn’t hurry; that would certainly attract attention, and that was the last thing she wanted.
The black changed course to intercept her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in a low voice, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch.
“I’m observing the Sasannach,” Arran returned with a grin. “Ye look rather splendid this morning.”
Her cheeks heated. “Thank you. You look fine, yourself.”
“Do I? Winnie says I should wear a hat more, but I’ve never seen anything more useless than those tall, narrow-brimmed things the fops swear by.”
“It isn’t just the fops,” she countered, but personally she agreed with him. Not that hats were useless, but that he looked exceedingly fine without one. For a MacLawry, of course.
“Tell me someaught,” he said, urging his black closer. “Is it just me?”
“Is what just you?”
“Us. Is it just me? Because when I woke this morning, the first thought that popped into my head was that it would be grand to see ye today.” He reached over and brushed a finger down her arm. “What did ye think this morning when ye woke?”
Considering she’d awoken from a dream that Arran MacLawry had been standing in a forest with her, kissing her senseless, she wasn’t certain she should answer that question.
But then he would be the only one with any courage, and she would be …
well, just who she was supposed to be. “I thought it would be pleasant if I were to catch sight of you this morning,” she said aloud. “And that perhaps you might kiss me.”
Arran stood in his stirrups, leaned sideways, and captured her mouth with his. Heat rushed through her veins, exciting and heady. His very capable mouth molded against hers, making her think of things she was certain young ladies should not be considering.
“I’m beginning to wish you weren’t a MacLawry,” she murmured.
He backed away from her a little, and for a moment she thought she’d insulted him.
Then a slow smile touched that mouth of his.
“We’re only a Campbell and a MacLawry to the rest of the world, lass,” he returned in a soft, low brogue.
“To me, ye’re Mary. And if ye go riding tomorrow, I’ll meet ye here again.
And every day until I see ye at the dinner on Friday night. ”
“And what about the … other people with whom we should be spending our time?” she countered, reluctant to speak of them at all, much less name them.
Brief frustration crossed his handsome features. “Are ye married yet, lass?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Neither am I. Ye keep answering that same way, and I’ll keep kissing ye.”
She sighed, taking him in all over again. “Then I hope it doesn’t rain tomorrow.”
It would likely be better for both of them if it rained, thundered, and hailed, but at the same time, what harm could a few delicious kisses be? Especially when they were wicked and forbidden and very, very arousing.