The Rogue: A Highland Guard Novella (The Highland Guard)

by Monica McCarty

  Her heart sank, anticipating what was coming. It didn’t take long.

  “You’ve been so quiet since you returned, Izzie. Did something happen on your ride today with Randolph?”

  That was one way of putting it. A stab of guilt pricked her conscience. Izzie looked over at her cousin and for a moment thought about telling her the truth: I temporarily lost my mind and let the man you are intending to marry kiss me against a cliff side… and oh yes, by the way, I might have kissed him back.

  The two cousins had always been extremely close, and Izzie suspected Elizabeth would be surprised—God knew, she certainly was—but not angry or heartbroken. It was clear this marriage, if there was to be one, was for duty and dynastic purposes, not affection. Her cousin’s heart was not engaged any more than Randolph’s. Nor was it likely to be, which would serve Elizabeth well when Randolph inevitably strayed from the marriage bed.

  It was silly and perhaps unrealistic—fidelity was hardly common among noblemen—but Izzie wanted more from her marriage. She wasn’t naive or romantic enough to think she would marry for love. Women of noble birth in her and Elizabeth’s position married to forge alliances and advance their families and clans. But she wanted respect, loyalty, and affection from the man she married. Her mother had had that with her first husband, Izzie’s father, but not with her second. She’d warned Izzie before she’d died not to make the same mistake—not to be fooled by a man who seemed too good to be true.

  Izzie had learned the hard way that she should have listened to her. She would not make the same mistake again.

  But her cousin didn’t seem to have the same concerns. That she and Randolph liked one another was enough, boding well for a perfectly happy and successful noble marriage. The Douglases would benefit from Randolph’s great landed wealth and royal connection, and Randolph would have Elizabeth’s generous tocher and the most dazzlingly beautiful woman at court as his wife.

  Her cousin was far more than that—Elizabeth was smart, accomplished, generous, and kind—but Izzie suspected the reason Randolph had been persuaded to give up his prized bachelorhood was because he knew he would be unlikely to find a more “perfect” bride to complement his “perfect” knight. With her blond hair, big blue eyes, and poppet-like features, Elizabeth looked like a faerie princess drawn straight from the pages of a children’s tale, and not surprisingly Randolph had claimed the part of the handsome prince by her side. The abbey was already buzzing with admiration for the two after Randolph’s grandiose “romantic” greeting the other night, riding into the abbey yard in full, shiny mail on a great black charger and dropping to his knee to kiss Elizabeth’s hand.

  How could Izzie compete with a faerie tale?

  Not that she wanted to, although she had to admit she’d had a few—maybe more than a few—confused thoughts after that kiss. Something tugged in her chest, perilously close to her heart. For a moment…

  For a moment she’d been half-crazed. She must have been to have succumbed so easily to that kiss and the man who’d wielded it so expertly—Lord knew, he must have had enough practice. “What’s not to love?” Well, it certainly wasn’t the way he kissed. Sir Too-Good-To-Be-True was indeed too good to be true in that regard.

  Had she actually thought even for a minute that she’d felt something special? What she’d felt was desire.

  The physical reaction was hardly unexpected. He is gorgeous, who wouldn’t be attracted to him?

  Your cousin for one, a little voice pointed out. It was true; if Elizabeth was attracted to him, she hid it well.

  But Izzie pushed that annoying voice aside. Just because she was attracted to him, didn’t mean anything. She wasn’t going to let one kiss make her act like a silly, starry-eyed maid with dreams of fate and everlasting love.

  Not with Sir Thomas Randolph, at least. He wasn’t for her any more than she was for him. Izzie wasn’t beautiful and accomplished like her cousin. She was more want-to-be scholar than princess or suitable consort for a hero, content to stay in the background rather than be the center of attention. Randolph and her cousin were the same in that regard, both seemed to have been made to be on pedestals and to shine. Although Izzie had been told she was pretty, she was a mere mortal and not in her cousin’s realm of jaw-dropping beauty. Izzie was even-tempered and made people laugh with her wry—sometimes mischievous—observations, but she certainly didn’t dazzle.

