Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1

by Cynthia Breeding

  Ian moved in front of her, a hand braced against the wall on either side of her, effectively trapping her with his body, although he did not touch her. “Aye, lass. ’Tis what the English dandies would say amidst their foppery. A Scot would do this.” He bent his head down and slanted his lips across hers in a slow, full, moist kiss. He brushed tiny kisses along her jaw to her ear and then he stopped.

  Her body was reacting to him, every nerve ending tingling for more closeness, but he kept himself a few maddening inches from those body parts that wanted to be pressed up against him the most. His warm breath fanned across Jillian’s cheek, but he made no move to kiss her again. Instead, he murmured, “And a Scot would tell the royal pompous arse the name of the woman he wanted. Jillian.”

  “You didn’t!” Horrified, she looked up at him. Prinny would never believe that she didn’t deliberately seduce Ian, and she knew what happened when anyone thwarted the Prince of Wales’s plans.

  Ian straightened and grimaced. “Nae. I dinna speak your name since I have yet to convince ye I want ye to be my wife.”

  She shook her head and moved away from him. She couldn’t think clearly when the scent and warmth of him embraced her. “You need an heir, Ian.”

  He smiled again. “Ye called me Ian.”

  Startled, she looked up at him. “I—”

  “Shhh,” he soothed. “’Tis a start. Let it be.” He glanced back at the activities going on inside. “I suppose, if ye are to get the coin promised ye, that I need to go back inside and act the moonstruck swain again.”

  “Thank you,” Jillian said as he turned to go. “I owe you a really big favor.”

  He turned back, one brow arched. “Do I get to name it?”

  She was glad it was dark so he couldn’t see the blush that she knew swept over her cheeks. She realized that she wouldn’t mind a repeat of what had happened in the maze. Her breasts still felt heavy and full and in need of the contact that hadn’t been made. The darkness made her bold.

  “Within reason,” she said.

  His eyes smoldered for a moment and then he grinned. “I’ll let ye know,” he said and then he was gone, leaving her to shiver even though the night was warm.

  “More! Deeper!” Delia writhed on the bed below Wesley, her crimson gown ruched up to her waist, one shoulder pulled down, exposing a large breast. He grunted as he ground into her, riding her hard, her head hitting the headboard. Neither seemed to notice. He felt her start to come, inner muscles clenching, and he grabbed her hands with one of his, pinning them over her head as he leaned down and bit her nipple. She bucked under him and screamed, but his other hand stifled the sound.

  “Not so loud,” he said as he pinched the engorged nipple. “You’ve still got a party going on downstairs.”

  “I can’t help it. The pain makes the pleasure so much more intense,” she said, her legs still wrapped around his buttocks. “Make it hurt some more.”

  Wesley laughed and gave the nipple a final twist before he flipped her over on her stomach, pulling her hips up. “You like the pain, don’t you?” Without waiting for a response, he leaned forward, his hands reaching under her, one to grab the exposed breast, the other to clap over her mouth and then he drove himself into her ass. He felt her entire body shudder at the impact, but his thighs kept her legs spread and his body held hers immobile. He thrust hard and fast, loving the tightness of the sphincter muscle and listening to Delia’s groans and muffled cries. He pulled out nearly to the end of his shaft and then rammed himself in again one final time, spilling his seed.

  He collapsed beside her. “We’d better get downstairs before you’re missed.”

  Delia rolled over, her eyes still glazed. “Don’t worry about him. William will be in attendance to the prince for some time.” She reached for Wesley. “Want to do it again?”

  He shrugged off her hand and sat to adjust his trousers. “The prince asked me some odd questions about Cantford,” he said casually.

  “Like what?” Delia asked as she reluctantly sat too.

  “Oh, about how many Frenchmen live on his lands…if he’s perhaps harboring any who are loyal to Napoleon.” He watched her out of the corner of his eye. He had planted seeds of doubt in the prince’s mind, he felt sure, but he wanted that doubt to spread among the peerage and Delia loved to gossip.

  “That wouldn’t be very smart,” she said.

