Rogue with a Brogue by Suzanne Enoch Page A

nodded. “Very well, my lady. Please, please be careful.”
    â€œI will be.”
    She watched the maid cross the street toward the shabby shops lining the way. Crawford looked back over her shoulder every few feet, like some sad pup being told to leave home without supper. When she disappeared inside a milliner’s, Mary took a slow, deep breath.
    London—not the best part of it, of course—bustled around her, but for the first time in what may well have been ever, she gazed at it alone. The maid had told her to be careful, and here she actually needed to be so.
    Perhaps she didn’t generally have guards surrounding her, but she was never on her own outside of Mathering House. She should likely be nervous now, or even frightened. But she wasn’t. What she felt most, in fact, was an unsettled anticipation.
    Of course if she didn’t go inside the Blue Lamb Inn, this would all be for nothing. An enemy was waiting for her inside. A very roguish, attractive enemy she’d yet to find any real reason to dislike. A man who kept her thoughts occupied so she didn’t have room to dwell on her impending doom. Because that was what the idea of marrying Roderick felt like. Doom.
    Mary squared her shoulders, walked up to the inn’s peeling blue door and pushed it open. A dozen men and half that many women sat at various wooden tables in the main room. It rather reminded her of the inns where they changed horses on the way up to Scotland, in fact, except for the strong London accents chittering around her.
    Toward the back of the room a figure stood, and her heart skittered, her mouth curving upward before she could even think to stop it. This was the moment, she realized. The moment when she chose to misbehave, when she chose to think of her own interests above those of clan Campbell—at least for one afternoon. Moving as gracefully as she could with all her insides jittering about, she joined Arran at the table.
    â€œYou came,” she said, sitting on the bench opposite him.
    He resumed his seat again. “And so did ye.”
    For a brief moment he looked down at his hands, and she wondered if he meant to tell her that they were tempting trouble for no better reason than it was trouble, and that meeting for a stupid luncheon simply wasn’t worth the risk if they were discovered. All that was correct, but she didn’t wish to hear it. Not when it had made her feel so wicked and bold just to be here.
    When he looked up again, his face bore the half smile that made her knees feel just a little wobbly. “I’ve an idea,” he drawled.
    â€œAnd what might that be?”
    â€œWhat if we begin from the beginning, as if we’d never heard of each other, of our families? What if I’m Arran, a lad from the Highlands, and you’re Mary, a lass from Wiltshire, neither of us with any other commitments, and we just … become acquainted?”
    She offered her hand. Without a hesitation, he reached out and shook it. She could swear that where their skin touched felt electrified, though that might have been her nerves. “I agree,” she said. “I’m Mary. Pleased to meet you, Arran.”
    His grin deepened. “So, tell me aboot yerself, lass.”

 
    Chapter Five
    â€œI can’t imagine what it would be like to lose your father at such a young age,” Mary said, selecting another of the absurdly delicate and delicious tea cakes Arran had requested after their luncheon.
    â€œIt upended everything,” he returned, then motioned the innkeeper for another pot of tea.
    She wondered if he’d patronized the Blue Lamb before, because he certainly seemed to know which foods to order. On the other hand, he’d likely spent a great deal more time at ramshackle inns than she had. “You must’ve been so angry. At my grand—”
    â€œNae,” he said, putting up a hand. “None of that.”
    Considering how deeply