Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1

by Cynthia Breeding

  “I say, you’re not offended, are you, my lord?” Tindale asked anxiously.

  For a moment, he was tempted to remind both barons that he outranked them, but he didn’t need to make enemies right now either.

  “It’s quite all right,” he said, “It’s just that, having lived in France, I’ve seen what the Revolution has done. I’m sure our prince regent would prefer to keep his head.” He smiled just a little and was pleased to see that the barons quickly grinned too. “And, gentlemen, I do not need to remind you that the French nobility lost their titles.”

  That had the desired effect as both men blanched. Wesley had to admit that the rank of the privileged had its advantages, and he fully intended to make use of all of them. The more he took part in Society, the less likely anyone would be to suspect that he also met with French spies in the small hours of the morning, like he had done yesterday.

  If Napoleon won, Wesley would be ready.

  Chapter Five

  “So, what do you think of Hyde Park, my lord?” Jillian asked as they walked their horses along the Ladies Mile late the next afternoon.

  Ian looked around him and breathed in air that was not clogged with soot. Instead, the fresh scent of mowed grass along with a subtle floral smell filled his nostrils. “’Tis refreshing to see a bit of green, lass. I doona like the city much.”

  Jillian nodded. “It is quieter and peaceful here. Almost like the country.”

  He gave her a quizzical glance. “If ye prefer the country why do ye want to buy a townhouse here?”

  “Mari must have a place to live for the Season next year,” she said.

  “Can she nae stay with her aunt as she does now?”

  “Aunt Agnes runs a boarding house,” Jillian explained. “It would lower Mari’s worth in the eyes of a suitor to come calling there.”

  Ian snorted. “If a suitor cares more for where a lass lives than the lass herself, he is not much of a mon, I think.”

  Jillian flashed him a look as she nudged her horse forward. “You don’t understand. The ton has certain standards. Only girls with the proper credentials get invited to Almack’s balls. One of them is to have a family house in Town. Rest assured, either Lady Pembroke or Lady Molyneux—Almack’s matrons—will check that out before they issue invitations.”

  Ian brought his gelding alongside her palfrey. “And why is being at Almack’s so important? From what I’ve seen, the lass will have plenty of parties to attend.”

  Shock flitted over Jillian’s face and then she frowned. “The sons of London’s most solvent lords always attend Almack’s. I want Mari to have the very best choice of a husband that she can.”

  “Ye love your sister verra much, don’t ye?”

  “Of course. I practically raised her. Mama died with birthing fever.”

  “Ye must have verra young.”

  “Eight.”

  Ian marveled at the way she said it so commonly. He tried to picture her as a small lass, that beautiful auburn hair loose and flying free behind her as she ran in a game of Catch My Shadow or how her green eyes would have sparkled as she rolled down a grassy hill. Although, perhaps proper English lasses dinna do that?

  “Ye were but a bairn,” he said quietly. “What of your da?”

  She reined her horse in beneath the shade of a tall oak and looked at him squarely. “Papa was never the same after Mama died. He took to drinking and then gambling…and not very well.”

  Ian had the strange urge to reach out and touch her. For once, not in a lustful way. The feeling unsettled him. “So what happened to him?”

  “He…he committed suicide shortly after I married.”

  He did reach for her then, closing his large hand over her small, gloved one, wanting to caress her bare, warm fingers instead. “Och, lass. ’Tis a sorry ending.”

  For just a moment, her lower lip quivered and then she pasted a forced smile on her face. “We grow maudlin, my lord. That was not my intent on bringing you to the park on such a lovely day.”

  He wanted to ask more questions, but the look on her face warned him not to do so. He should be grateful that she’d said as much as she had. Maybe he had made a wee crack in the ice that surrounded her heart.

  “The day is still long. Do ye wish to ride a bit more?”

  She tossed her head, as if to throw off the somber mood. “I do. If you’re up for a gallop, we’ll go over to Rotten Row.”

