Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1

by Cynthia Breeding

  Looking pleased, he stood back as Ian slid down and the groom nervously saddled the stallion and led him to the mounting block.

  Wesley stepped up and moved into the saddle. The groom handed him the reins and he turned the horse around.

  “Shall we?” Wesley said to Jillian and gave Gunnar a swift kick in his flanks.

  The horse flattened his ears, his head went down, his back legs kicked out and Wesley went sprawling on the ground. Ian leaned against the fence, one foot crossed in front of the other, his arms folded across his broad chest.

  Wesley glared at him as he stood and dusted himself off. “I thought you said he was broken.”

  “He is. Why don’t you try again?” Ian said pleasantly.

  “Bring me a whip,” he snarled at Finley.

  “We have no whips here,” the man answered. “’Twas not me da’s way, nor is it mine, to strike the animal.”

  “That’s what’s wrong with him then,” Wesley snapped and heaved himself into the saddle once more. “I’ll see about getting some when I replace you, old man.”

  Jillian bit her lip. Losing her horses was already a blow, but if Finley weren’t around to care for them… To protect them from someone like Wesley…

  “I’ve never used a whip on a horse either, my lord. It really isn’t necessary. Be gentle with him.”

  “Bah!” Wesley tightened the reins and Gunnar arched his neck so that his chin was nearly touching his chest to rid himself of the pain of the bit.

  “Loosen up,” Jillian said in a voice that had all three men looking at her. “I’ll not have that horse’s mouth ruined because you don’t know how to handle him.”

  Wesley gaped at her, momentarily relaxing his hold. Gunnar reared, tossing his head and striking Wesley’s face. The man rolled backward, landing in the dust once more. He held a hand to his bloody nose.

  “I’d shoot the bastard, but he’s worth too much money. He’ll be the first one sold,” he said and stomped off to the house.

  “Doona fash,” Ian said to a tearful Jillian as he unsaddled Gunnar. “Liverpool is planning to purchase several head.”

  “I suppose Gunnar would be safer there,” Jillian said and brushed back a tear.

  Ian vaulted onto stallion’s back and nudged him forward. The horse came alongside Jillian’s gelding and both of them walked sedately out the gate and down the road. “Mayhap,” he said, “but I was thinking of asking Sherrington to make a purchase for me. I might have to scrape for the coin, but this is a fine horse to start a herd with.”

  Jillian broke into a smile. “That would be wonderful. You and Gunnar belong together.” She looked over at the now-calm horse. “How do you get him to behave so well? Did one of your faeries cast a spell in his ear to topple Wesley?”

  “Nothing so mysterious, lass.” He reached down to stroke the stallion’s neck. “Gunnar doesn’t like a saddle, ’tis all.”

  “I suppose he told you that?” Jillian asked with a half-smile.

  “As a matter of fact, he did.” Ian winked. “And one of these days I’ll tell you what he said about you and your nighttime visits to him.”

  Jillian opened her mouth to retort and then closed it. She had spent hours talking to the horse whenever she could slip away from Rufus. All her hopes, her dreams…she had felt safe sharing them with the animal, since he wasn’t going to tell anyone.

  She looked again at Gunnar and he turned his head to gaze back at her with those velvety eyes. She shook her head. Horses couldn’t talk.

  Gunnar snorted and tossed his head.

  Jillian had made an effort, the past two days, to be extremely civil to Wesley. Although bile rose in her throat, she managed to compliment him several times. She also made sure that Gunnar had been returned to the pasture. The last thing she wanted was for Wesley to take his anger out on an innocent animal. But her act was tiresome. She sank into bed each night feeling like she was exhausted.

  The fact that there were so many people staying at Newburn for the house party helped Jillian too, both because Delia kept Wesley occupied whenever she could and the large crowd kept Jillian separated from Ian as well.

  So far, he had kept his word about not trying to seduce her. She glanced sideways at him now as he walked with her and the rest of the hunting party through the tall grass of a meadow that bordered the woods between the two estates. She should be relieved that he respected her wishes, but a part of her that she didn’t understand wanted nothing more than to stamp her foot childishly and demand his attention. She frowned. Drat the man for befuddling her mind. She had always been one to think clearly and logically.

