Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Miss Marissa Blakely has arrived, my lady.”

  “My sister. Oh, this is good news.” Jillian jumped up, grateful that she wouldn’t have to sidestep the questions that were in the Highlander’s eyes. “Please show her in.”

  Ian would never have believed they were sisters when he was introduced. Jillian was tall and willowy, but her sister was petite and curvy, with cornflower eyes and yellow sausage curls that bounced around her head as she talked animatedly. Jillian’s cool reserve contrasted severely with her sister’s bounce, enthusiasm and non-stop chatter.

  “Oooh,” Mari said now as she spied the tray of sandwiches, “how decadent to have meat at this hour.” She immediately sampled one and grinned. “Better than having cucumber, though, I must say.”

  Cucumber sandwiches? Ian looked at the silver tray holding the small, thin wafers on which a mince was spread. The wee morsels were nay but a bite, and he hoped he wouldn’t starve before he returned to Scotland. He watched in fascination as Jillian nibbled on one and thought about nibbling her. He would start with a corner of her plump, luscious mouth and then work a trail down her throat to the soft, white mounds that were peeking out past some piece of frilly lace that he longed to pull out from the front of her dress. He wondered how long it would take him to make her blood run hot. He forced himself to listen to the conversation before his kilt started lifting itself.

  “I’m so excited,” Mari exclaimed. “I received an invitation to the Foxworth’s tea-dance next week. I’ve been waiting forever to be invited to my first event.”

  Jillian smiled. “You’re only sixteen, Mari. Will Aunt Agnes be attending as your chaperone?”

  Mari wrinkled her nose. “Yes. I’m sure she won’t even let me have a real dance with a boy either. You know how absolutely rigid she is about rules.”

  Rules again. Ian wondered if that’s where Jillian got her ideas from. He was going to have his work cut out for him, getting her to throw that rule book out the door. He smiled inwardly. Not that he’d mind that challenge. Then he sobered, remembering the tear that had slipped down her cheek. What rule could she have broken that made her cry?

  “You mustn’t speak ill of your aunt,” Jillian replied. “She was kind enough to take you in when Papa…died.”

  “But it was more fun when you were raising me, Jill. You let me do all sorts of things like—”

  Jillian held up a hand to silence her sister and Ian wished she had let her go on. So the Ice Lady hadn’t always been frozen? Interesting.

  “I was hardly more than a child myself, sister. Aunt Agnes probably had to work years to undo my faults. At any rate,” she said brightly, “next year, you’ll be plied with invitations for your Season. You’ll be at every one of Almack’s weekly balls, for I’ve taken care to keep the marquess’s social contacts that you’ll need.”

  The lasses seemed to fash a lot about these social contacts. He dinna ken why. If a mon were attracted to a lass and she gave him a wee bit of encouragement, what else mattered? His thoughts started to drift to how he was going to make that happen with the very proper, rule-loving Lady Newburn when he realized that both lasses had grown quiet. They’d been talking about the marquess. Was Jillian still mourning him?

  “At least he was good for something,” Mari said tartly and Jillian shushed her.

  Ian felt a tinge in the air and the hair at his nape prickled. If he had been home in Scotland, the old seer—the Crone of the Hills—would surely have called it the kenning. Something bode ill here.

  Mari was much more subdued when she spoke again. “Have you heard any more about his son? When he’s returning?”

  Jillian nodded. “I had a missive from Lord Liverpool that Wesley Alton will be sailing from Calais within the week.”

  Ian spoke up for the first time since the introductions had been made. “What’s a young lad doing in France with the war not over?”

  For a moment, a look of amusement flitted over Jillian’s face and then it was gone. “The lad, Lord Cantford, is thirty years old.”

  Not particularly good news. “If he’s been in France all this time, why’s he coming home now?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “One that I’d like to hear.”

  She looked undecided, then sighed. “Well, I guess, since you’ll be staying in his house, you might as well know as much as I do.”

  “His house? I thought I was staying here,” Ian said.