  He arched a brow. “What kind of a name is that?”

  Jillian smiled mischievously. “You’ll see,” she said and urged her mare to a trot.

  Ian held his mount back a bit so he could enjoy watching her rounded bottom lifting and falling to make contact with the horse. One day—and he hoped to the saints it was soon—she be lifting and lowering that delectable bottom beneath him. Ah, it felt good to be thinking thoughts he was comfortable with again!

  Jillian surprised him when they reached Rotten Row for, without warning, she urged her horse into a full gallop, leaving Ian nearly choking on her dust. A second later, he gave the gelding its head and it stretched out, eager to catch up to the mare ahead.

  They reined in to stop a bit later and Ian thought he’d never seen a woman more beautiful. Jillian was laughing, her face flushed with exhilaration. Parts of her hair had come undone and a strand swept across her face. She puckered soft, pink lips to blow the errant hair away and Ian’s groin tightened painfully. He wondered just how much longer he could last.

  “Where did ye learn to ride like that?” he asked instead.

  She glanced at him sideways as they tapped their horses to walk and cool down. “I’ve always loved horses. When Mari was taking a nap and Papa was…sleeping, I’d go out to the stables and pet the carriage horse we kept. The groom taught me to ride. Like a boy, since we had no side-saddle. It was a conspiracy, he’d say and wink, for we’d both be in trouble if Papa ever caught me doing such a scandalous thing.”

  Ian wondered if the groom hadn’t taken pity on a small girl, forced to grow up too early and with a drunken father to boot. “It wouldna have been scandal where I come from,” he said. “My sister beat my brother and me more than once in races across the moors. Of course, I was a bairn then and not a mon.”

  Jillian smiled at him as they turned the horses and headed toward home. “How many brothers and sisters do you have, my lord?”

  “I wish ye’d call me Ian,” he said.

  “It’s really not proper.”

  He sighed. “I doona think I like that word. But, to answer yer question, I have three sisters. Bridget is five years older than me, married with bairns of her own. Fiona and Shauna are younger. My brother, Jamie, is two and twenty. He’s the one holding the clan—I mean, our family—together while I’m here.”

  “Are you the laird then?” she asked in light tone.

  He gave her a serious look. “There are no lairds anymore. Your King George saw to that. Even the Faerie Flag could not stop him.”

  “Faerie Flag?” Jillian smiled. “Surely you don’t believe in folklore?”

  Ian didn’t return the smile. “I doona mock the Sidhe, my lady. ’Tis said they still roam our glens ere the moon be full.”

  “Like your Loch Ness monster appearances?” She barely contained a giggle.

  “Och, nae. Nessie be an overgrown Kelpie, ’tis all,” he said with a straight face.

  Jillian sobered. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  Ian shrugged. “’Twas said that St. Columba himself saw her.”

  She raised a hand. “I give up. Tell me about your flag.”

  “’Tis made of the finest silk,” he said, “given to our clan centuries ago by a faerie woman who married a chieftain. ’Tis said to have the power to save the clan three times. Twice it has been used.”

  “When?” she asked, surprising him with her seriousness.

  “Once in a battle long ago and another time to survive an epidemic,” Ian replied.

  Jillian arched a brow. “So—if it h
ad real power—why did you lose at the Battle of Culloden?”

  He clenched his jaw. “Too many Scots believed the English lies that our clans would be preserved. That Hanover only wanted peace between us.”

  “And your great-grandfather was one of them?”

  “Aye. He was.”

  “You’d rather go back to the old ways, wouldn’t you?” she suddenly asked.

  He was quiet for a moment before he finally answered her. “’Tis no use to think about that. The law is clear.”

  Surprising him again, Jillian shrugged. “I don’t think making a law that says the clans must disband makes everyone believe it though.” She slanted her gaze at him. “Am I right?”

  He hesitated once more. If he answered honestly, he could find himself a possible prisoner for suspected treason rather than an earl. But could he lie to the lass? Those beautiful, dark green eyes were studying him for a truthful answer. He sighed. “Aye, lass. For what it be worth, our people still consider me their laird.”

