Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Ye have company, I see.”

  Before she could reply, the man beside her said dryly, “You do have your work cut out for you, madam.”

  Ian’s narrowed eyes again. ’Twas a good thing the edge was off his temper.

  “Lord Cantford,” Jillian said quickly, “may I present the Marquess of Newburn, Wesley Alton.”

  Alton. Gerard Fountaine. Traitor or war hero? Ian moved into the room, not taking his eyes off the mon, and held out his hand. “Lord Newburn.”

  Wesley stood and gripped his hand with surprising force. “Lord Cantford.”

  For a moment, the men stared each other down and then Jillian intervened. “Wesley has agreed to let us stay here until the end of the Season. Wasn’t that gracious of him, Lord Cantford?”

  Wesley, was it? She didn’t call him Ian. “Are we on informal terms now, my lady?”

  A faint pinkness brushed her cheeks. “It’s quite proper. Wesley is my stepson.”

  Ian refrained from uttering a Gaelic curse. The mon was not looking at her as though she were his mam. She dinna look like anyone’s mam, with the deep yellow of her dress highlighting the gold in her chestnut hair. Even though the dress had a high collar and her full, soft breasts were not able to be seen, any red-blooded mon could read the lust in Newburn’s eyes. How could the lass not? It was a good thing Ian was staying under the same roof with them. He stopped himself from retorting at that realization. If he intended to keep the mon away from her, he’d have to be here. And this was Newburn’s house. Best to keep a civil tongue in his own head.

  He nodded stiffly. “I’m sure yer mother appreciates your hospitality.”

  A hint of a challenge flared in Wesley’s eyes. “I could hardly throw a beautiful, vulnerable woman into the streets. Of course she’s welcome to stay here.”

  The message was clear that Newburn wouldn’t mind at all throwing him out. “Aye. I’m glad to hear it,” Ian said stubbornly. “A son should always treat his mam with respect.”

  “I’m sure he will, Lord Cantford,” Jillian said and turned to Wesley. “I’m also sure that the Prince of Wales will be personally grateful to you for allowing the new earl to stay here so I can continue working with him.”

  Newburn’s face remained impassive, but Ian could tell his mind was weighing the consequences of tossing him out by the way his body tensed. From what he knew about the prince, the man didn’t take kindly to anyone thwarting him, and if Newburn were a spy instead of a hero, he couldn’t afford to take the chance of antagonizing the regent.

  “Of course, my lady,” Wesley said with a smoothness that belied any tension had existed in him. “I’m sure the prince would not mind if I helped you with civilizing the man as well.”

  You can try.

  As though he heard Ian’s thoughts, Newburn looked over at him. “I can hardly believe that the prince made this man’s training your responsibility.”

  Ian caught Jillian giving him a pleading look that made her eyes the deep green of a shaded glen. She needs the money. He sighed. Aye, ’tis a good thing the edge is off my temper, else I might have to make a wee example of my Scot training. “Aye, but he did and I want nothing more than to please Lady Newburn.”

  Newburn sent him a scathing look. “Don’t worry though,” he said to Jillian. “I’ll be by your side.”

  A muscle twitched in Ian’s jaw. We’ll see about that.

  Dinner was turning into a strange affair, Jillian thought as she listened to questions Ian and Wesley were hurling at each other like javelin players in a tournament. Even Mari, who had been summoned to join them and was usually only interested in what was happening in society, was quiet and listening.

  “So ye claim to be a war hero, do ye?” Ian asked.

  Wesley gave him a cold smile. “I believe that is how the Prince of Wales refers to me, yes.”

  “And what was it ye did?” A crease formed between Ian’s brows. “Something at Vitoria, wasna it?”

  “You seem to know much about the war, for a Scot,” Wesley replied, “but then, there are French rebels living in Scotland. Is that how you got your information?”

  “It doona matter how I came to know of the matter.”

  Wesley shrugged. “It matters if you are protecting the enemy.”