  “Is aught wrong, lass?” Ian asked. “Ye look as if ye are off to battle rather than stalking quail.”

  Drat again. When had her emotions become that easy to read? Or was Ian really touched with fey blood? “It’s nothing,” she answered. “I just don’t care much for hunting.”

  “Ye have a soft heart.” Ian smiled at her. “’Tis not a bad thing, lass.”

  But it could be when it came to him. She had been forced to sheath her heart in layers of ice, protecting its warm beating from Rufus’s assaults. After he was gone, she realized that remaining aloof kept her safe from the scheming gentry who wanted to land the title of marquis by offering to marry her. Now Ian—the one man her body responded to and the one man she couldn’t have—had manage to chisel away some of that protection. And she already knew what the pain would feel like when he married another woman who would share his bed. Jillian felt she was already wounded like the poor birds the party was hunting.

  A rustling in the grass broke her thoughts as a bevy of quail took to wing. There were simultaneous cracks of guns as several members of the party fired. Jillian winced as several of the birds fluttered back to the ground.

  “I got at least one!” Delia shouted from not far away. “That makes my third one today.” She bent down and picked up the bloody bird whose neck was limp but whose eyes were still blinking, and stuffed it into the knapsack that Wesley held open. “I’ll wager five pounds that I get the most kills today.”

  Immediately, a chorus of male voices chimed in, each wanting to participate. Jillian watched them with a sick feeling in her stomach. “I don’t think should have come,” she said to Ian who looked as disgusted as she felt. “Even though I am the hostess.”

  “Then I’ll walk ye back,” Ian said and took her arm. “Newburn is the host. Ye doona need to watch the spectacle.”

  “I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “It would be rude of me to turn back when supposedly the hunt is in my honor.”

  Ian snorted. “Newburn declared that to get ye out here, ’tis all. Look at them. They wilna even know ye’re gone.”

  “But Society has rules—”

  “Blast Society.” Ian cupped her chin in his hand. “Ye must do what suits ye, not a pack of bloodthirsty fools. If ye doona want to witness this, ye wilna.” His other hand slipped down to hers and intertwined their fingers. “I will take ye home.”

  Jillian hesitated, aware of the warmth that was coursing through her arm and throughout her body from his touch, but not willing to pull away from it either. Walking back alone with him was asking for trouble. Her body was already tingling in anticipation that he might touch her elsewhere.

  Just then, another shout went up as more birds were spotted near the tree line. Not wanting to see what would happen next, she looked up at Ian. “Let’s go.”

  He nodded and they turned back. They had just reached the path that led through the sparse growth near the edge of the forest when more shots rang out. Jillian’s body jerked in response to the loud noise and she empathized with the poor birds. She put a hand up to rub the aching throb in her head and felt something warm and sticky just as the world began to swirl around her in mists of gray.

  “Ye’ve been shot!” Ian pulled her to the ground, throwing his body over hers.

  “Shot?” she asked weakly, trying to focus on Ian’s horrified face. W
arm, coppery-tasting liquid seeped into her mouth and she tried to spit.

  “Lie still, lass,” he murmured.

  Dimly, she was aware of other voices, of people surrounding her and Ian, who was angrily telling everyone to stay back. Then she felt herself being lifted in his strong arms.

  “Ye hang on, lass. I’ll get ye home,” he said.

  She smiled in spite of the burning pain on the side of the head. Somehow, she knew she would be safe in Ian’s arms, and all she wanted to do was sleep now.

  “I trust you,” she said and then her world went black.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jillian awoke in the morning to shuttered windows and the sound of rain pelting against them. Her head hurt and she reached up to feel a bandage on her temple.

  Mari put aside the embroidery she was working on and came to her side. “You’re awake finally. How are you feeling?”

  She blinked, trying to clear her vision. ‘I’ve been better. What happened?”

