Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Yer eyes tell me different.”

  She closed them, wishing fervently that the floor would open up and swallow her. She had been staring at his close, full, luscious mouth. Could she get any more embarrassed? She took a deep breath and reopened her eyes, all too aware that his fingers were gently stroking beneath her chin. “I assure you, sir, that I have no wish to see you… That is, I would not want you to remove your clothes. For me, I mean.”

  “Och, then,” he said and dropped his hand. “If ye change yer mind, all ye need to do is ask.”

  Ask? A hysterical bubble of laughter rose in her throat. She could just hear herself saying, “Pardon me, Lord Cantford, but if you would be so kind as to drop your trousers for me.” A wicked thought of how long, thick and hard his erection had felt under his plaid—and how it might actually look crept into her mind. She stifled a gasp and swallowed hard.

  “Please. Could we change the subject?” Now that he no longer touched her, some of her common sense was returning. “What were you doing in the doorway?”

  “I came to ask ye if ye wanted to go to Hyde Park again. ’Tis a beautiful day for a ride, and ye haven’t saddled me with an afternoon of drinking tea with chaperones and matrons and silly maidens.”

  Even though being alone with Ian was doing serious damage to her mental processes, Jillian could suddenly think of nothing better than to be outside in the fresh air and sunshine. “I’d love to,” she said.

  “Good.” Ian stood and gave her a small bow. “I’ll wait for ye in the foyer then.”

  She nodded and watched as he walked away. A ride was good for something else too. Perhaps a smart trot could bring some welcome relief to the throbbing that still continued between her legs.

  Jillian lifted her face to the sun, not caring for the moment that her riding hat was supposed to protect her skin from becoming overly pink. The sky was a brilliant cerulean with bits of fluffy cotton floating lazily along. She sighed contentedly, glad that Ian had suggested this.

  The Ring was free of carriages at this hour, since they were unfashionably early, so Ian brought his gelding alongside her palfrey. “The outdoors seems to suit ye.”

  “I miss the country,” Jillian admitted.

  “Aye,” he agreed. “I am missing the steepness of the mountains and the depth of Loch Shiel myself.”

  Jillian glanced over at him. “Tell me about your home.”

  “’Tis hard to describe to a sassenach.”

  “A what?”

  “An outlander.” Ian smiled and held up a hand when she started to protest. “’Tis not much of an insult anymore, although the clans—er, families—still take a smidgin’ of delight in calling the lowlanders that as well.”

  “Why do you think the Highlands are so special?” He looked positively flummoxed at her question and Jillian almost giggled, but then he spoke and his voice was soft.

  “Ah, lass. ’Tis magic. The sky be bluer than here and the air so crisp. The stars sparkle like thousands of crystals in the winter. The burns run clear and cold even in summer. Purple heather as far as the eye can see… And the gloaming… ’Tis when the Sidhe come out if the moon be full.”

  She gave him another sideways glance. “You’ve mentioned them before. You don’t really believe in faeries in this day and time?”

  “Have a care, lass, ye’ve not seen the havoc they can yield for being mocked.”

  “Like what?” she asked in a teasing voice and smiled.

  He didn’t return the smile. “Doona laugh. A near-by laird who prospered after Culloden and thought himself above our simple ways, awoke one morning to find all his cattle dead.”

  “All of them?”

  “Aye. Every single one. And they’d been producing good milk but the day before.” He shook his head as though to clear it. “But the fae can bestow gifts if ye are kind to one.”

  “You mean you can see them?” Jillian asked incredulously, not sure if she were being made the victim of his jest.

  “At times, if they choose it,” Ian replied in the same serious tone. “The Sidhe were once tall and light-haired, but they were beaten down by the Milesian Celts centuries ago. When people stopped believing in their magic, they gradually became invisible to the world, choosing to dwell in mounts and beneath lakes. ’Tis the way of things.”

  Just then a yellow-bodied carriage careened past, its driver urging on the team of bays with a look of glee upon his young face. Jillian’s horse reared and she was hard-pressed to keep her seat, even as Ian reached for her reins to steady the mare.