  “You are. The title and lands go to the heir and the heir is always a male. Wesley inherits these holdings just like you inherited Cantford.”

  “But yer husband must have provided for ye in his will.” When she was silent, he shook his head in amazement. “What kind of a mon dinna provide for his wife?” May St. Michael help him. If the mon werna already dead, he would kill him.

  “Do you want to hear the story?” she asked before he could make another remark.

  At his nod, she continued, “The marquess was sixty years old when…when the marriage to me took place. He’d only had one son from his first marriage. According to what my father told me, that boy, Wesley, disappeared from Eton in 1800. At first, abduction was suspected, but no ransom notes came over the years. No trace of him was found.”

  Ian raised an eyebrow. “A wee coincidence that he’s been found now, isna it?”

  “I don’t know. When the marquess died two years ago, the Prince of Wales once more renewed the search. This time, his orders included military records. One of the captains serving under Colonel Wellesley found records that didn’t match.” Jillian shrugged. “Apparently, Wesley Alton has been using the alias of Gerard Fountaine and spied for the English, helping turn the battle at Vitoria for Wellington. The prince has declared him a war hero.”

  The hair at the back of Ian’s neck bristled again. Something else wasn’t right here. Scotland had its share of French refugees, some desperate to return home now that Napoleon had escaped from Elba and overthrown Louis XVIII, but others had adapted Highland ways. His clan had kept close watch on any who were on their lands and the Fountaine name had emerged a time or two.

  Then the kenning hit him, as it had on several other occasions in his life, with a flash of light and a sticking pain in his side as though a sgian dubh had pricked him.

  According to the French ex-patriots, Gerard Fountaine had helped Napoleon escape from Elba. So whose side was he on? Why was he really coming back to England?

  The new marquess was about to invade the space around Jillian Alton too. Would she need protection? Proud as the lady was, she’d no doubt scoff at the idea, but Highland code demanded that while he was her guest, he made sure no harm came to her.

  This long-lost son would also suss in a hurry that Ian had decided he would be the one to melt the Ice Lady’s reserves and draw out the passion that no doubt lay under that coat of protection called rules.

  Ian gave a soft territorial growl. For now, he would protect the lass. Later, when she was willing—with fire burning in her veins instead of frozen water—he would claim her. If he couldn’t, he didn’t deserve to be called a mon.

  And no one had ever dared to call him less than a mon.

  Chapter Two

  Ian was sitting alone at the big dining room table scowling when Jillian walked in the next morning for breakfast. She helped herself to shirred eggs and ham from the sideboard as a servant poured tea for her.

  “Will you be needing anything else, my lady?” the gray-haired man asked.

  “You may go,” she answered, and wondered at the furtive look he gave the Highlander before scurrying away. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Dobbs move quite so quickly before. She turned her gaze back to Ian who still wore a frown on his face, even though he was now staring at her.

  “Was breakfast not to your liking, Lord Cantford?”

  “I have nae complaint about the food.”

  Jillian took a sip of tea. “Was one of the servants rude?” She could easily imagine the servants below stair
s exchanging comments on his unusual dress. If he had overheard one of them, she needed to address that.

  “Nae.”

  She set her cup down. “Then why, pray tell, do you look so angry?”

  “The sun’s been up near half a day and I havena accomplished anything.”

  Jillian smiled. “It’s but half past ten, my lord. Actually, quite early.”

  He gave her a look that clearly indicated she might be lacking some of her wits. “Aye. I’ve wasted the morn doing nothing. At Glenfinnan, the lads and I would have worked up a mighty sweat by now.”

  An image of Ian Macleod’s hard muscular body shirtless and glistening with a damp sheen jarred through Jillian’s mind and she choked on a scone. Where had that thought come from?

  He moved so fast he was but a blur, and then he was beside her, lifting her from her chair, his strong arms pressing up under her breasts, holding her tightly against him.

  He smelled of fresh, clean linen and that other scent that she was beginning to think was uniquely him. Then heat seared through her body as she realized how close his hands were to her breasts.