  Wesley clenched his jaw. No one would ever accuse Delia of being bright, but perhaps that was to his advantage. Only two nights ago he’d managed to wheedle information out of her that she had overheard while her husband talked with Lord Liverpool. Wellington had plans to join the Prussian Marshal, Gebhard von Blücher, in Belgium in an effort to stave off Napoleon’s advance. Even now, Louis was on his way to Marshal Michel Ney, Napoleon’s commanding officer, with the news.

  Once Wesley learned that the ruse had been thwarted, he fully intended that an incriminating note be found among Cantford’s possessions that would prove to the prince that it was the Highlander who had provided the traitorous information to the French.

  He’d finally be rid of the Scot and everything would be in place to get his lands back and marry Jillian. He scowled. The bitch was going to pay for spurning him and so was that maid who never strayed far from her. She had even moved a cot into Jillian’s room and they bolted the door at night. Not that that would keep him out, but with the damn Highlander in the house, he’d not have time to force Jillian to submit to him. Right now it was to his advantage to have Cantford stay with him where he could keep an eye on the Scot.

  He felt Delia’s body press against the back of his and she put her chin on his shoulder and licked the rim of his ear. “Sure we don’t have time for more?”

  “We need to get downstairs, pet, before your husband gets suspicious.”

  Delia pouted. “William doesn’t pleasure me like you do.”

  Wesley had no doubt of that. Sherrington was such a proper gentleman, he probably asked permission to even kiss his wife. He could imagine how that would make a woman all wet and wild.

  “I’ll come back tomorrow night,” Wesley said. “You’ll just have to wait.”

  “I don’t want to wait,” Delia answered and slid her hand over his trousers, feeling his erection harden. “And neither do you.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.” He stood abruptly and loosened his pants, letting his cock jut out. “Suck me then. Make it good.”

  As she obliged him, he looked down at her chestnut hair, seeing not her in the dim light, but Jillian instead. He wondered how long it would take him to train her to do this.

  Just thinking about it made him swell and he pulsated into Delia’s mouth.

  She swallowed and looked up at him. “It’s a pity Jillian Alton is such a cold bitch.”

  Wesley was startled out of his fantasy. Delia couldn’t have been reading his mind. “What do you mean, pet?”

  She shrugged as she crawled off the bed and stood beside him. “If I were a widow, especially living under your roof, you’d be too exhausted to do anything but stay in bed.”

  “Your husband looks hale and hearty to me.”

  She sighed. “I suppose so. Too bad he isn’t planning to join Wellington in France. Being killed over there would make me a war hero’s widow.” She put her arms around Wesley and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “Just think about the possibilities…”

  He returned the kiss, his mind whirling. He wasn’t about to get his hands dirty by murdering her husband, which is what she clearly was hinting at. Not that he was surprised at her callousness. People, after all, were meant to be used. Still…

  He broke the kiss and leaned back from her although he kept his arms around her waist. “I wouldn’t think to become involved with anything criminal,” he said, “but there might be a way for your husband to achieve an…honorable death. If that’s what you really want.”

  “If it means I could be with you, yes.”

  Wesley smiled at her. “Then here’s
what I want you to do…”

  If his scheme worked, he might have Cantford out of his way even sooner than he thought. Either way, Wesley couldn’t lose, and he liked those odds.

  Jillian sat at the dressing table, combing her hair, and reflected on the evening. Even though Prinny had not offered to pay her, he had seemed pleased with Ian’s manners. And Ian had followed through as he said he would. He’d danced with not only Violetta and Amelia, but the other eager debutantes as well. Even shy Abigail had blossomed with rosy cheeks and luminous eyes at his attention. Jillian squelched the pang that twitched through her stomach. She should be happy for the girl.

  Putting down the brush, she took a deep breath. The house was silent at this hour, the servants, except for Darcy, having gone to bed. Neither Ian nor Wesley were home. Wesley had disappeared earlier, along with Delia, but then she had put in a somewhat disheveled appearance some minutes later. Jillian had chosen the moment that the prince was distracted by the flirtatious Delia to slip out unnoticed.