  “Damnable fool!” he said and then muttered something in Gaelic that Jillian was pretty sure was a curse.

  “The Four-Horse Club again,” she said with a sigh as petted her horse’s neck to soothe her. “They have been told to stay on Rotten Row if they must run like uncivilized barbarians.” She felt her cheeks grow warm as Ian frowned at her. “I didn’t mean you.”

  He looked skeptical, but he just said, “Ye are a good rider. Many a mon would have been thrown.”

  Jillian smiled, pleased at the compliment. “When I’m in the country, I ride as often as possible. Horses seem to understand me.” As soon as the words were out, she could have bitten her tongue. How many times had Rufus told her she was clearly quite mad to think she could actually communicate with the animals?

  But Ian only nodded. “A garron-briosag.”

  “A what?”

  “A horse witch. ’Tis not a bad thing,” he added when she wrinkled her brow. “One of my sisters talks to them too… ’Tis yer own wee bit of magic.”

  She had never thought about talking to horses as magical. The stables were more of a haven for her. A place that she could escape to when Rufus had been in one of his moods. He cared nothing for them, other than the profit that was made from breeding.

  “I think ye told me yer horses were Anda…Ader—”

  “Andalusians,” Jillian said. “They are from Spain. The history of them goes back to the Carthusian monks of the Middle Ages and William the Conqueror rode one at Hastings.” She glanced at him to determine whether she was boring him. Rufus would just yawn whenever she talked about the importance of preserving the breed, but Ian had an interested look on his face. “When Napoleon invaded Spain, he stole many of the horses, leaving few mares. We have the largest herd in England.”

  “I would be interested in seeing them,” Ian answered.

  “I’ll be glad to show them to you,” Jillian responded. “We’ll need to go to the estates soon since neither you nor Wesley have seen them. Cantford and Newburn are quite impressive holdings, but not as impressive as seeing those white Andalusians galloping together across a meadow, with their necks arched and tails high.”

  Ian raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Are they all white?”

  Jillian nodded. “They’re often born dark, but they lighten to white or sometimes a pale grey. Why? Do you have a fondness for white horses?”

  “It matters naught to me, but the Sidhe are fond of white horses… The old folklore claims the animals be a gift o’ the Fae.” He grinned at her. “So ye see, lass, ye might have a wee bit of faerie blood in ye, at that.”

  She smiled back. “Now you’re teasing me.”

  “Nae.” He leaned over and twisted a few loose strands of her hair around his finger, the back of his hand caressing her cheek. “Our Crone of the Hills would say it’s faerie dust that’s in yer hair.”

  How could he possibly invoke the senseless tingling of every nerve ending when he was sitting on his own horse and his hand had merely brushed her face? The next thing her poor addled brain would believe was that the Fae were really dancing about in some mystical gloaming.

  His hand dropped and logic returned as the horses moved forward. Prinny was paying her in real coin. He wanted real success. She wanted a real house for Mari’s Season. A real home.

  Faeries and magic, indeed. What had she been thinking?

  Chapter Seven

  Ian yawned, bored alre
ady at the idle conversation of the gentlemen seated near him at White’s. Some dandy named Beau Brummel sat in an alcove not far away discoursing with a friend on the manner of excessive dress of some gentleman entering the establishment. Ian almost smiled at the irony of criticizing the older mon who wore lace at his throat and had a heavily embroidered waistcoat. As if the cursed cravat were any better.

  Jillian had told him before he left that Mr. Brummell had set the way for fashion by emphasizing immaculate linen shirts, tailored, plain dark coats and the longer pantaloons over knee breeches. It was, she had explained, a way of down-playing the extravagance and ostentation of the previous generation and had taken hold shortly after the French Revolution. It was still too much clothes for the warrior blood of Ian’s ancestors which ran in his veins. At least Brummell had abandoned the powdered wig that Jillian said used to be required at formal parties. No self-respecting mon needed to be prancing around in foppish curls.

