Rogue with a Brogue by Suzanne Enoch

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.
    â€œHail me a hack, will ye, Owen?” he asked the butler as he headed back downstairs.
    â€œAye, m’laird. Do ye nae want one of the lads with ye, though?”
    â€œNae.” 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?”
    â€œI heard. Dunnae believe it’ll last, though.”
    â€œGood. 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.”
    â€œYe 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.
    *   *   *
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYou’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.
    â€œIt’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