  Ian leveled a gaze at him that made Jillian suddenly feel a chill. Some undercurrent was at play here and she didn’t know what it was.

  “Wesley, pray tell us what you did to be declared a war hero,” she interjected.

  “I did a small favor for Wellington at Vitoria, my lady.”

  “Which was?” Ian pressed.

  “Not to brag, but it was I who relayed the message to Wellington that the bridge across the Zadorra at Trespuentes had been left unguarded. Having access to that bridge was the turning point in driving the French out of Spain.”

  “And you deserve to be proud of that, Wesley,” Jillian said.

  “Thank you,” Wesley answered. “I did what I could to serve my country.”

  Ian gave him that studied look again. “How did ye get into the spy business anyway? If ye ran off to France as a lad—”

  Wesley arched an eyebrow. “Surely you don’t expect me to divulge such classified military information?”

  “No, of course not,” Jillian said quickly. “Perhaps we should change the subject.”

  “Yes, let’s do that,” Wesley answered. “I’d be interested to know how a Scot inherits an English title.”

  “My great-grand-da fought with your first King George in the ’45 uprising,” Ian answered. “In return, he received the title.”

  “And why would a Scot support the English?” Wesley asked. “Even with the union through James I, you Highlanders never accepted the House of Hanover.”

  Ian’s expression grew grim. “Because we were false told that if we accepted peace with the English, the clans would not be banished. ’Tis not what happened.”

  Wesley’s eyebrow arched even higher than it had earlier. “You are not loyal to the Prince Regent?”

  Ian glowered at him. “I dinna say that. But ’tis the third George who is king.”

  Wesley laughed. “He’s mad as a hatter, of course.”

  “Do you really think so?” Mari piped up suddenly. “Did he really talk to a tree once and think it was the King of Prussia?”

  “That was the story, Miss,” Wesley answered. “I was in nappies at the time, so I can’t say for sure that it happened.”

  “Tell me other stories about mad George then,” Mari said. “My friend, Clarissa, is quite the bluestocking. I would so love to have something to tell her that she doesn’t already know!”

  Jillian knew she should admonish her sister for referring to the king so improperly, but in truth, she was relieved the conversation had taken a different turn.

  Ian and Wesley clearly did not like each other. But why?

  Ian was already seated in the dining hall, an empty porridge bowl and a scraped plate beside him, finishing off a scone when Jillian appeared the next morning. His black hair was pulled back with a leather thong and his linen shirt was open at the throat revealing a dusting of dark hairs on his deeply tanned, broad chest. His sleeves were rolled up, baring strong forearms.

  He looked totally masculine…and was dressed totally wrong. She didn’t need Givens, standing by the sideboard with a disdainful look on his face, to tell her that. No doubt, Wesley would make a comment as well when he came down.

  She helped herself to porridge and added a dollop of clotted cream before she carried it to the table. Lord knew she needed to fortify herself.

  Ian looked up as she sat at the head of the table near him.

  “Good morn, lass. Did ye sleep well?”

  “Well enough.” Truthfully, rest had been fitful. Yesterday afternoon, both men had stuck to her like marmalade on bread, even accompanying her to the milliner’s where a bevy of girls giggled and batted their eyelashes at both Ian and Wesley. The owner of the shop had nearly swoo
ned at having men amidst her bonnets and ribbons.

  Dinner had been tense. Besides the verbal warfare, Wesley had made a point of flourishing the proper silverware while Ian frowned and seemed to forget which utensil to use for each course. Or maybe he didn’t care. More than once, Jillian had looked pointedly at him before she chose the proper fork or spoon, only to have him quirk up a corner of his mouth and continue to eat with whatever he was holding.

  “I expect Wesley will be joining us shortly,” she said. “Perhaps Givens could get your waistcoat?”

  “I’ve nae need to be buttoned up like a bairn on a cold winter day when all I’m doing is breaking my fast,” he said and lathered another scone with rich honey. Some of it dribbled onto his finger and he lifted it to lick the sweetness off.

