“From the looks of them, they lost the wager…and your scheme was the lie about them rescuing you from blackguards.”
She chuckled. “Aye.”
“And the rest of it? Why were you looking for Kinloch Rannoch?”
“Here is the whole of it, then,” she began, and he clasped his fingers in his lap as a child would before listening to a tall tale. “I am looking for information, and someone told me I could find it here. I have been traveling for weeks, and when I came upon your men speaking the name MacPherson, I knew I had finally come to the right place.”
“What information?” His expression was one of wary intrigue. “What do you want with me?”
Her lips quirked, her gaze immediately dropping to where his manhood was nestled between his legs. He shifted in his seat and she grinned.
“I have something, a locket, and on it is the impression of a rose, its stem twined around a thorn.”
He nodded. “The crest of the MacPherson clan.”
“’Tis what I was told,” she admitted.
“And where is this locket?” he asked.
“I have it, hidden.”
“And you are wondering what, exactly?”
“I want to know about the man who gave it to me,” she answered, her heart slowly rising into her throat. This was it…she was so close to knowing, even just a sliver, of what had eluded her for so long.
He arched an eyebrow, his face unreadable. “And who gave it to you?”
She took a deep breath then uttered, “My father.”
He seemed taken aback by that, his chin lifting as he leaned back. “How is it that you do not know of your father but you know it was your father who gave it to you?”
Rose expected these questions, and so she answered quickly, “I do not remember much of anything about him, save that the locket was a gift from him. His name was Angus. And he died in a shipwreck.”
He grunted, his eyes flying wide even as his face lost all color.
She held her breath, wondering what just happened.
“Angus, you say?” he inquired, his voice deadly flat.
She nodded once.
“Angus…surname?” he continued.
She pondered that question for a moment. Rose never could remember what her last name had been, and she’d spent the majority of her life calling herself Rees. “I assume he was a MacPherson because the locket he gave me has the MacPherson crest on it.”
He leaned forward, his body tense, like a mooring chain in a storm.
“And you said your name was Rose?” This time, his voice was tight, deep, sending a tremor of warning up her spine. She stiffened, her hand itching to curl around her sword.
“Aye, I am Rose. ’Tis the name I remember him calling me,” she admitted warily.
Silence followed her words, and it seemed as though the world was holding its breath, waiting, watching, anticipating.
Rose didn’t know what Thorn would ask next, his expression hard as granite, his large body humming with leashed emotions. But what he did ask made Rose blink at him in uncharacteristic shock.
“Would you mind removing your breeches?”
Stunned, she waited to see if he would grin and then laugh off his words as a jest.
He did not. He simply stared at her, the question hanging in the air between them.
“What?” she finally croaked. She swallowed the lump of uncertainty and feigned nonchalance. “You want me to remove my breeches?”
He planted his elbows on his thighs and steepled his fingers. “Aye.”
She offered him a lopsided grin, one she didn’t actually feel. “And what will your betrothed think of that?”
He scowled, waving off her concern. “I only wish to see the flesh of your left buttock,” he remarked as though it was something he asked of women every day.
“My left buttock? Why? What are you hoping to see?” Lord, but her curiosity would lead her into trouble—again. She wasn’t a shy woman, she had no issue with striding around her own chambers naked, no matter who was in the room with her. But this…it was new.
“I will tell you once I have examined your left buttock,” he pressed, and she grunted in response.
“Well then,” she growled. “If you wish to see my left arse cheek, then you will get the whole show, my lord.”
Rising to her feet, she quickly loosened the breeches by undoing the leather thongs holding them together in the front. Turning, she slipped her thumbs under the waistband, looking over her shoulder at Thorn with a blatant glare, then pushed the breeches down over her arse until her waistband caught on her thighs. She lifted the bottom of her sopping wet shirt to give him a better view.
Behind her, Thorn was quiet, and she wondered what he thought of her arse. She knew it was plump, two orbs of fleshy lushness that many a bedmate had nibbled and complimented. But…she knew that her assets weren’t what Thorn was looking for. Sadly.
Craning her neck backward, Rose tried to see what Thorn was seeing. What was he looking for that could only be found on her arse?
Finally, the silence was broken by the hiss of an indrawn breath.
“’Tis you,” Thorn murmured and she dropped her shirt and spun on her heel, coming face to face with a man who looked like he’d just seen a ghost.
Her heart thundering, her hands trembling, she couldn’t fathom the dread pooling in her belly.
“Who do you think I am?” she asked, hating how weak her voice sounded.
He drew in a breath, his chest shuddering, his voice was deep, reaching into her chest.
“You are Rosette MacDeargh, the only daughter of Angus MacDeargh, clan chief and laird of Dearghrose Castle. You are goddaughter to my father, Dairmaid MacPherson, and…” He sucked in a shaky breath, his massive body shuddering. “…my true betrothed.”
Weighing a million tons, the revelations made her fall back, landing against the side of the desk. She caught herself before she landed on her naked arse on the floor.
“Nay, ’tisn’t possible,” she murmured, unaware that Thorn had come to stand before her. His large hands reached out, cupping her face and tipping her chin up, forcing her to meet his awestruck gaze. Her breath caught.