  Her sister twisted her fingers. “You were shot. Wesley says it was an accident, that you were close to a bevy of quail. Ian—Lord Cantford—doesn’t believe him, but he isn’t sure if the bullet was meant for you or him.”

  Jillian frowned. She dimly remembered feeling a hot streak of pain and Ian’s body on hers and then being lifted. Why would anyone want to shoot at either one of them? She looked around. “Where is Ian?”

  Mari rolled her eyes. “Darcy finally convinced him that he needed a bath. The man carried you in here, covered in dirt and blood and hasn’t left your side except to talk to Earl of Sherrington once for a few minutes. I’m sure he’ll be back—”

  Even as she spoke, the door opened and Ian stepped through, buttoning a clean shirt as he did. Weak as she was, a tiny thrill still ran through Jillian. His hair was slicked back and still damp from his bath. His shirt sleeves were rolled up revealing bronzed, muscled forearms and she could see just a dusting of hair across his broad chest from where the shirt remained open. As he neared the bed, she inhaled his uniquely heady scent. Mari gave her a sly smile and slipped from the room.

  He picked up her hand and sat on the edge of the bed. “The doctor is downstairs. Do ye want me to get him?”

  She started to shake her head and then stopped as a wave of dizziness swept through her. “Not yet. Tell me what happened.”

  His face darkened. “Someone shot at us. I think he meant to hit me, but missed.” He squeezed her hand. “Och, lass. Ye doona know how I felt when I saw ye hit. A wee bit closer and ye’d not be here.”

  She tried not to shake when that implication set in. “Who do you mean by ’he’?” she asked worriedly.

  “Newburn, of course. ’Tis no secret he dislikes me.”

  “But would he dare to be so bold? With so many people around?” Jillian struggled to sit and was grateful when Ian gently lifted her. “I mean,” she continued when he had propped pillows behind her head so she could rest against the headboard, “you’ve been living in his house. He could have…could have done…something…then.”

  “And who knows that he dinna try? Remember my saddle cinch breaking? It was a clean cut. The afternoon of archery practice when an arrow whizzed by us?”

  “The wind was gusty that day. The ladies weren’t experienced…”

  “Aye, but the men were there, helping them. Newburn was there.”

  “Still—”

  “There was also a letter that Lord Liverpool was supposed to find—” Ian summarized the events of that evening for Jillian, adding, “’Twas Newburn who made sure those ledgers were brought to the prime minister, lass.”

  Her hands twisted the sheets. “Then you aren’t safe here.”

  “Doona fash. I can take care of myself.”

  She looked at him, hoping that her face didn’t show the worry that she felt. “Promise me that you’ll stay in the middle of the crowd and not leave yourself vulnerable to another attack.”

  Ian moved closer and put his arms around her, drawing her close. “The crowds are gone, lass. Only Sherrington and his family remain.”

  Jillian leaned back so she could see his face. “Gone? There was to have been a dinner last night and then a ride to hounds today and a dance tonight—”

  “Shhh,” he said as she attempted to swing her legs over the side of the bed and get up. “Ye’ve been asleep for two days. Newburn told everyone to go home.”

  “Except for Sherrington.”

  Ian looked uncomfortable. “Well, that might have been my doing. I have need to discuss some things with the earl.”

  She looked at him questioningly and then realization sank in. She put her hands to her suddenly burning cheeks, hoping to hide the redness that she felt sure was flaming there. Ian had some things to discuss with the earl. Ian had been talking and laughing with Abigail the night before the hunt. Ian needed to become betrothed. He had decided on the earl’s daughter.

  The nausea she felt building up had nothing to do with her sore head or the slight bit of dizziness that still lingered. She had known this moment would come. Abigail was a smart, sensible girl. A good choice, even if Delia was her mother. The earl was honorable and so was Abigail. Jillian extracted herself from Ian’s embrace and scooted back against the headboard.

  Ian frowned. “What’s wrong, lass?”

  “Nothing,” she answered quickly, “it’s just that since you’ve made your decision, it’s not proper for you to hold me.”

