Free Rogue with a Brogue by Suzanne Enoch

grandfather. Because while neither Roderick nor Charles interested her, she easily preferred dullness to cruelty. Though if given a third choice, it would be to not have to marry either of them.
    On the tail of that thought, the curtains opened. A more appropriate play would have been Macbeth, but she wasn’t certain the several hot-blooded Highlanders in the audience would have been able to tolerate that.
    On the other hand, she wasn’t certain she could tolerate Hamlet tonight. Aside from the presence of a very troublesome man just across the stage from her, there were the plots within plots, lies, deceit, betrayals, murders, suicide—given all the soul-wrenching mayhem, this was likely Charles’s favorite play. After forty minutes or so, she found herself once again gazing across the darkened space toward the MacLawry box.
    Were the MacLawrys doing the same thing to Arran that her own clan had in mind for her? Or had he already been in pursuit of Deirdre Stewart before … heavens, was it only last night that they’d met? The Stewart’s niece was considered a great beauty, after all. But if Arran was after Deirdre, what had he been doing asking a vixen mask to waltz? And what about this morning? And luncheon tomorrow?
    â€œExcuse me,” she whispered, standing. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
    â€œI’ll go with you,” Roderick said, starting to his feet.
    â€œNonsense. You’ll miss a murder.”
    â€œMary,” her mother chided.
    â€œI apologize. It was Charles who likes the murders. I will be back in a moment.” Evidently she’d convinced him that she didn’t need his assistance to find a privy closet, because inclining his head, he sat back again.
    With another murmured apology to the rest of her box mates, Mary made her way to the curtain at the rear and slipped into the hallway beyond. A few other audience members wandered past her, outnumbered by footmen toting drinks and opera glasses and warm wraps—and even a small, fluffy dog.
    Leaning back against the wall, Mary closed her eyes for a moment. Yes, she was one-and-twenty, and yes, even with her grandfather’s indulgence she’d always known she would eventually have to marry according to the clan’s will. But not yet. For goodness’ sake, if anything the truce with the MacLawrys should have removed any urgency from her impending union, not created it.
    She took a deep breath and opened her eyes again—then let it out with a barely stifled squeak as she spied the man topping the stairs and heading in her direction. He was not a footman, and he was not carrying a dog. He was, however, wearing a splendid kilt of black and white and red. Before he could approach her parents’ box; she straightened and hurried toward him.
    â€œWhat are you doing here, Arran?” she whispered, starting to reach for his arm and then stopping herself. They weren’t friends; they were … they were new acquaintances who were never supposed to have met. And she happened to find him somewhat, barely, attractive.
    â€œ Hamlet seems a bit too close to my life,” he drawled in his deep, rich brogue. “And I keep wanting to yell at Hamlet to kill his uncle and stop all that lunatic talking to himself and the play-within-a-play nonsense.” Light blue eyes regarded her. “What sent ye fleeing, lass?”
    â€œThe same thing, I suppose. Too much subterfuge. I prefer the comedies.”
    â€œAye.” He glanced past her at the closed curtains of the Campbell box. “Calder wasnae blaming ye fer dancing with me, I hope.”
    Had he come all the way around the theater into enemy territory just to see if she was well? “ You blamed me for it, as I recall.”
    That wicked grin touched his mouth again. “Ye’re nae a shy lass, are ye?”
    She edged closer, wishing he would lower his voice just a bit more. For heaven’s sake, her