Rogue with a Brogue by Suzanne Enoch Page B

to vanish on a regular basis.
    Was he trying to stir up trouble? That made no sense, unless he meant to escape a match with Deirdre Stewart by setting the MacLawrys and Campbells after each other again. They all knew that only a fool would ally himself with a clan in the middle of a centuries-long feud—and the Stewart was no fool. But that made no sense. Yes, Arran detested the Campbells, but he was also fairly logical. They needed peace, and they could certainly make good use of the Stewarts, both for their trade connections and to keep all the damned Campbells from attempting something unwise now that it looked like the MacLawrys would be spending more time in London.
    The last resort would be to send Arran back to Glengask for his own safety, and make him wait there until Deirdre Stewart could be delivered. Before any banishment happened and caused a rift even Rowena couldn’t heal, he wanted—needed—more information. And as soon as possible, before one or the other of them said something they couldn’t forgive.
    *   *   *
    â€œCrawford, you know you look ridiculous,” Mary commented, turning her mare, Alba, in a tight circle around the maid. “You can’t think to escort me on foot.”
    â€œI will be close by, at least,” the maid returned. “Davis will escort you.” She gestured at the groom, a few feet behind on one of the numerous horses Mary’s father kept in his London stable.
    â€œDavis always escorts me when I go riding. I don’t even know why you’re here.”
    She did know, of course. All the previous times she’d gone for a morning ride in Hyde Park, she hadn’t yet made the acquaintance of Lord Arran MacLawry. Now she had, and suddenly Crawford needed to be present. And Mary tolerated it, because at least the maid hadn’t tattled about her luncheon with him.
    â€œJust enjoy your morning, my lady. I’ll be close by.”
    Before Mary could decide whether it was even worth going out this morning with the maid traipsing after her, she spied Elizabeth Bell and her older sister, Annabeth. “Liz,” she called, waving, and urged Alba down the path.
    â€œGood morning, Mary. Is that Crawford?”
    Mary sighed. “Yes, she detests horses, but she’s decided to follow me, anyway.”
    â€œYou could just send her away, you know.”
    â€œYes, but then she gives me a look like a little lost puppy. And she means well.” She reined in to trot beside them.
    The park was crowded this morning, likely because the weather was so fine. Within ten minutes her cheeks felt tired from smiling greetings at all her friends and acquaintances, from uttering admiring pleasantries to all the young bucks cantering about to show off their horsemanship and sterling riding attire. It was like a great parade, where each person knew their role and played it each and every time the weather was agreeable enough for the cavalcade.
    And then she spied someone riding against the tide. A splendid black Thoroughbred sidestepped gracefully around a barouche and continued forward—toward her. And the man riding him didn’t look as though he would willingly be a part of any prerehearsed pageant. Unruly black hair tossed by the breeze, sharp, light eyes that practically crackled with humor and intelligence, and a lean, strong jaw and steady gaze that simply radiated confidence and power and pride. Highlands pride.
    While Liz and her sister stopped to chat with an acquaintance in a phaeton, Mary backed Alba around and turned the chestnut mare toward a thick stand of trees. She didn’t hurry; that would certainly attract attention, and that was the last thing she wanted. The black changed course to intercept her.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” she asked in a low voice, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch.
    â€œI’m observing the Sasannach,” Arran returned with a grin. “Ye look rather splendid