  Why Randolph had kissed her, Izzie didn’t know. But she wasn’t going to let it upset her cousin’s plans. If she told Elizabeth about the kiss, Izzie had no doubt her cousin would read something more into it than there was and insist on stepping aside—even if there was nothing to step aside for.

  Nay, Izzie thought. If this betrothal didn’t happen, it wasn’t going to be because of her.

  She wondered if it might be about someone else though. Not wanting to lie to her cousin, she decided to turn the question back to her. “I was going to say the same about you,” she said. “Where were you going earlier that you forgot about your ride with Randolph?” Elizabeth opened her mouth to respond, but Izzie stopped her. “And don’t tell me it was an errand for Joanna—unless that errand had something to do with Thom MacGowan.”

  Elizabeth’s mouth snapped closed. Apparently, she had no more wish to talk about the earlier events in the day than Izzie. It took Elizabeth some time to reply. “I did go see Thom, but it was an errand for Jo. Truly.”

  She looked so distressed that Izzie forgot all about Randolph and reached out to comfort her cousin, putting her hand on her arm. “Did something happen, Ella?” she asked, using her cousin’s childhood nickname.

  “Yes. No. I mean…” Elizabeth put down the piece of embroidery she was working on—a banner for her brother Jamie—and her hands started to twist anxiously in her lap. “I don’t know.”

  Izzie didn’t press. It was clear Elizabeth didn’t know, and this was something she’d have to figure out herself.

  Izzie didn’t envy her. It was obvious her cousin had strong feelings for Thom MacGowan, but he was too far beneath her in rank to even be considered a suitor. The son of the village blacksmith might be a soldier now, but Elizabeth was the sister of one of Bruce’s most important lieutenants. Indeed, James had risen high enough to arrange an alliance between his sister and the king’s nephew, Randolph—the other of the king’s most important lieutenants and Jamie’s usually friendly rival.

  For the past couple of years, Jamie and Randolph had been engaged in what seemed like a back-and-forth contest of extraordinary feats of war to win the position of the king’s right-hand man. Izzie thought it was rather silly—the king had two hands, why couldn’t they each have one?—but she had to admit, it was exciting to watch them try to outdo one another. With Jamie’s recent achievement in taking Roxburgh Castle (in dramatic fashion of course), Randolph was probably chomping at the bit to do something more extraordinary in taking Edinburgh. A siege hardly qualified, which undoubtedly frustrated him to no end. It wouldn’t make for a very good story.

  Their short conversation had visibly distressed her cousin, and not long after Joanna rejoined them, Elizabeth made excuses to return to her solar.

  “Izzie and I won’t be much longer,” Joanna let her know. “It will be time to ready for the evening meal soon.”

  “I think I’ll just stay in my room tonight,” Elizabeth said. “I’m tired. I’m going to read a book and try to retire early.”

  Izzie quirked a brow at that. Thom MacGowan must really have her cousin confused for Elizabeth to be reduced to picking up a book. Her cousin had never enjoyed learning as Izzie had. “Not all of us are born to be clerks.” Randolph was right about that.

  Nonetheless, skipping the evening meal sounded like a good idea—avoiding Randolph might have occurred to her—and Izzie was tempted to do the same, but her stomach was loudly reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since morning. The planned midday feast in a basket she and Randolph were supposed to enjoy on their ride had been forgotten aft
er the rockslide and disastrous kiss that followed. But she was remembering it now. The meal, not the kiss. The kiss she had forgotten.

  Liar.

  Well, even if she hadn’t quite forgotten it, she’d put it in perspective. Sir Thomas Randolph was a handsome rogue, who could kiss like the Devil, but like a sugary confection, he would satisfy in the moment and only leave her wanting. She wanted genuine substance, not superficial charms. In other words, she didn’t want a faerie tale; she wanted something real.

  Besides, she thought with a laugh. When was the last time the hero of the story rode off with the decidedly nondazzling, scholarly cousin? No one would want to read that story—people liked extraordinary.

  But Izzie forgot that she’d always had a sweet tooth.