  Totally improper. At any given dinner, the hostess would no doubt have fainted straight away. But his mouth fascinated Jillian. She watched as his full lips encircled his long finger and his tongue swirled around it. Her roosting butterflies started swirling too, and she wondered what it would be like to take his finger in her own mouth…

  His dark eyes glinted as he caught her watching him. “Ye really should taste the honey, lass. ’Tis uncommonly good.”

  Jillian blinked, reality returning. Good heavens. Had she really thought…? She cleared her throat. “The porridge will be fine.”

  “Aye.” Ian glanced down at the untouched bowl. “A wee bit of honey with the cream would be even better.” He held his scone over the porridge until some of the golden liquid slipped off, then he picked up her spoon and dipped it into the concoction. Leaning toward her, he held it to her lips. “Try it.”

  Sakes! The man was close enough to her that she could feel his body heat and smell the soapy clean scent of him. She could see the individual hairs on his exposed arm and the calluses on his palm as well. His maleness seemed to envelop her.

  “Am I not using the right spoon, lass?” he asked.

  “It’s the only—”

  “Shhh,” he said and slipped the spoon between her lips.

  It was uncommonly good, but her throat felt so tight she feared she’d have another choking fit. She forced herself to swallow.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “My pleasure,” Ian said and reached over to rub his thumb pad along the side of her mouth, causing her lips to tingle and feel suddenly puffy.

  “Ye missed a bit,” he said as he held up his thumb and sucked the mixture off.

  Her lips swelled even more and warmth pooled in her lower belly. Never had she reacted to a man like this. It was as if he were some devilish sorcerer who had her enthralled.

  “Would ye like more?”

  More? More what? Givens cleared his throat and Jillian came to her senses and felt her face burn. Dear Lord, what was she doing? Allowing a man to spoon feed her like that? And the look he was giving her…just the hint of a smile and something much more brooding in his eyes. She glanced to the door, hoping Wesley wouldn’t come in until she was in a calmer state.

  As though he read her thoughts, Ian said, “Ye doona have to worry about your stepson being up anytime soon.”

  “Why do you say that?” she asked, proud that her voice wasn’t squeaking.

  “The mon went out last night after ye retired. He dinna return until the wee hours of dawn.”

  That surprised her. She knew that men visited the gentlemen’s clubs—indeed, had been grateful when Rufus did—but she didn’t expect Wesley to spend his first night on English soil in one. Well, he was a grown man.

  “Did you not sleep well then, my lord?”

  He smiled. “Well enough.”

  She wondered if his sleep had been as fitful as hers. His bed was a large one… She stopped herself, aghast that she had even thought about his bed.

  “You must tell me if aught can be done to make you more comfortable.”

  His smile widened into a grin. “I’m not sure if ye want the answer to that, lass.”

  Jillian opened her mouth to reply and then promptly closed it, realizing what his interpretation to her comment had been. She prayed she wasn’t blushing furiously.

  “What I meant was—”

  “I know what ye meant, lass.” Ian laid his napkin on the table and stood. “I’ll ne’r take advantage of ye, have no fear. Only…” He leaned closer so that Givens wouldn’t hear and his breath lightly fanned her cheek, “when ye are ready, I will show ye the way to comfort me.”

  He left her sitting there in a daze of confusion, her body stirring in strange and mysterious ways.

  Mari plumped up a pillow on Jillian’s bed and sank back against it. “You’re so lucky,” she complained good-naturedly. “Two handsome men in your house.”

  Jillian turned around from the dressing table to look at her sister. “It’s not my house any longer.” We’ll have our own home soon.

  Mari dismissed that thought with a wave of her hand. “Wesley said you could stay for as long as you wanted.”

  “You really should call him Lord Newburn.”

  Her sister wrinkled her nose at her. “I will in public, don’t worry. Or should I say, ‘doona fash’?” She giggled, then sighed. “I don’t know which of them I find more handsome. Wes—Lord Newburn is so dashing and elegant…quite of the first stare. But then, Lord Cantford is so… so…I’m not quite sure how to describe him.”