  The din from the crush was deafening. People had to turn sideways on the steps to the ballroom on the second floor of Lord Tindale’s home to avoid improper contact.

  Jillian lost sight of Ian. He had gone to get her some ratafia, but that had been some moments ago, and she saw Violetta Billingsby press through the crowd toward him.

  She hoped Violetta wouldn’t be the one he chose for his wife. Jillian suspected the girl liked the power of flirtatious victory more than she cared for the man involved. She had already broken several suitors’ hearts. Ian’s didn’t need to be one of them.

  Jillian brought herself up short. Ian was a grown man, quite capable of taking care of himself. Why should she care whom he chose? But still, the way he had looked at her yesterday afternoon and reached out to touch her hand when she told him of her father… She recalled the strength of his warm touch that had sent heat throbbing straight to her belly. A man with that much expertise—no, kindness. That was what it was. Simple kindness—deserved someone other than Violetta. Someone more like Lord Sherrington’s rather serious daughter who, even now, stood against the far wall and pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose.

  “A shilling for your thoughts, my lady,” Wesley said from behind her.

  Jillian nearly jumped. Her stepson had a rather stealthy way of approaching her, although how she would have heard him with the noise around her, she didn’t know. But he kept popping up unexpectedly, especially when she was alone.

  “I can assure you, they’re not worth more than a farthing,” she said.

  “Try me,” he answered and stopped a passing servant to remove two glasses of wine from the tray. He handed one to her. “Go on.”

  “I was simply thinking who might be a good suit for Lord Cantford.”

  “I doubt that he’ll need your help with that, my lady,” he said wryly.

  Jillian hoped she wasn’t blushing. “No, of course not. I just meant that Prinny expects him to choose a wife by the end of the Season.”

  “Ah, yes, to beget the heir. I have forgotten how obsessed the English are with preserving their titles.”

  She winced. She had been a failure in that department. But Wesley had been found and he was here. “And you, my lord, should be thinking of doing the same.”

  He looked startled and then he grinned. “I intend to spread my wealth around a bit before I settle down.”

  Jillian frowned at him. “My lord, your speech is indecent.”

  “Excusez moi. It was crass of me.”

  He didn’t sound like he meant it. Even though the man was several years older than she was, he was legally her stepson and the new marquess. Prinny would no doubt expect her to explain the proper English way of doing things.

  “Wesley. Perhaps French culture is a bit less stringent than ours, but have a care. To take advantage of a debutante—or even be suspected of such— will find you at the altar whether you wish it or not.”

  This time he laughed out loud. “I have no intention of trifling with these silly girls. Virgins bore me.” He sobered and his gaze dropped to her neckline. “I like women with experience.”

  Jillian gasped, one hand going involuntarily to her throat and covering her bosom. “You are out of line, my lord.”

  “Am I?” He looked into her furious eyes and then gave a short bow. “Pardon, madam. I was making a sad attempt at a jest. Forgive me. I simply meant… Well, the married ladies at these functions certainly seem to enjoy more than a bit of flirting, no? Like Lord Sherrington’s wife? Delia, I believe she said her name was.”

  Jillian took a deep breath and took the time to give her glass to a passing waiter. What Wesley said was true. Too many married women were bored with their spouses, their marriages merely a convenient bonding of wealth, titles and land. Affairs were common. Avoiding that was the reason she wanted Mari to have her choice of a husband. Someone she would love.

  “Lord Sherrington is an observant man, my lord,” she said.

  Just then, Ian appeared through the crowd. He frowned when he saw Wesley, but only nodded curtly as he handed her the ratafia.

  “Why would a mon invite twice as many people as his house will hold? I dinna think I would clear the line of determined ladies asking questions of me. And married ones, at that.”

  Beside her, Wesley laughed. “You see? Perhaps you should have your conversation with him, madam.”