  By the time Izzie walked into the rectory for the evening meal, she had forgotten that kiss.

  But it took just one look over at the dais for all the feelings, all the confusion, all the desire to come rushing back. The memories hit her hard, leaving all that wonderful perspective she’d developed decidedly cracked.

  Perhaps she needed a bit more time? She wasn’t that hungry. A low rumble from her stomach belied that claim. Still, recognizing when a retreat was in order, she would have turned right around if her cousin Jamie and his wife, Joanna, hadn’t come up behind her.

  “All alone, Izzie?” Jamie asked. “Where’s my sister?”

  It was sometimes hard to believe that her cousin Jamie had become one of the most feared men in England. But the dark frown on his face reminded her why the English called him “the Black” Douglas.

  It was clear he was suspicious of something. Probably exactly what Izzie was suspicious of—that something was going on between his sister and Thom MacGowan. From what Izzie could tell, Thom and Jamie didn’t like one another, though supposedly they had once been the best of friends.

  Izzie caught Joanna’s gaze, but the gentle pleading there wasn’t necessary. She wasn’t going to get between the two siblings on this one—she’d learned her lesson a long time ago not to try to mediate Jamie and Elizabeth’s many battles.

  “She wasn’t hungry and said she was going to read a book and try to get to bed early,” Izzie said.

  Jamie’s frown only deepened, and Izzie realized her mistake. She’d thought the same thing when Elizabeth had made the excuse.

  “Ella, stay in her room to read and avoid a meal and entertainment? That sounds more like you, Izzie. We always had to pull your nose out of a book to do anything.” He tweaked that nose fondly. “Maybe I should have Helen MacKay check in on her.” Helen was a gifted healer. “Ella has a big week ahead of her, I do not want her to be fighting sickness.”

  Izzie felt a strange twist in her stomach, realizing to what he referred: the betrothal that seemed all but preordained. Though Randolph and Jamie were known for their fierce rivalry, Izzie knew that Jamie was just as eager for this engagement as Elizabeth—perhaps more so. Allying himself with the king’s nephew would be a gold spur on her ambitious cousin’s boot.

  “She’s fine, Jamie,” Izzie assured him. “Just tired, that’s all.”

  Suddenly, he seemed to remember something and smiled. “Ah, that’s right. She was to go riding with Randolph today, wasn’t she?” He chuckled. “I’ll have to have a word with him about tiring her out.”

  Izzie tried to hide her alarm, but Joanna wasn’t quite as successful. Her eyes widened. Clearly she didn’t want her husband to learn about his sister’s change of plans. Joanna had made no secret of her hope that Elizabeth would choose Thom MacGowan over Randolph.

  “You promised you’d stay out of it, James,” Joanna admonished. “If this betrothal is meant to be, it will happen without your forcing it.” Before he could argue, which he looked about to, Joanna shifted his attention back to the room. “Come, I’m hungry, and the king is calling for you.”

  Realizing that there was no turning back now, Izzie squared her shoulders and marched forward behind them. She would have to face Randolph at some point; she might as well get it over with.

  Really, she was making too much of this. They’d shared a kiss—so what? She certainly wasn’t going to start writing his name in the margins of her portfolios or on the pages of her precious parchment. The thought made her smile. Lady Isabel Randolph, Countess of Moray… that would be about as likely as snow falling in hell or Randolph declaring his love for her—and her believing him.

  Now she was laughing. Which turned out to be the perfect or perfectly wrong thing, depending on how you looked at it, as it was at that moment that their eyes met.

  She’d done it again. Once again he’d assumed he was the reason for her amusement—which in this case he admittedly was—and his expression grew as dark as a thundercloud.

  She quickly sobered and looked around for a seat on the far side of the dais—preferably as far away from Randolph as she could get. Unfortunately, the benches were all full. The king motioned Jamie and Joanna to sit by him, and all that was left was a small space beside Randolph that he had probably been saving for Elizabeth.

