Rogue with a Brogue Read Online Free Page B

husband who dictated that? For heaven’s sake. She hoped she would at least have the chance to chat with Roderick before her family dragged her to a church. All she knew about him at the moment was that he danced tolerably and had a weakness for stinky cheeses. There was a vast difference between amiable chatting and attempting to discover whether a man would make a husband.
    â€œLady Mary, are we late?” Crawford panted from beside her, her skirts clutched in one hand.
    Mary immediately slowed her pace. “I’m so sorry, Crawford. My mind was elsewhere.”
    â€œWas yer mind on a masquerade ball, by any chance?” a deep, rolling brogue asked from off to her left.
    Starting, she whipped around. “Arran.”
    He leaned against a tree trunk, calm and still as if he’d been there for hours. A predator waiting for his prey. Black hair lifted off his temple in the light breeze. With the fox mask on, his parts—jaw, mouth, shadowed blue eyes—had hinted at a handsome face. Without the mask, adding in high cheekbones, a straight nose, and slightly arched eyebrows, he was a dream—a dark Highlands prince who likely ate wildcats for breakfast.
    â€œAye. Arran MacLawry,” he affirmed, finally straightening. “And how do ye do this fine morning, Mary Campbell?”

 
    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 .
    â€œI 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