  He thought about how soft Jillian’s curls had been when he wrapped them around his finger in the park earlier. She seemed to be more relaxed outdoors too. He would need to make sure they had more such outings together. Not that he minded watching how delightfully her face had flushed in the close quarters of the solar when he’d teased her about getting naked. Except, he admitted to himself, he was nae jesting. Thinking about her seeing him covered in naught but the dark hair that surrounded his cock and its eager standing to attention for her brought on the beginning of an erection. He blinked and forced himself to attend to the conversation around him.

  The fool who had driven past them at break-neck speed that afternoon was speaking. “Miss Billingsby is allowing me to escort her to the ball tomorrow night,” he said smugly and gave Ian a condescending look.

  Ian tried to recall which one Miss Billingsby was. Ah, yes. The dark-haired one who reminded him of a hungry cat eager to pounce on its next meal. He was glad he wasn’t it. Nevin Faulkner could have the wench, although he did wonder what her father had said to her when he pulled her out of reach the other night. She had given him such a startled look.

  “Congratulations, old chap,” Wesley said and raised his glass of whisky. “Perhaps Miss Billingsby recognizes the advantage of being escorted by a proper gentleman, eh?”

  Ian glanced over at Wesley, wondering what had prompted the man to invite him to this club. Jillian had probably insisted. Although Wesley was acting the proper English dandy at the moment, Ian still had his doubts. The man left every night and stayed out until the wee hours. Even the Earl of Sherrington’s wife couldn’t manage to make herself available every night for him. Ian had seen him one afternoon as he was returning from the tailors, talking to the new assistant that Pierre had hired.

  “I was hoping to escort Miss Tansworth,” Yancy Newell said, “but she was indisposed when I called.”

  That would be the other one who tittered around him at nearly every function. Ian would give his heartfelt blessings if Newell were successful.

  “Perhaps she’s waiting for another invitation,” Wesley said as he drained his glass and set it down. “Who have you asked to accompany you?” he said to Ian.

  “I prefer to go alone,” Ian answered.

  “Ah, yes. Wise of you,” Wesley responded. “Give all the young ladies hope that she’ll be the one at the end of the Season.”

  That brought glares from Yancy and Nevin. Ian wished he could tell them he had no plans to marry any English girl, and certainly not any as young and foolish as those lasses were. But Jillian had stressed that was the whole purpose of the Season, so he would play along until the end of it. Once she got paid for training him, he could go to his country estate and get some real work done before returning to Scotland.

  He smiled and shrugged. “What about you, Newburn? Which of the young ladies has caught your eye?”

  Wesley’s eyes narrowed slightly. “My tastes run more for experienced women.”

  Barons Tindale and Havisham both laughed. “Hear, hear,” Tindale said and winked. “There are some about that are quite willing for a bit of coin.”

  “I’m talking about a lady of distinction, not a trollop.”

  Ian could hardly believe his ears. The Earl of Sherrington wasn’t present, but Wesley wasn’t stupid enough to admit to an affair, was he?

  “A mistress then,” Havisham said knowingly. “If one is discreet, of course. Wouldn’t want to end up dueling on the Hill.”

  “There’ll be no need for a duel,” Wesley answered while still looking at Ian. “I’ve decided that Jillian needs my protection. What better way than to make her my wife?”

  Blood thundered in Ian’s ears as rage overtook him. It took every ounce of his warrior training to keep himself from knocking the table over and beating Newburn to a pulp right then and there.

  “She’s your legal mother,” he managed to say. “Doona ye English have some proper law about that?”

  “My stepmother,” Wesley replied with a slick smile. “My young stepmother. Since my father never planned for me to return, there were no contingencies made for her. What could be more fitting than for me to make sure she inherits his property?”

  “That’s very magnanimous of you, I must say,” Tindale murmured.

  “It’s the very least I can do,” Wesley answered. “The poor lady is penniless. The Prince Regent has kindly offered to pay her if she can get Cantford married off this Season.” Both young men glared at Ian again, but Wesley continued, “Since I will be supporting her financially, she won’t need to worry.”