  Ian’s brows knit together. “What conversation would that be, Newburn?”

  Wesley shook his head. “You’ll have to ask her, Highlander.” He turned back to Jillian, a manipulative gleam in his eye. “I think I’ll see if that line of ladies is still there. Thanks for the advice, though, Mother.”

  Ian looked down at her as Wesley walked away. “What does he mean?”

  “Nothing,” she said as she looked up at him. The last thing she needed was to give him another reason to dislike Wesley. The animosity between the two of them was already strong enough. She didn’t want anything spoiling her chances of success in Prinny’s mission.

  But she had never felt so grateful to see a man in her life as when Ian’s strong, muscular body had pushed through that crowd.

  “My lord, I should not let you take such liberties with me.” Delia tilted her head back, allowing Wesley more access to her throat.

  “No?” he murmured as he tongued her ear. “Then why did you agree to come out into the gardens with me?”

  “I believe you said something about admiring the beauty of a garden.”

  He chuckled. “I said I admire beauty in the garden. Vous, ma belle.”

  “Mmmm,” she breathed, “I love your accent.”

  “Oui? Vous me envie ceux?” he asked as he slid a hand upward to cup and squeeze her breast.

  “You are very bad, Lord Newburn.”

  “Quite so,” Wesley answered and drew her farther into the shadows of the large trellis with trailing roses. He turned her around and pressed his erection against her well-curved buttocks. “The question is, are you? Do you want more?”

  She leaned back against him and his hands kneaded her breasts, applying heavy pressure. From the way she arched her back, thrusting those full orbs upward, he was pretty sure that the stuffy and proper Earl of Sherrington spent little time with that particular part of her anatomy. Women were so easy. A few sweet words, a caress here and there and they fancied themselves in love. Which was just how he wanted her. A woman in love with him would relay information that he wanted and needed.

  He pulled down the neckline of her gown and fondled her nipples, pinching them until she gasped slightly. Her threshold of pain was good. He liked a woman who could take it rough, although at first he would take care that he didn’t frighten her off.

  “Chéri, you haven’t answered me.” He nipped sharply at her neck. “Do you want to become my lover?”

  Delia moaned as his hand slid down to her belly and he pulled her more tightly to him.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Sherrington w
ill sleep soundly in his chamber with all the drink he’s had. You can come to my bed later.”

  “Bed?” He asked as he inched up the skirt of her gown. “How utterly conventional.” He ran his hand up her thigh above the garter. “Surely you are more adventurous than that?” He heard her quick intake of breath as he slid his palm between her legs.

  “You aren’t planning to take me here, my lord?”

  “Why not?”

  “We could get caught.” She sounded shocked, but she didn’t pull away from him as he inserted a finger deep inside of her.

  “The possibility lends to the excitement, does it not?” He inserted a second finger and got an appreciative groan from her as she arched into him again. “Society life can be so boring. I thought you were a woman who liked to take risks.”

  “I do, but—”

  “Shhh, then. Let’s not spoil the moment,” he said and loosened his trousers, freeing his cock. “Spread your legs, chéri, and hold on to the trellis.” He ruched up her skirt, exposing white buttocks. He allowed himself a moment to savor the sight. He always liked rear entry. He didn’t have to look into the woman’s face that way.

  He teased her, letting his shaft slip along her outer lips and then inserting just the tip before withdrawing. How he would have loved to grind into her ass instead, but that would have to wait. Leaning over, he drove himself into her like a stallion mounting a mare. He grabbed her hips, holding them still while he plunged deeply, again and again, until she was writhing against him, with her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. He felt her climax begin and he reached up to clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle any scream and felt her body shudder. With a final thrust and a grunt, he released himself.

  She sank to her knees. “I’ve never had… I mean, that was wonderful.”

  Wesley lifted her and adjusted the top of her gown. “That was just the beginning, ma belle. You’re quite a woman.”

  She smiled, obviously pleased. “And may I say that you’re quite a man?”