“I never thought to find you,” he whispered, his black eyes wide, an edge of wariness within. Then, a tapestry of determination and stone cold resolve wove itself together over his features, and his next words made the fibers holding Rose together fray at the edges. “And I never mean to lose you again.”
Chapter Eight
Rose struggled to get her waistband up over the curves of her generous arse, an arse where the birthmark in the shape of a rose petal rested on the fleshy part of her left buttock.
“You are mistaken,” she ground out before slapping at his hands, which were still cupping her smooth, flawless face. He held fast, unwilling to let her go, to let her slip away again. She narrowed her eyes at him, the deep decadent brown darkening until it was nearly black.
God, she was a fiery one.
“Even if I am this Rosette MacDeargh, I am not your betrothed,” she growled, finally pulling away. He dropped his hands, his fingers fisting at his sides to keep from reaching for her again.
This will take time. But it had already been twenty-six years since their fathers had signed the contract that bound their children together. At the time, Thorn had been a strapping lad of nine, and his wife-to-be was no more than an infant. He’d known, then, what his duty was, and he fully intended to follow through with the marriage, once they were both of age. But then…the business with MacDougal began, his threats against the MacPhersons turning ugly. Rosette’s father feared for her life, and so he decided to take her to Wales, to Cylldon, to foster with the Owains as well. But on the journey south to Cylldon, their ship was lost, never making it to port in Bangor. When he’d heard that his betrothed, the sweet and fiery Little Rose, was last seen unconscious on a beach somewhere in Wales, he’d feared for her life in his own way. They hadn’t known one
another all that well, but he still worried for her, and he grieved for his father who had lost his dear friend.
After the one surviving sailor had returned to Kinloch Rannoch, telling his father that he had pulled a living, breathing Rosette from the sea, his father swore that there was still a chance that Rose was alive and well somewhere in Wales. Thorn had assumed his father was being a hopeful fool, a man whose grief had stolen a bit of his sense. But Thorn couldn’t argue with his father, and he went about his life, living and learning beside his foster brothers and sisters, all the while wondering what did happen to Little Rose.
And now he knew.
She’d grown into a devastatingly beautiful woman, with hair of fire, eyes of guilty pleasure, and a body he couldn’t wait to feel beneath him. And…from the conversation he’d had with her so far, her wit was razor sharp, her intelligence high.
“Are you not going to say something?” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest which only served to push her breasts up, revealing more of the creamy globes to his hungry gaze.
She saw him looking, pursing her lips in a show of an emotion he had not seen thus far: annoyance.
For the first time that evening, he grinned, flashing his teeth at the woman before him. He knew what his smile looked like and how it affected the gentler sex. It would be no different for Rose, who’d already ogled him openly since setting eyes on him.
But, not for the first time and probably not for the last, she didn’t do what he expected.
She lifted both eyebrows and cursed. “Well, if all you are going to do is grin at me in silence, I am going to get the hell out of here.” She flung her arm into the air angrily and dismissively, and turned to walk away.
Do not let her go!
Reaching out, Thorn snagged her wrist and, in a flash, she swung around, her fist connecting with his belly. If he wasn’t a fit and muscular man, her blow would have him doubled over. As it was, she’d landed a hit that would leave a bruise, and he knew damn well her fist would hurt like the devil.
Rose grunted, recoiling to shake her hand as if to rid herself of the pain. Her expression was hard, her cheeks flushed with an utterly becoming rage. She was glorious when she was wrathful, and he would enjoy riling her up…in the bedroom.
With that in mind, he grinned again, hoping this smile would dispel some of her displeasure.
“Come now, Rose, there is much to discuss,” he entreated, making sure to keep his voice soft and even. They hadn’t been reunited long, but he could already surmise that once Rose was wary, it would be difficult to sway her. His gaze immediately dropped to the sword at her hip. It looked perfectly at home where it was, which begged the question…what had she experienced in her life that had turned her into a sword-wielding, breeches-wearing, vision of danger and sensuality?
You will never know if you cannot get her to stay.
“Garrick has yet to arrive with your food or change of clothes,” he reminded her. “The least I can do is feed you and get you dry, and you can ask me the questions I know are swirling in your head.”
Rose cocked her head, her narrowed eyes scouring his face. He knew what she was searching for: deception and ill-intent. She’d find neither of those things. She was his betrothed; he owed her his honesty.
Finally, Rose nodded, and just as she did, a knock sounded at the door. He had little time to appreciate her acquiescence, as tremulous as it was.
“Come!” he called, knowing Garrick had arrived with Rose’s food. The door opened and Garrick entered carrying a tray holding a slab of beef, a wedge of bread, and a mug of ale.
Garrick made eye contact, a question burning in his eyes. Thorn offered him an expression that said I will tell you all later…
“Have Marbeth leave the clothes in a guest chamber,” Thorn ordered, knowing Marbeth would be beyond curious to know about the woman who’d shown up out of nowhere and was staying the night.
If I can get Rose to stay the night, that is.