  “Proper or not, I want to hold ye. I nearly lost ye—”

  “Stop! You shouldn’t be talking like that.” Jillian clenched the sheets again, drawing them up to her chin in a protective gesture.

  Ian took hold of her hands and brought them, along with the sheet, down into her lap. She tried to pull away, but he held them firmly, the backs of his hands warm against her thighs. As much as she knew she should not enjoy his touch so close to that private spot that brought so much pleasure, heat was already stirring there.

  “What are ye talking about? Maybe I should call for the doctor. Your wits seem to be addled.”

  “It’s not my wits, Ian. You can just tell me that you’ve decided to become betrothed to Abigail. I’ll understand.” Jillian kept her eyes down, afraid he would see the lie if she looked at him.

  He stared at her incredulously. “Where did ye get that idea? The child is scared of her own shadow, let alone… Nae, lass. Sherrington and I have other business to attend to. Ye must believe me.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers. “I plan to show ye where my intentions lie, once ye are a bit better.”

  There was a knock on the door and it opened to reveal Delia, carrying a tray with a bowl of broth and crusty bread. Darcy was practically stomping behind her.

  “I told her not to come up, mum,” the maid said.

  “Nonsense.” Delia balanced the tray in one hand and shooed a surprised Ian from the edge of the bed. “Every time William’s been wounded, our cook always made a strong broth for him. Nothing helps a person recover faster.” She sat down on the bed where Ian had been moments before and placed the tray in front of Jillian. “Eat.”

  The broth did seem enticingly good. Jillian’s stomach suddenly growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten in more than two days, but she regarded the bowl suspiciously.

  “It’s quite all right to eat it,” Delia said in an amused voice. “Your maid watched me ladle it from the kettle.”

  Jillian felt her face grow hot again. Did she really suspect Delia was trying to poison her? “Forgive me, Lady Sherrington. It’s just… Well, we’ve never been close. Why are you doing this?”

  “To ask for your forgiveness, of course,” she answered.

  “Forgiveness for what?” Ian interrupted and took the spoon from Jillian to test the thin soup himself.

  Delia arched a delicate eyebrow as she observed him. “If you want me to, I’ll share the bowl of soup with Jillian. I came only to make amends.”

  “Amends for what?” Jillian asked when Ian
handed back the spoon.

  “Well, you see…that unfortunate accident… My skirt got caught in some weeds when I moved toward the quail. I tripped… My gun went off. I think… I mean, I don’t know for sure, but I think maybe it was my bullet that went astray.” She looked at Ian and then back at Jillian. “It was an accident. I should never have been so clumsy. Will you believe me and accept my apologies?”

  Jillian felt swamped with relief. It made sense. She had seen how excited Delia had gotten with downing the last bird. The woman was impulsive and likely to have moved quickly without looking where she was going. This just proved that no one was trying to kill Ian.

  “Of course,” she said. “We won’t mention it again.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Delia said with a big smile and stood. “You are such a kind, understanding person. William will be relieved.”

  Jillian hardly heard the rest of what Delia said. All that mattered to Jillian was that Ian was not the target. And that he wasn’t betrothed. Yet.

  Ian wasn’t at all sure he trusted Delia’s motives, but at the moment he had no proof to actually doubt her. She had come forward with the admission that it was her gun that went off. The past two days, ever since Jillian had rejoined them downstairs, Delia had only displayed the best of manners.

  Still, the hair at his nape prickled, a sign that the kenning was trying to make itself heard. It was times like this that the gift became a curse. Even though he was fairly sure he dinna inherit any fey blood, it still ran in his family. The Faerie Flag of the Macleod’s had been given to an ancestor by a faerie princess, after all.

  “Ye are sure the messenger got on board the ship for France?” he asked Sherrington in the library later that morning.

  “Word will be waiting for me in London about that,” Sherrington said. “The man I sent to accompany him should return soon, and I will be taking my leave this afternoon to go back also.”

  Ian tried not to look too relieved. With Delia gone, he would rest easier about his suspicions. The next thing the earl said made his relief short-lived.

  “Unfortunately, Delia will not be accompanying me.”