Rogue with a Brogue Read Free

lass was, she was no timid flower. “Ye’ve some Highlands blood in yer veins, do ye nae, lass?”
    She lowered her head for a heartbeat. “I do, at that. But what makes you say so?”
    With a crescendo the waltz ended. Arran stood there for a moment, briefly wishing he hadn’t named himself the designated watchdog of his family. Then he would have been free to continue this conversation somewhere more intimate. “Save me a quadrille or someaught, and I’ll tell ye,” he offered instead.
    She belatedly untangled herself from his arms. “I would, but there are enough men here that that wouldn’t be … seemly. Another time, perhaps?”
    â€œAye. Another time. But at least tell me yer name, lass.”
    A slow smile curved her attractive mouth once more, and this time the muscles across his abdomen tightened in response. For God’s sake, he hoped she would say Deirdre Stewart. Then he could put this odd heightened awareness to instinct. Taking a step closer again, she put a hand on his shoulder and lifted up on her toes. “I think, Sir Fox,” she murmured, her warm lips brushing his ear, “that you should call me … Lady Vixen.”
    With that she moved back, then turned and walked away. She sent him a single glance over her shoulder before she vanished into the sea of sparkling masks. Hm . Whatever the devil that had been about, he felt in need of a cold swim in the nearest loch. His nether MacLawry felt nearly at half-staff, just from having his ear nibbled on. In public. Striding to one side of the room, he captured a glass of vodka from a footman and downed it.
    â€œWho was that, Arran?” his sister asked, appearing beside him to grip his left arm.
    He shook himself. If Winnie was here, then Jane Hanover would be directly on her heels. “An old friend,” he improvised, inclining his head as the swan hurried up behind the peacock. At least he’d avoided waltzing with her. “Did anyone write his name on yer wee card fer this quadrille, Lady Jane? And do ye have a country dance left fer yer own brother, Winnie?”
    Jane flushed beneath her ornate mask and yellow hair. “Well, I—yes, but—Actually, I … was hoping you—”
    If he didn’t stop her floundering, she was likely to injure herself. “Hand over yer card, then, and I’ll scribble doon my name,” he offered, trying to decide to whom he would say he’d promised the damned second waltz when she asked about it—and she would ask.
    With an audible sigh the younger Hanover sister handed him her card and pencil. She’d been claimed for nearly every other dance, he noted, including the second waltz. Thank Lucifer. No wonder she’d been in such determined pursuit of him earlier. Evidently he owed Lady Vixen more of a debt than he’d even realized.
    Stifling a sigh of his own, he wrote down his name and returned the card to her, then did the same with his own sister. Rowena still wore the excited smile she’d donned almost from the moment she’d handed him his fox mask yesterday. She had to know that he wasn’t interested in her young friend. Why, then, did she seem to be encouraging Jane’s pursuit of him? He was going to have to have a chat with her—and soon. The last thing he needed was two of his siblings throwing women at him, especially when he felt obligated to favor Ranulf’s selection.
    â€œI still don’t understand how she could be an old friend,” Jane said, her voice a touch shrill. “Winnie said the MacLawrys don’t like the Campbells.”
    Arran jolted back to attention. What was this ? “What are ye talking aboot, lass?” he demanded.
    Jane took a half step backward. “The … your friend in the vixen mask. You said you were friends. You said it. Not me.”
    â€œI—”
    Winnie nudged him in the ribs with her sharp elbow.