  Jillian tied the ribbon on her night rail just as the door to her chamber opened. Perfect timing. Darcy would be bringing hot chocolate for both of them. She turned and gasped.

  Ian’s broad frame filled the doorway. The light behind him caused him to be in silhouette, but Jillian could see from the whiteness of his shirt and the dark V of his chest that he had removed his waistcoat and cravat.

  She reached for her robe, only to remember she had left it on the bed. She pulled the lightweight fabric of her night rail closer to herself.

  “What are you doing here, my lord?”

  Ian stepped into the room, closing the door behind him and drawing the bolt. “I’ve come to bring you this,” he said and put down the cup of steaming chocolate on the dressing table. “Your maid said you were waiting for it.”

  Jillian’s eyes slanted toward the door. “Where is Darcy?”

  He shrugged. “I asked her to leave us alone.”

  Drat her for deserting me. She stood, all too aware of how Ian’s eyes traveled the length of her scantily clad body with pure male interest. She hurried over to the bed to grab the robe, but he reached his hand around her, got to it first and threw it across the bed. “Ye won’t need that,” he said as he took her shoulders and turned her around.

  Jillian gazed up at him, feeling the warm, clean scent of him enveloping her. She was sure he could see her heart pounding beneath the thin rail and crossed her arms over her breasts. “This is most improper, my lord.”

  He laid a finger across her lips. “I hate that word.” He traced her lower lip to the corner of her mouth and then cupped her chin in his hand and looked into her eyes. “I’ve come for that favor ye said ye owed me.”

  She felt her breath quicken even as he leaned down to brush his lips against hers in a tantalizingly slow motion. His lips were firm and warm as he slanted them to take full advantage of her mouth. He caught her lower lip between his and tugged gently before his tongue glided past to sweep in glorious circles around and over her own tongue. Jillian made a soft mewling noise in her throat and then put her hands on his chest to push him away. He didn’t budge.

  “You really shouldn’t be here.”

  “Why not? Yer a grown woman, Jillian, with a woman’s passion—”

  “I don’t have passion.”

  “I think ye do,” he said and pulled the ribbon to loosen the top of her gown. “Why not listen to what yer body is saying to ye?”

  “It’s not-not saying anything,” she replied in a shaky voice.

  “Nae?” Ian brushed his thumb over the peak of an already hardened nipple. “Do ye stay like this all the time then?”

  She made a feeble attempt to move away from him. “It’s…cold in here.”

  His eyebrow rose as he continued to unfasten the laces. “Then let me warm ye.”

  Jillian put her hand over his. “No. Please, Ian.”

  He stopped, a puzzled look on his face. “Ye have nothing to fear from me, lass. I only want to show ye pleasure.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Shhh,” he said as loosened her hand from his. “I vow I willna do anything ye do not wish for me to do.” He nuzzled her neck. “This feels good, doesna it?”

  It felt more than good. The light, airy kisses he was planting along her nape sent rivulets of sensation pulsing through her body. “You promise to stop when I ask you to?”

  “Aye, lass,” he murmured, his mouth claiming hers before she could say more while his hand slowly pulled at the laces again.

  Jillian closed her eyes. She really should stop him. His large, warm hands felt so good, though, on her bare shoulders as he eased the nightgown down to expose her breasts. A wicked imp, buried long ago, rose from the recesses of her mind.

  You might like it.

  Her nipples tingled and her breasts filled as Ian cupped and kneaded them softly and gently. Instinctively, she arched against him and he brought his dark head down to swirl his tongue over an areola, teasing the tip by flicking over it.

  Jillian moaned, and he drew her closer, his mouth covering her as he suckled her thoroughly. She felt a gush of wetness between her legs and that little previously undiscovered nub between her folds began to throb. She ached for him to put his hand there and do what he had done in the maze.

  But he seemed content to play with her breasts, then moving up to kiss her deeply while his hands stroked her bare back. Then she felt his caresses stop and she stiffened.

  Her back. She had forgotten the welts.

