Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Why not? The roads are good. If you need an escort, I’m sure Newburn can provide one.”

  Sherrington grimaced. “Newburn asked her to stay. Since Jillian is still recovering, Delia has been asked to act as hostess for him. There are still social obligations, even in the country.”

  Ian lifted both brows. “Ye’re her husband. If ye tell Newburn she’s leaving with ye, he can do naught about it.”

  “Perhaps,” Sherrington agreed dryly, “but you don’t know Delia. There would be hell to pay. Frankly, her tongue can cut like a blade. Men tire of that quickly. It’s better Newburn finds out firsthand rather than my forcing the issue. I’ll leave Abigail here with her mother. Maybe that will help keep her in line.”

  Ian shook his head slightly. “I doona think I will ever understand your Society rules. If a woman were to shame her husband in the Highlands, she would be cast out from the clan’s protection.”

  Sherrington nodded. “A good rule. It would certainly keep a number of men from being killed in duels.” He sighed. “But I have my daughter to think about. Once I secure a solid marriage for her, things may change.”

  Conflicting emotions ran through Ian’s mind. Irritation that English Society insisted on such trivialities as invitations to parties and balls and where a lass might live or whether there was any scandal in her family. Jillian was battling the same thing for Mari. ’Tis the reason Jillian kept insisting that he become betrothed. A wee bit of guilt also plagued him, for Abigail was a fine lass. She was steady and responsible and would be comely if her mother dressed her differently.

  “The lads be fools if they canna see the beauty in your daughter,” Ian said. “She’s got more intelligence in her little finger than the whole group of silly, giggling lasses that flounce about.”

  “I don’t suppose you would consider asking for her hand?” Sherrington asked.

  Guilt flooded Ian again. If his heart weren’t already given to Jillian—who dinna want it—he would consider the girl. “I am honored that ye think me suitable, especially after what happened with your…ah, well, with what happened.”

  “The reason I didn’t shoot you is because you’re an honorable man, Cantford. But—” he tilted his head slightly to study Ian, “—I suspect your intentions lie elsewhere.” Ian shifted uncomfortably and Sherrington raised a hand to cut off a response. “Don’t explain. I just had to ask. For Abigail.” He walked to the door and turned before stepping out into the hall. “I hope things work out for you. Lady Newburn needs a good man in her life.”

  Ian stared after him. Was he as readily transparent as that or was the earl even more astute than Ian had thought? In either case, Sherrington was right.

  Jillian needed a good mon. And that mon’s name was Ian Macleod.

  The soldier on duty on the ramparts near the gatehouse sounded his horn the next morning while Ian was finishing breakfast. Jillian looked up from her plate.

  “Riders? At this hour?”

  Ian’s nape hairs rose. The soldiers didn’t sound that particular horn if they knew who approached. Were the strangers friends or foe? He cursed softly under his breath. Wesley should be up at this hour to greet whoever was outside the gates and to call his men to arms if need be.

  “I’m sure there’s nothing wrong,” Jillian said as she rose to her feet.

  Ian rose too. “Ye stay here.” He went through the hall and to the front door, taking time to strap on the sword he kept hanging there, much to Mrs. Willows’ displeasure and Adams’s delight. He flung open the door just as he heard the captain of the guard yell, “You can ‘t go in there.”

  “Nae? Ye willna stop me. I’ve near ridden my poor beastie to death—”

  “Jamie?” Ian asked as he ran down the steps into the courtyard to greet his brother with a bear hug. “What are ye doing here? What is wrong that ye couldna send a messenger? Who is protecting the clan?”

  “Och, if ye’ll stop knocking the wind out of me, I’ll tell ye,” Jamie gasped as he stepped away from Ian. “Shane is in charge. As for the rest,” he looked around at the curious soldiers who had gathered around him and his small band of men, “’tis for your ears only, brother.”

  Ian forced himself to take a calming breath. If Shane Macleod, their cousin, were in charge, all should be well. Shane was the thinker in the family, not one to be easily swayed. He was also huge, a man whose looks intimidated and hid the scholarly soul beneath the braw warrior. Still, if Jamie had seen the need to bring this news to Ian himself, something was very wrong.

