Rogue with a Brogue by Suzanne Enoch Page A

would likely keep her word to him, then, whatever he told her. But saying anything aloud to anyone felt like he was putting voice to something that was too nebulous to be touched. If it became a real, solid thing, it might well shatter and break—like a piece of blown glass cooled too quickly.
    And really, he’d only seen Mary Campbell—Saint Bridget, was it four times now?—and he wasn’t certain he had anything to confess, anyway. Burdening his sister with that kind of knowledge for no good reason wouldn’t be fair to either of them. “Another time,” he said aloud, pushing to his feet.
    â€œAre you certain? Jane didn’t want me to say anything, but Deirdre Stewart likes you, you know. She told me you’re very handsome, and have a Highlands way about you.”
    â€œWhat the devil does that even mean? I’m a Highlander. Of course I act like one.” Then again, Deirdre had Highlands blood, but he damned well didn’t see it in her. Mary Campbell, now … Wherever she’d been raised, she was a Highlander.
    â€œI don’t know,” his sister returned. “Do you want me to ask her?”
    â€œNae. Now. Are ye expected back at Hanover House, or do ye care to try me at billiards?”
    Rowena flashed her customary charming grin. “I have time for a game, and then you can see me back to the Hanovers after I thrash you.”
    He followed her to the door, wishing all his troubles and concerns could be resolved as easily as his sister’s frown. “So ye say. I have my doubts.”
    *   *   *
    With a muffled curse Ranulf ducked backward into his office and slipped behind the half-open door, where he stood silent and unbreathing until his siblings had passed by and gone upstairs. He wasn’t accustomed to sneaking or snooping about, and he could admit that he didn’t do it well. But his family was supposed to come to him with their troubles. That was the way it had always been. He wasn’t supposed to have to track them down and eavesdrop to discover what bothered them.
    If he’d had any doubts that Rowena was becoming a keen-sighted young lady, her fine argument in favor of learning more about the English had answered them. Now he only needed to worry that she would use the same logic of changing times against him and announce she’d found a Sasannach lordling she wanted to wed.
    Perhaps ordering Lachlan MacTier, Lord Gray, to remain at Glengask as Bear’s lieutenant had been a mistake. But the viscount’s lack of attention had been one of the reasons Rowena had decided she required a proper English Season in London. And he’d ultimately agreed to it because his sister did need to view the people her own clan had spent so long fighting against. And of course because he’d met Charlotte.
    The idea had been that distance would make Rowena’s heart grow fonder—after all, she’d spent the total of her first seventeen years telling all and sundry that she meant to marry Lachlan, until she’d abruptly realized that she was the only one doing the pursuing. For Lucifer’s sake, he hoped this was one problem that would settle itself.
    It was Arran who worried him more at the moment. Something was afoot, and he didn’t like not knowing what it was. Low as he’d stooped to convince Rowena to come and chat with the middle MacLawry brother, and as little as Arran had said, it did mean something that he wouldn’t confide even in his sister. Whatever it was that troubled him, it was serious.
    And whatever did bother him, he couldn’t continue going about London without telling anyone his destination. Truce or not, Ranulf didn’t trust the Campbells or the Dailys or the Gerdenses any further than he could throw one of them. Arran could handle himself, and well, but the MacLawrys and their allies were badly outnumbered here. Arran certainly knew that, and yet he continued