  With a sigh of inevitability—why wouldn’t the only available seat be next to him?—Izzie waited for him to stand (which with atypical ungallantry took him a few seconds too long) and slid in beside him on the bench. It was a tight squeeze, and she was embarrassingly conscious of the strong, abundantly muscled body pressed against hers. Again. Don’t think of that.

  “I’m afraid my cousin is not joining us tonight,” she explained with a twist of her mouth that told him she had guessed his thoughts. “She decided to retire early.” Her smile deepened. “I would have done the same, but it turns out I’m quite hungry after missing the midday meal.”

  She’d only meant it as a gentle teasing—a way to hopefully prevent any awkwardness over what had happened earlier—but he, of course, seemed to take it the wrong way. He looked either horrified or as if he’d just eaten a bad piece of beef, she couldn’t decide which. In any event, apparently, she’d brought up a subject that wasn’t supposed to be mentioned or alluded to at all. Well, if he wanted to pretend it never happened, that was fine by her.

  She felt his impressive shoulders stiffen, which was unfortunate, as it reminded her of how wonderful all those muscles had felt wrapped around her, and made her want to do something silly like put her hands on either side of his neck and knead all the tension from those taut shoulders and arms.

  “I apologize,” he started stiffly.

  But she cut him off. “No apologies are necessary, my lord. I meant nothing by it. Truly, it was not a criticism, a reprimand, or a reminder—just a poor attempt to make a jest.” Her mouth quirked. “I forgot that you do not find my jests amusing.”

  She was rewarded by an easing of the tension in his shoulders and the barest hint of a smile hovering around the edge of his mouth.

  Mouth. Not the thing to think about. If she did, she would remember…

  Her body flushed with heat and she quickly averted her gaze away from the wicked and embarrassingly visceral memories.

  “I do believe they are beginning to grow on me,” he said dryly.

  “Like the plague?”

  “Nay, nothing so deadly. I was thinking more in line of a wart or a mole.”

  She laughed. Dear lord, this was becoming a regular occurrence. Pretty soon, she would have to admit that he actually was amusing. At least when he was like this, dry, blunt, and honest. She doubted there were many women he would say such a thing to.

  “Such flattery, my lord. You do know how to charm a lady. I’ve always dreamed of being compared to a wart.”

  “Or a mole.”

  She laughed again. “Of course, how could I leave that out? Perhaps one day you might compose a chanson about it?”

  “Tempt me enough, and I just might.”

  “Why does it seem as if a gauntlet has just been thrown down?” She smiled mischievously. “How shall I tempt you?”

  It took her a moment to realize what she’d said—and
how it might be interpreted. That’s not what she meant. She meant tempt him by annoying him, which is what she seemed to have a talent for doing. But it could also have been meant flirtatiously.

  She wasn’t flirtatious. And she wanted to tell him so, but if the flare of heat in his gaze was any indication, it was too late for that.

  And just like that, the awkwardness and the tension returned full force. But it was a different kind of tension. It was the tension between two people who’d shared intimacy—passion—and were both remembering it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  As Randolph couldn’t very well tell her just how tempting he found her, he let the conversation drop. Fortunately, his Aunt Margaret Bruce (the youngest of Bruce’s sisters who was actually ten years younger than Randolph’s nine and twenty—his mother had been considerably older than her half-siblings) was seated on his left, and he spent most of the meal listening to her impressions of Edinburgh, which she was visiting for the first time.

  At the outset of the war, the king’s two youngest sisters, Margaret and Matilda, had been sent to Bergen, Norway, where their eldest sister had been queen. The two girls had returned to Scotland a couple of years ago, but had remained in the north at Kildrummy Castle until recently.

  As entertaining as his young aunt might be, however, Randolph spent most of the meal trying to pretend he wasn’t aware of every movement, every breath, every word coming out of the sinfully delicious mouth of the woman pressed up against his right side. Who would have thought that someone who could irritate him so profusely would taste so sweet?

  Maybe if he hadn’t had that same softly curved body pressed up against his earlier in an even more intimate fashion, he wouldn’t be so conscious of how good she felt. He wouldn’t be so hot. And he wouldn’t remember how he’d hardened against her like a lad.