  Jillian wasn’t sure either, especially after this morning’s breakfast. How could such as arrogant, stubborn man have such a soft, gentle touch that left her quivering?

  “I know.” Mari sat up suddenly. “He reminds me of that wild horse old Rufus could never break. The one he threatened to shoot.”

  An image of that proud, white Andalusian stallion sprang to Jillian’s mind. It had thrown Rufus twice and Rufus had, indeed, gone for his gun. Only the quick intervention of their master of horse had prevented the horse from being killed. The animal’s conformation was perfect and the stud fee was high. Rufus had banished the stallion to a back pasture where he never had to look at him. It was one of Jillian’s favorite places to ride to when she was in the country for, although the animal was wary, it would accept an apple from her. But he did remain unbroken.

  She was only too afraid Mari was right. Ian Macleod was like the horse.

  “Which of them do you like better?” Mari asked.

  Jillian blinked. “I don’t favor either one of them.”

  “Truly?” Her sister’s voice sounded coy. “Maybe you should encourage both of them then. It would be quite interesting to see what happens.”

  She needed to put a stop to this line of thought. “I have no intentions of encouraging anyone,” she said firmly. “You know I have no plans of ever getting married again.”

  “Are all marriages bad?” Mari asked quietly. “I still want a husband one day.”

  “Oh, sweet,” Jillian said as she came over to the bed and hugged her sister. “Not all marriages are bad. If you find the right man, I think you could be happy.”

  “Then why don’t you look for that? I want you to be happy.”

  “The road I’ve chosen makes me happy, dear.” Never again will I risk being beaten because I can’t make a man perform. Jillian smoothed a curl away from Mari’s forehead. “Doona fa—Don’t worry about me.”

  Wesley always had liked playing two ends against the middle. He sat now in the smoking room at Brooke’s listening to the drone of conversation around him.

  “I say, I wish Wellington would bring our chaps home,” Lord Tindale said to the other baron seated at the table with them.

  “I agree completely,” Lord Havisham replied. “Let the Prussians handle their own fight.”

  “Gentlemen,” Wesley said softly, “aren’t you afraid that Napoleon wields too much power?”

  “He’s not on our soil, is he?” Tindale asked.

  “Because of Wellington,” Wesley answered.

  Both men looked at him for a moment and then Havisham had the grace to look embarrassed
. “So sorry, dear boy. We quite forgot that you helped Wellington.”

  Wesley tried not to grimace. The only reason he had helped the colonel was because he had been caught by British forces while running a message from Napoleon to his headquarters. Luckily, the message had been confined to his head and he was able to talk his way out of trouble on the pretense that he was trying to find the British troops to let them know about the bridge. It had been the only way to save his hide at the time.

  He didn’t care which side won. The man that he called father had been cruel, but at least the old goat had banished him to France with enough money for him to purchase a commission in the French army. And it was easy enough for him to sell French secrets to the Allied forces when occasion called for it.

  Getting paid from both sides had made him quite wealthy, and women liked rich men. They even put up with a bit of cruelty themselves when he bedded them.

  His thoughts turned Jillian. He could hardly have been more surprised when he had seen her. He expected her to be young. After all, his father had wanted nothing more than to produce a legitimate heir since Wesley was expected—no, threatened—not to return to English soil. Ever. He laughed inwardly, hoping the damn bastard was rolling over in his grave.

  That Jillian looked so much like the first woman he’d ever had—and the reason that he’d been banished—shocked him. Buried memories had bubbled to the surface and lust raged in his soul. How appropriate it would for him to take his father’s second wife. Bed her. And if she pleased him sufficiently with the little games he liked to play, perhaps wed her. That would make revenge all the sweeter. And it would make up for the other woman…the only one he’d ever cared about.

  The hulking Scot might be a problem. Pity that he couldn’t just throw the man out. But he couldn’t afford to risk the Prince of Wales’s wrath just now. Not when he didn’t know which way the tide would turn for Napoleon.