  Ian broke their kiss and straightened and then spun her around before she could stop him. The only thing she could be grateful for was that she was turned from him and he couldn’t see the total mortification and humiliation on her face. Why had she not remembered how her back looked?

  “What kind of a monster did this to ye, lass?” he asked in a cold voice.

  Oh, God. His voice told her everything. He was repulsed by what he saw. She tore herself away from him, pulling her gown back up and then curling herself into a ball in the chair next to the bed. She buried her face in her hands.

  “Please leave,” she said, holding the tears back. “I know how hideous I look.”

  “Lass,” Ian began and was interrupted by a soft knocking at the door.

  “It’s Darcy, my lord,” the maid called.

  Uttering a Gaelic oath beneath his breath, Ian went to the door. “What is it?” he growled in a tone that would have most men quaking in their boots.

  Darcy didn’t flinch. “Lord Newburn is in the stable. He’ll be in the house any minute. I’ll not have my lady’s reputation ruined. You need to leave.”

  Ian cast a glance over at Jillian. “Lass. Look at me.”

  She just shook her head. “Go,” she said in a muffled voice.

  The front door opened and they all heard Wesley enter. Ian swore again. “Take care of her, Darcy,” he said as he stepped out into the hallway. “And lock the door.”

  Jillian heard his footsteps fade away and she let the pent-up tears flow.

  Darcy hurried to her side. “Did he hurt you, my lady? I’ll cut his balls if he did.”

  Jillian sat, swiping at her tear-stained face with the back of her hand. “He didn’t hurt me, dear. He saw my back.”

  The maid smoothed back a tendril of Jillian’s hair. “So things got that far, did they? I’d say it was a good sign.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand. You didn’t hear his voice. One minute he was warm and caring and the next… He felt the welts, then he looked at them. I’ve never heard such disgust and loathing in any man’s voice.”

  Darcy looked stricken. “Surely you are mistaken, mum. Lord Cantford is a kind man. He wouldn’t—”

  “He was repelled,” Jillian interrupted. “I could hear it.” She gave a final sniffle. “I should have known better than to trust him. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  Darcy opened her mouth to protest, then closed it when Jillian shook her head.
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br />   I should have known better. No man wants a woman who is disfigured, even if it isn’t visible in public. She bit her lip. If only his touch hadn’t felt so good.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Several nights later, at the end-of-the-Season Masquerade Ball, Ian found himself looking anxiously over the crowds of masked women in hopes of spotting Jillian.

  He had waited for her to come down for breakfast the morning after his attempt at lovemaking had been so abruptly interrupted. He knew she was upset and he wanted to reassure her that how her back looked had nothing to do with how he felt about her.

  White rage nearly consumed him again at the thought of what her late-husband had done. He’d finally persuaded Darcy to tell him what had happened. How any mon could raise a hand to a helpless woman, he couldna understand, but to deliberately whip her because she couldna bear a child? No wonder the lass shied away from a mon’s touch. Ian clenched his fists. It was truly a good thing that the bastard was dead, or his demise would have been much slower and more painful than anything he’d inflicted on Jillian.

  Jillian had stayed in her room that morning, and when Ian returned from sword practice, she was gone. So was Darcy. Wesley had angrily thrown a crumpled note at him that said simply she had gone to visit her aunt and sister for a few days.

  Now, Ian scanned the crowd once more. This was the last ball and he didn’t think Jillian would miss it since it was the last opportunity she would have at convincing Lady Jersey and the rest of the Almack’s matrons to sponsor Mari for next year’s Season.

  He spotted a familiar glimpse of a dark green gown. Jillian’s favorite color. Her chestnut hair was piled high on her head, the elaborate curls hiding the streak of faerie gold. A black mask banded with ostrich feathers covered the upper half of her face. Perhaps both of them wearing masks would ease the awkwardness of this first meeting.

  Ian walked toward her. For a moment he was afraid she’d bolt, but she stood still, watching his approach.

  “Good evening. Ye are looking lovely, Jillian.”

  She inclined her head in acknowledgment, but didn’t speak.