Without a word, Garrick placed the tray on Thorn’s desk, and Rose lifted her face, sniffing the air, before taking the chair behind the desk once more.
Rose tore into the bread, dipping a piece of it into the gravy from the beef. She bit into her meal with zeal and passion, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from what she was doing with her mouth. Thorn didn’t know when Garrick had left, but he didn’t care; his focus was trained on the woman who had just licked her plump lips, her pink tongue doing dangerous things to his manhood.
Swallowing, Thorn grabbed a chair from beside the hearth and carried it, setting it beside Rose’s so they were both seated behind his desk. He watched her eat, wondering when she’d eaten last, as she didn’t stop eating until there were only bread crumbs remaining.
Downing the last of her ale, she slammed the mug onto the desk and let out a belch that would put any of his men to shame.
He cringed, shocked at his own lack of reaction to her lack of feminine decorum.
Her gaze snapped to his, her flame-red brow curling up. One side of her mouth cocked upward in a smirk that did awful, terrible, delicious things to his body.
“Not the delicate lady you were hoping for?” she drawled, her smirk growing.
She thought her show of ribald behavior would turn him away?
Not bloody likely.
Ignoring her self-deprecating comment, he leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands in his lap, a countenance of calm and patience.
“You have questions,” he prompted, just before she flicked her tongue out to lick the beef juices from her fingers. One. At. A. Time. His bollocks drew up tight, his shaft swelling. Damn. He’d never been so aroused by someone eating.
Get a hold of yourself, Thorn! The last thing he needed was to allow his body to steer the rest of the evening, not when there was so much to say, to ask.
“I do have questions,” she replied. “First one is what is it that you saw on my arse that made you so bloody convinced that I am your betrothed?”
He bit back a laugh. “How do you not know what is on your own arse?” What a strange conversation he was diving headlong into. And he was thoroughly enjoying himself already.
She snorted. “I am not an owl; I cannot turn my head so far as to see what is on my own arse cheek.”
He did laugh then, a chest rattling chuckle that shook something from his shoulders. A weight. One of a million.
“A mirror, then,” he quipped.
Incredulous, her mouth and eyes wide, she gasped. “What sort of person admires their own arse in a mirror?” She huffed, crossing her arms and throwing him a look that only made his face break into a smile.
“A lover, then? Has no one told you about the mark shaped like a rose petal on your left buttock?”
A bark of laughter escaped. “I can promise you they were too busy admiring the shape of my arse rather than the shape of a flaw on my skin.”
A spark of anger lit him from the inside. “It is not a flaw,” he ground out.
“Then what would you call it?” she asked.
He leaned forward, dropping his hands between his thighs, and pinned her with his gaze.
“The mark that allowed me to welcome you home, where you belong, Rose.”
Chapter Nine
Rose couldn’t peel her eyes away from the intensity of Thorn’s gaze.
“You are mad,” she murmured, shaking her head in disbelief.
“Not mad. I just cannot believe that, after all this time, you are here, you are alive—where have you been all this time?” There was an awe in his voice.
“I have been in Wales, with the Rees,” she answered simply, being careful to keep the more…infamous information to herself.
His expression took on an edge, one that made her tense.
“How did that happen?” he asked. “You survived a shipwreck…” He was prodding her, and she didn’t like it. But there was a sense of need that made her want to tell him something.
“I somehow made it as
hore and was found by the man who would become my grandfather, Ioan Rees.”
“One of the sailors rescued you, bringing you to shore. But, he lost consciousness shortly thereafter and once he came to again, you were gone.”
That was new information. Nay, she’d always known the chances of a small child swimming to shore on her own were nigh impossible, but she had never considered that someone had rescued her.
“And this rescuer, he told you about the shipwreck?” she asked, cautiously.
“Aye. He came home several weeks later and told my father. My father sent word to me in Wales.”
Surprised, she asked, “Why were you in Wales?”
“That is a story for another time, Little Rose.”
She scrunched up her nose at the nickname he’d given her, a nickname that didn’t bother her as much as it should. She didn’t know him, he didn’t know her, so the familiarity was strange.
“If you were in Wales, why did you not look for me? You knew I was last seen on the beach; could you not have searched for me?”
Rose watched him swallow, then lick his lips. “I was young. My life consisted of lessons during the mornings, adventure in the afternoons, and evenings with my foster father.”
Foster father? She opened her mouth to ask about him, but she realized that was part of whatever it was he did not want to speak about just then. She inwardly shrugged. She didn’t really care to learn Thorn’s history, only where it pertained to her history. To her family.
“You have questions for me, then?” she offered, wanting to fill the growing tension in the air with something else for it to bang against.
Thorn didn’t move, and Rose wondered if he was breathing. Examining his naked chest for signs of respirations, she inwardly groaned at all the tanned muscle on display.
Focus! He is betrothed to be married, and since you are not his betrothed you cannot have what you want.
“Someone found you on the beach…”
“Aye,” she answered. Drawing her shoulders back, she continued, “Ioan Rees found me, raised me, bringing me into the fold of the Rees family.”
The Rebellious Red Page 5