  “Come with me,” he said and turned, only to bump into Jillian.

  He glowered at her. “Dinna I tell ye to stay inside?”

  She met his gaze calmly. “I did, until I realized this was your brother. It would be rude of me not to greet him.” She moved around Ian to smile at Jamie. “I am Lady Newburn. I’m afraid my stepson, the marquis, is indisposed at the moment. Welcome to Newburn Hall.”

  Jamie grinned and gave his brother a knowing look. Ian looked heavenward. He could already read the unspoken questions in his brother’s tawny eyes.

  “’Tis a pleasure. My brother’s letter said naught that ye were beautiful.”

  Ian watched as Jillian’s lovely ivory skin turned pink and jealousy such as he had never known pierced through him. He wanted Jillian to blush only for him. Damn his good-looking brother’s sorry hide. How many times had he watched the lasses stumble over their own feet when Jamie bestowed that smile on them? Even now, his eyes deepened to the color of malt whisky, a sure sign that he was about to move in on his prey. Ian stepped between them. “This way,” he said between clenched teeth.

  “Aye,” Jamie said, but his eyes didn’t leave Jillian’s face. “I look forward to seeing ye later then.”

  Ian said no more until they were seated in the library with the door closed. “What’s the trouble, Jamie?”

  His brother’s face lost the half-smile he’d been wearing. “There are rumors.”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “That ye are becoming an Englishmon.”

  “Bah! Ye doona ken how ridiculous English Society is. ’Tis a never-ending round of parties and balls and silly lasses. I grow weary of it all.”

  A corner of Jamie’s mouth quirked up. “Really? Have ye grown tired of the young widow so soon?”

  “Ye leave her out of this.”

  Jamie’s grin widened. “So it’s like that?”

  Ian clenched his jaw. “’Tis not like anything. Ye just leave her alone.”

  “I doona think I’ve seen ye so flustered, big brother. The lass must be—”

  “Silence! Ye’ll say no more!” Ian roared.

  Jamie’s golden eyes locked onto his for a moment, rather like a wolf deciding if the bear he’d cornered was worth the fight. Then he shrugged. “I’m not here to battle ye. We have bigger concerns. Our die-hard uncle, Duncan, has challenged the leadership of the clan.”

  “What?” Ian couldn’t believe his ears. Duncan MacNair was his mother’s younger brother and still believed strongly that Bonnie Prince Charlie should have won the war and that the English were nothing more than mad dogs. “What’s got him in such a lather?”

  “A Frenchmon came north not long after ye went south. He asked questions about the French who live on our land.”

  Ian wrinkled his forehead. “Andre Picard and Henri Robillard? What did he want with them? And who was this mon?”

  “His name was Louis Tredeau. They said he asked questions about their allegiance to France. Whether they would be willing to help Napoleon if he needed it.”

  Ian felt as though his stallion had just kicked him. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the letter to Marshal Ney was found in the ledger while Liverpool was visiting and a Frenchmon was on his lands asking questions. The name Louis Tredeau didn’t mean anything to Ian, but the scheme reeked of Wesley Alton.

  “Go on. How did Duncan get involved in this?”

  “Tredeau was blethering on in the pub that y
e were doing well on your estate. So well that ye were planning to take an English wife…” Jamie paused, but Ian kept his face expressionless. “Well, ye know what kind of an uproar that brought. Then Tredeau said ye would be sending an Englishmon north to manage your lands.”

  Ian clenched his fists. “Ye know I would never turn our lands over to the English. I am the laird!”

  “I ken. But the Frenchmon was most persuasive, especially after he bought drams for everyone. He says ye have found favor with the prince, that he wants ye betrothed to an Englishwoman and that ye are to send an Englishmon to manage in your stead. Broc Moffat was there…”

  Ian groaned. Broc was a by-blow of Ian’s grandfather and half-brother to Duncan. Moffat had asked to court Fiona, but Ian had forbidden it, mostly because his sister had begged him not to marry her to the man. “And Broc spread the rumor to Duncan?”

