Rogue with a Brogue by Suzanne Enoch Page B

mention of Mary Campbell. Mary was … interesting, and she could possibly give him some insight into the Campbell clan. And that, he told himself, was the beginning, middle, and end of it.
    Finally Owen knocked on his door. “Ye’re to leave fer the theater in an hour, m’laird. Do ye wish help dressing?”
    If he’d learned one thing about the English during his sojourn in the army, it was that they changed clothes every time they changed seats. “Nae, Owen. I’ll see to it.”
    â€œYe know Laird Glengask gave me leave to hire ye a valet.” He scowled. “I’m certain that Ginger fellow valeting fer the marquis knows some others like himself.”
    Arran grinned. “I’ll manage. And ye may as well get accustomed to Edward Ginger. We’ll have Lady Charlotte in the hoose, and ye can nae have only one Sasannach. They multiply, like toadstools.”
    The old soldier laughed, then abruptly glanced behind him and sobered again. “I’ll see the coach readied then, m’laird.”
    â€œThank ye, Owen,” Ranulf’s voice came, and the butler fled. As Arran cursed beneath his breath, the marquis stopped in the bedchamber doorway. “Toadstools, are they?” he asked, folding his arms over his chest.
    â€œYe ken that I still have behind me twenty-seven years of hating everyone south of Hadrian’s Wall, do ye nae? Whatever happened to change yer mind hasnae happened to me.” There. He was damned tired of walking about on eggshells where Charlotte Hanover was concerned.
    Ranulf stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. “I’m nae asking ye to love the Sasannach. I’m telling ye that Charlotte is now a MacLawry, and so are her parents and her sister. Ye’ll treat them as such. And if ye dunnae like that, ye’ll still behave in a way that nae gives any of them—or me—any idea of that fact. Is that understood?”
    He’d be a fool to disagree. “Aye,” he said aloud. “The Hanovers are a part of clan MacLawry. And so will the Stewarts be, I assume.”
    â€œThey make sense fer us, especially with Fendarrow going after the MacAllisters.”
    â€œI ken, Ran. I dunnae like it one damned bit, but I ken.”
    With a nod, his brother pulled open the door again, then hesitated and shut it more quietly. “I rely on yer counsel, Arran. Dunnae let me down. The times … everything is moving forward fast as the wind. We need to understand that, and to make the changes that help us survive.”
    Evidently one of these changes was Ran falling for an English lass, while him dancing with a Campbell lass was not ever going to be acceptable. It all seemed hypocritical in the extreme, but Arran inclined his head. “As ye say, Ran.”
    His brother didn’t look convinced. “I never know what’s rattling aboot in that clever head of yers, but fer my sake, know Charlotte better before ye decide she willnae do fer me. Ye’ve only been here a few weeks.”
    That, at least, seemed fair. “I said I would, Ran, and so I will.”
    â€œGood.” The marquis opened the door again. “Get yerself dressed, then. I expect ye’re the only one who’ll enjoy Hamlet tonight, anyway. Damned Danes.”
    It was clearly meant to be a jest, so Arran forced a grin. Once Ranulf left, he dropped the expression. He’d always, always supported his brother and his vision for the clan. Schools, farms, mercantile to be sold to Highlanders who’d been pushed off their lands all the way to America—it had all been about bettering the clan and staying out from under the thumb of the English.
    Their own mother had been English, and she’d swallowed poison rather than live on in the Highlands with four children. For years after that they’d never even mentioned her; to this day Ranulf referred to her as Eleanor rather than as his mother. The rest of