  “What…do…you…think you’re doing?” she gasped, not sure if the breathlessness was from the bit of scone stuck in her throat or not.

  “Ye were choking. I thought to keep ye from dying.” He released her and stepped back.

  Her skin felt suddenly cool as he removed his warm hands. “I wasn’t really at death’s door, my lord. I’m afraid it was most improper of you—”

  “A mon dinna let a lass keel over because he fashes over what’s proper.” He glowered at her before he slid the chair next to hers back and sat. “Ye might thank me.”

  She stared at him. For a moment she thought she’d seen a look of hurt flash across his strong features, but it disappeared instantly. She’d had no intention of hurting his feelings. The man, after all, wasn’t used to Society’s ways.

  “I do thank you,” she said. “I just wasn’t prepared…that is, no one has ever… Well. Thank you.”

  “Umph,” he said, but his brow smoothed. “So, lass—my lady—I would like to get to the practice field. Will ye tell me where it is?”

  “Practice field?”

  “Aye. Each morn I practice with my sword.”

  This time Jillian furrowed her brow. “London doesn’t have fields, my lord. We do have fencing salons.” The thought of Ian swinging his huge claymore over his head as the white-clad dandies jumped out of his way almost made her smile. Of course, it would do nothing to ingratiate him with his peers. “However, gentlemen use rapiers at such places, not swords like yours.”

  “I ken what a rapier is,” Ian said. “A blade light enough for a lass, but deadly.”

  Jillian was surprised. “How do you know that?”

  He shrugged. “When Napoleon was exiled, some of his men preferred to keep their heads attached to their shoulders and found their way to Scotland. It was nae long ere we learned to have respect for their weapons. So, if ye’ll tell me where I can find this…salon? I’ll be on my way.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to postpone that,” Jillian answered. “I’ve already made an appointment for you.”

  “For what?”

  “To meet with a tailor.”

  He eyed her suspiciously. “Why? I brought jerkins and breeches and my great plaid as well as a coatee and jabot if I’m forced to dress for an occasion.”

  The idea of presenting him to the haut ton with those tanned, sculpted calves bare would make half of the ladies swoon, no doubt, but it would bring jeers by the dandies.

  “I fear your native attire would provide too much of a distraction, my lord.”

  She tried not to look at the part of his thigh that was showing since he’d draped one ankle over his knee again.

  He followed her look and then he let his gaze travel over her slowly. His eyes glittered briefly and, although Jillian’s morning dress was high-necked, she suddenly had the feeling he’d mentally unbuttoned the whole thing. Her breasts began to tingle and she placed her hand against her chest.

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “Would distraction be a bad thing, lass?”

  Oh, Lord. “The Prince of Wales is not paying me to be distracted.”

  The half-smile vanished and he sat straighter. “Ye are being paid?”

  “Why, yes,” Jillian answered, confused by the thunderous look that crossed his face. “The prince wishes for your adjustment into your new role to be easy.”

  “And just what are ye to do with me?”

  “Well,” she began, unsure of how not to offend him, “you are now an English earl. There are certain things—manners, protocol, rules—that you need to learn. That’s all I’m trying to do.”

  Ian leaned forward. “I warn ye, lass. Doona try to change me.”

  She twisted her fingers together in her lap. “I don’t wish to change you, but you have to understand that the ton is a very complex society. To be ostracized by them would be folly.”

  “Why? I own the land. I doona think the crofters care if I fit in or nae. I’ll treat them fairly and earn their respect.”

  “Even so, you need the support of your neighbors.”

  Ian laughed. “Ye are nae going to tell me they’ll rise up against me? Even in Scotland, the old clans have made peace.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Only because of English law.”

  “Ah. Ye are right at that.” Ian studied her. “How is that a proper English lass like yerself knows about that?”

  Jillian bristled. “Do you think women are too stupid to understand politics?”

  He held up a hand in self-defense. “Och, nae, lass. But I wager most of yer English ladies have nae a clue what goes on in the north.”