  Jamie nodded. “Ye know how hot-tempered Duncan is and pig-headed as well. Once he has the notion in his noggin, ’tis only a tree trunk that can dislodge it.”

  What Jamie said was true. The man had a vile temper, but he was a strong warrior and respected by most of his men. What was worse, Ian couldn’t deny at least part of the rumor. His only meeting with the prince had gone favorably and the prince did want him betrothed to an Englishwoman.

  “There’s only one way to stop him,” Jamie said.

  Ian began to pace and ran his fingers through his hair, knowing what he had to do. “Aye,” he said at last. “I must come home to Scotland.”

  Jillian sipped her wine slowly at dinner that night. Her stomach had been unsettled since the accident, and for some reason the wine tasted bitter, but that probably had more to do with her thoughts than the actual wine.

  Ian had told her earlier that he would have to return to Scotland to settle some dispute over leadership. Although she understood his reasons, a part of her would miss him tremendously, even though she should feel relieved at the separation. It would help her adjust to his moving to his own estate when he returned and took a wife.

  “Would either of ye ladies care for more pudding?” Jamie asked as he picked up the serving spoon. He turned to his right and smiled at Abigail. She blushed furiously, seemingly unable to speak.

  “It’s impolite not to answer the man,” Delia snapped from across the table.

  Her daughter’s flush deepened. “Yes, please,” she managed to say.

  Jamie’s gaze sharpened on Delia for a moment before he served Abigail. Then he turned to his left, “Mari?”

  She raised her chin. “I do not believe we know each other well enough for first names, Mr. Macleod.”

  Jamie grinned. “I can change that if ye’ll do me the honor of strolling with me later.”

  Mari’s eyes widened. “That would be most improper.”

  “It would,” Ian added with a glare towards his brother.

  Jamie regarded his brother for a long moment and then he turned back to Mari. “My brother seems to be most protective of ye and your sister. Perhaps I might have the pleasure of your company in the parlor then?”

  “I believe I’ll retire after dinner. I have a bit of a headache,” Mari said.

  Jillian frowned. Mari was on the brink of being rude and Jillian didn’t understand why. Jamie had carried on an easy banter with both girls through the afternoon, although poor Abigail seemed only to retreat further into her shell at such attention. Mari usually reveled in it, but Jamie seemed to irritate her.

  Jillian studied Ian’s brother through lowered lashes. He wasn’t quite as tall as Ian and his shoulders weren’t as broad, but the saffron shirt and kilt he wore did little to hide well-defined muscles in arms and legs. His shoulder-length hair was dark, although burnished with streaks of auburn rather than the ebony black of Ian’s. His unusual tawny-colored eyes gave his angular face a rather exotic look. She wondered why her sister wasn’t more intrigued. Delia had lost no time in trying to flirt with him, much to Wesley’s consternation.

  Jillian’s stomach cramped suddenly and she laid down her napkin. “I believe I might need to retire as well.”

  “Are ye ill?” Ian asked.

  Jillian forced a smile. “I’m just tired. It’s just taking me longer to recover from the accident than I thought it would.” She turned to Mari. “I believe one of us should remain as hostess, don’t you?”

  Her sister looked as though she were about to disagree, and Jillian frowned slightly at her.

  “There’s no need for her to remain if she’d rather not,” Delia said sweetly. “I don’t mind being hostess. After all, it’s the reason Lord Newburn asked me to stay while you recover.”

  Jillian was quite sure that wasn’t the reason Wesley had asked Delia to stay, but the woman did keep him occupied and away from her. With Ian leaving, the last thing she wanted to do was insult Delia and have her leave too.

  “Of course,” she said. “We’d be most grateful.”

  “You go upstairs then,” Delia answered. “I’ll send up a draught to help you sleep and you’ll be fine in the morning.”

  Jillian’s stomach was threatening to empty its contents. With a quick nod, she left the room. Once there, she let Darcy help her undress and crawled under the covers just as the door opened and a maid stepped inside with a goblet in her hand.

  “Lady Sherrington said ye were to drink this.”

  Darcy took it and sniffed suspiciously. ‘What’s in it?”