  Havisham frowned. “There is the small matter of your needing an heir, though. Rufus said that Lady Newburn was barren.”

  Ian was shocked. Why would a mon speak so plainly about his wife? He had never thought to question why Jillian did not have a child.

  Wesley had a conspiratorial look on his face as he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The fact is, gentlemen, that I have a son. Two of them actually. I left them in France until I could sort things out here. I’ll send for them soon.”

  “Wilna their mother nae be wanting to join them?” Ian asked.

  Wesley hesitated a moment. “That shouldn’t be a problem, Cantford, since I didn’t marry the mother. Either of them.”

  That didn’t surprise Ian at all. He wondered if Wesley had even provided for the boys. Or if he had other by-blows he didn’t even know about.

  Wesley returned to the original conversation. “I can hardly allow my step…for Jillian to be put out on the streets when I have the means to provide for her.”

  Both of the barons beamed at him. “It’s quite honorable of you,” Tindale said.

  Ian clenched his fists beneath the table. The little weasel was making it sound like he had nothing more than Jillian’s wellbeing at heart. The thought of Jillian lying naked beneath Newburn was something he didn’t want to think about. Not when his nights were filled with visions of her luscious curves and soft body writhing beneath him while her silken thighs wrapped around his buttocks, begging him to pleasure her once again.

  “Have ye asked Jil—the lady—her opinion about this?” Ian asked.

  “No need to,” Wesley answered. “What choice does she have? If you don’t agree to marry an English girl and secure the title with an heir, the prince will deem Jillian’s efforts a failure. She’ll have nothing, unless I provide it.”

  Ian stared at him. With a sinking feeling, he realized that the bastard was right. No matter how charming and proper Ian was willing to be for Jillian’s sake, if he didna follow through with a betrothal, she would not likely be paid.

  Which left him with a dilemma. He could either allow this fool to plow ahead with this plan to marry Jillian or he, himself, would have to choose from among the silly lasses who skittered about.

  Ian decided he was going to get very, very drunk.

  Wesley laughed as he parted company with the stodgy barons and a very irate Scot. The remark that Havisham made about Jillian’s inability to have a child was a per
fect boon to quell any thoughts that the Highlander might have in that direction. His English title would revert back to the king if Cantford didn’t provide an English heir.

  And the remark was a boon for Wesley as well. He couldn’t abide whining, screaming children, even if they were well-tended by nannies and only brought out on occasion. He didn’t want any woman he was swiving to be distracted by any motherly concerns. It was the reason he’d left both of the mothers of his bastards. They thought the brats should actually spend time with him. The oldest one was near ten years now. Wesley supposed the boy could be sent away to foster somewhere once he arrived. He grimaced, wondering how much coin he would have to part with to make sure the mother stayed at home.

  Well, time to think about that later. He had to meet with Jean to determine if there was any military information worth sending back to France, and then he was planning to spend the rest of the night plowing the very lush fields of Delia Sherrington.

  What a coincidence that both his mistress and his soon-to-be wife looked so much like the one woman he had cared about. The one his father made sure he never saw again. Lorelei would live for him again every time he buried his shaft deep within the hot, wet walls of either Delia or Jillian.

  It mattered not which one he straddled as long as it was Lorelei’s face he saw.

  Several hours later and quite definitely drunk, Ian staggered slightly as he left White’s Gentleman’s Club. The young fools who fancied him their competition had left long before and Ian had drunk both barons under the table, but not before they had asked some questions about the French who resided in Scotland. He couldn’t quite remember what those questions were now, but they had seemed odd at the time.

  But he did remember Newburn’s boast. Rage filled him again at the thought of the swine so callously assuming to marry Jillian. As if the lass had naught to say about it. He wished someone would accost him, or even just insult him, so he could use his fists and beat the mon witless. But nae, these Englishmen were too civilized for a good, blood-shedding brawl. His fists clenched anyway.