Rogue with a Brogue Read Free Page A

“Bràthair.”
    He ignored that. There was a time for him to be polite, and then there was the Campbells. “Do ye know who she is, Jane?”
    â€œEveryone knows that’s Mary Campbell. Her grandfather is the Duke of Alkirk.”
    Rowena gasped, but Arran clenched his jaw against the roar that wanted to erupt from his chest. The charming, intriguing Lady Vixen wasn’t Deirdre Stewart. She was a Campbell. And not just any Campbell, either. She was the granddaughter of William Campbell, the chief of clan Campbell. The Campbell.
    No wonder she hadn’t given her name.
    But she had danced with him, and jested with him. From her point of view, the petite thing likely thought she was making fun of him. She’d certainly made a fool of him.
    â€œWhat’s afoot?” Ranulf’s deep voice came, as he and Charlotte Hanover walked up behind them. “The Stewarts have just arrived. Who was the vixen, Arran?”
    Arran took a breath. “If ye cannae be bothered to be concerned over the Campbells,” he returned, unwilling to be called a fool by his brother, “ye leave it to me to keep an eye on ’em. The vixen was the Campbell’s granddaughter.”
    He’d rarely seen Ranulf surprised, but that did it. The oldest MacLawry sibling shoved his panther half-mask up over his forehead. The face beneath was perhaps more agreeable, but at least as fierce. Dark blue eyes narrowed, and he lifted his hand as if he meant to seize Arran by the lapel. “I told ye to behave,” he said evenly, his voice low and hard.
    Arran held his brother and clan chief’s gaze until Ranulf lowered his hand again. Neither of them was known for backing down, but this felt more like a mutual decision not to make a scene—another scene—in the middle of a Mayfair ballroom. “Ye told me to be polite,” he countered, “and so I was.”
    â€œI dunnae recall giving my permission for any of my kin to dance with a Campbell,” Ranulf retorted.
    And this from a man set on something at least as scandalous as dancing with a Campbell—taking an English bride into the Highlands. Yes, Charlotte Hanover had more spleen and wit than most Sasannach, but before this wee holiday in London, Ranulf would have burned his own bed before he’d share it with an English lass.
    â€œYe’re the one who went and made a truce with the Campbells,” Arran pointed out, reflecting that a few short weeks ago he would have been choosing his words much more carefully. Evidently he owed Charlotte some thanks for improving his brother’s temperament, now that he considered it.
    â€œSo we could stop killing each other, Arran. Nae so ye could waltz with one of ’em.”
    â€œAnd do ye know a better way to test the Campbell wind? Because I dunnae believe this peace’ll last the week, myself.”
    Of course his argument only worked as long as Jane and Winnie didn’t blurt out that he’d had no idea who the vixen was. Shaking his head, he held out his hand to young Jane as the music for their quadrille began. Evidently he preferred being accused of doing something wrong to doing something foolish.
    At the same time, he truly didn’t think the truce would last. None ever had before now. And so he’d made a point of learning which of the Campbell men were about, their appearance, and their disposition. He knew their allies, and he generally knew when any of them was within twenty feet of his brother or sister. But then the trouble had come from somewhere he didn’t expect.
    And vixen, fox, wolf, or Campbell, tomorrow he meant to go hunting. Mary Campbell was not allowed to think she’d made a fool of a MacLawry. Especially not when he was in London to look after his family. Especially not when for a moment he’d thought her smile and her wit attractive. That was when he’d thought her someone else.
    â€œWhere’s this Deirdre Stewart ye