  The maid shrugged. “Chamomile tea, I think, with a bit of mint.”

  Darcy took a cautious sip. “It seems all right.”

  “Of course it is,” Jillian said as she took the cup. “We may not like Lady Sherrington, but she has been helpful these past few days. I really think she’s making an effort to apologize by coddling me. You run along, Darcy. I’ll be fine.”

  The maid extinguished the oil lamps but left a candle burning by the bedside. Jillian sipped some of the tea as she thought about the coming days without Ian. She missed him already and he wasn’t even gone. What would she do when he was married?

  She set the cup down. The tea suddenly started to taste bitter as the wine had. If she didn’t stop torturing herself about Ian, soon she would not be able to eat anything.

  With a sigh, she blew out the candle and closed her eyes. Tomorrow, she would have to say good-bye.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ian almost changed his mind about going to Scotland when he saw Jillian the next morning. She was pale and there were circles under her eyes as though she hadn’t slept at all. He had gotten little sleep himself, with his cock hard all night wanting the satisfaction of plunging itself deep within her hot, wet sheath.

  By the auld gods. He had intended to spend their last night together making wild, passionate love in as many different positions as he could think of before he left. He wanted to lie with her spooned against him when they were both exhausted and bury his nose in her rose-scented hair. Scents and memories that would stay with him while he was gone. But Jillian had truly been ill, whether she admitted it or not, and he worried about leaving her.

  “Are ye sure ye are all right?” he asked for what seemed like the hundredth time as he stood by his horse in the courtyard.

  “I’m just tired,” she said with a wavering smile. “I promise I’ll rest and recuperate while you’re gone.”

  He wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her and slant his mouth across hers in a long kiss, but there were others in the courtyard waiting to see them off. With a small sigh, he took her hand and bent over it.

  “Take care, Lady Newburn. I’ll return to Cantford as soon as I can.” He straightened and gave her a look that he hoped conveyed the message that he would be returning for her, and then vaulted on to his horse. His small band cantered out. He turned to wave to Jillian before the bend in the road obscured his view.

  They rode for several miles in silence before Jamie finally spoke. “Ye are needed in Scotland, Ian.”

  “Aye. Am I nae going?” Ian
barked and then sighed as his brother arched an eyebrow. “’Twill be good to see the Highlands again,” he said in a calmer voice.

  “But your heart is with the lass, I think,” Jamie replied. “Will ye marry her?”

  “She wilna have me.”

  “What?” A look of righteous indignation crossed Jamie’s face. “Ye are a laird. Are the woman’s wits addled?”

  “Nae.” Ian supposed he should be grateful that Jamie didn’t decide to tease him unmercifully about a woman turning him down. They’d always had a friendly competition about their ability to charm the lasses. His misery must truly be showing in his face. “She says I need a wife who will give me an heir.” He took a deep breath. “She canna give me a child.”

  A corner of Jamie’s mouth lifted. “I take it ye tried?”

  Ian started to glare at him, but saw only sympathy on his brother’s face. “I doona wish to discuss it.”

  Jamie shrugged. “I’m only trying to help. Though if she’s as cold as that sister of hers—”

  “She is nae cold.” Ian thought about the brittle ice that Jillian had wrapped her heart in when he first met her. He knew he’d melted some of those layers, but would he ever be able to convince her that her heart was safe with him? “Mari is barely more than a child.”

  “A self-centered one.”

  “Are ye sure ’tis not your pride that’s hurt?” Ian asked.

  “Nae,” Jamie denied and then grinned. “Well, a wee bit maybe. The lass is comely, after all. Perhaps I’ll have to be more persuasive.”

  “Mari has her heart set on her Season next year. Ye’ll not fit in any more than I did. If ye wish to woo an English lass, why not think about Abigail?”

  “That timid mouse?” Jamie laughed. “She would be better suited for Shane’s serious discussions of scientific theory.”

  Ian thought about that. Their cousin, even though he had been raised to fight as all Highlanders were, much preferred to stick his head in a book when he had time. They might make a good pair at that. Then he shook himself. What was he doing, trying to play matchmaker? A mon dinna concern himself with such.