  “I just happen to like history,” she said more quietly. How many times had she gone to Rufus’s vast library to escape reality? “At any rate, you may have the title and own the land, but be careful that you don’t fall out of the Prince of Wales’s favor. Things do not seem to go well for those who do.”

  Ian’s eyes narrowed. “Thank ye for the warning. Did the prince pay ye to tell me that as well?”

  Jillian flushed and felt her temper rise. “I’m not the prince’s poppet, my lord.”

  “Nae?”

  “Nae. I mean, no.” She clenched her hands into balls, wishing she could tell him what she really thought of the prince and his extravagant lifestyle. “I accepted payment because I intend to buy back my family’s town home and give my sister a Season that she deserves. Once she is happily married—to the man of her choice—I can withdraw from the demands of Society. Until then, I shall abide by the prince’s wishes.”

  His dark eyes looked deeply into hers. “And if I refuse to be trained, ye’ll not get paid?”

  Jillian had the odd feeling that the Highlander was looking into her very soul. That he would know if she were lying if she said she wasn’t desperate to make this work. How she hated to be dependent on him, or anyone. She looked away, feeling her eyes sting. Furious, she blinked rapidly. She never cried. Not anymore. How could this man bring her so close to tears twice in barely more than a day?

  “Lass?”

  She lifted her chin and looked at him. “I would prefer to use a different term, rather than training, but yes, you are correct. If the prince is not pleased with your progress, I will not get paid. However, I have the skills to be a governess—”

  Ian laid a finger gently across her mouth, shushing her. “Doona fash, my lady.” He gave her his lop-sided smile. “I will knock your bloody prince on his arse with my charming ways.”

  In spite of herself, Jillian felt a smile begin. “That may not be the way to do it.”

  “We will see.” Ian stood and held out his hand for Jillian. “I suppose the way to start is to visit the tailor?”

  “It is. Thank you, my lord,” she said, and wondered if the butterflies in her stomach were fluttering out of sheer relief or if it had something to do with the way Ian bowed and br
ushed a kiss across the knuckles of her bare hand.

  Jillian repressed a smile as she listened to muffled oaths coming from the backroom of the tailor’s shop. Ian had reluctantly agreed to purchase the appropriate waistcoats and pantaloons that were in vogue. He’d grumbled about the frock coat with its long tail. She was just glad that Beau Brummell had abandoned the wig and set the fashion for natural hair, albeit Prinny’s set wore short curls with long sideburns. She had no doubt Ian would have refused a powdered wig and probably wouldn’t consider cutting his hair either. Better not to choose that as a battle ground. Truth be told, she rather liked the shiny raven hair that curled slightly about Ian’s collar.

  She was flipping through a copy of Mirror of Graces and wondering what it was doing in a men’s tailor shop when Ian roared and there was a crash. The small, dapper tailor came running out of the room, his face ashen.

  “He has a knife, my lady!”

  “What?” Jillian stood up as a furious Ian stormed into the room, holding a short, black-handled knife in one hand. “Lord Cantford! What do you think you are doing?”

  “The mon tried to touch my privates!”

  “I was trying to measure his inseam, my lady, nothing more.” The little man dabbed a linen square at his bald pate with a shaking hand. “I didn’t know he was bare… Oh, begging your pardon, madam. My brain is addled to say such a thing in front of you.”

  Dear Lord. The man was naked beneath his kilt? Jillian felt her face grow warm at the thought.

  Ian continued to glare at tailor. “What kind of a mon puts his hand under another mon’s plaid? Are ye a wee touched in the head?”

  “No! No. I’m a married man,” he stammered. “I simply needed to know what length to cut the cloth…”

  “I put up with being poked and prodded about the shoulders and arms. I’ll nae have ye touchin’ me where only a lass should.”

  The tailor gasped and fanned himself and Jillian was afraid the man would faint. Ian’s indignation over something that was a routine procedure would have been comical if he weren’t still holding that double-edged knife.