Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1

by Cynthia Breeding

Ian arched an eyebrow and the two light-haired girls giggled. “A lord,” one of them said and poked the other.

  “Ye’d best not be giving yourself airs, Ian,” the flame-haired woman said with a wicked smile. “I still can take ye to task.”

  Ian shook his head at her and turned to Jillian. “That’s my sister, Bridget. She’s the bossy one, thinking because she’s the oldest—”

  “We doona need to talk about age, brother,” Bridget said with a mock frown upon her face. She waved her hand at the still-giggling twins. “They be Caitlin and Caylin, our cousins, sisters to Shane.” She indicated the big man and then drew the auburn-haired girl who looked like Jamie forward. “This is my sister, Shauna.”

  “And this is Fiona,” Ian said as he removed his arm from the girl’s shoulder. “Our youngest sister.”

  Jillian felt her knees go weak with relief. His sister.

  “Aye,” Bridget said with a sigh. “The one we try to keep out of trouble.”

  “I canna help it if trouble finds me,” she protested in a soft, breathy voice. “Ye know the old Crone of the Hills says I have fey blood.”

  Jillian could almost believe it. The girl had an otherworld quality about her. Jillian wondered if part of her trouble was keeping suitors at bay. Certainly, any of the young lords of the ton would be pushing and shoving to get to her side.

  “We doona need to be talking about faerie and scaring the English lass,” Bridget said firmly and then her gaze fell on Jillian’s hair and she looked almost startled.

  Jillian knew she must look a fright, as dirty and disheveled as she was from riding all day, but Bridget was not looking at her manly breeches and shirt. Nervously, Jillian tried to tuck the gold strands of hair that had come loose back into the darker chestnut braid. Was that what Bridge was looking at? The odd streak in her hair? She remembered Ian calling it faerie gold. Jillian gave herself a mental shake. This whole place seemed to belong to another time. If she didn’t stop thinking like this, she’d soon be looking around for a real faerie.

  “I’m sure Jillian would like a bath and a soft bed,” Ian said to Bridget.

  His sister blushed slightly. “’Tis sorry I am not to think of it. Come with me, Jillian. Or do ye prefer to be called your ladyship?” When Jillian shook her head, Bridget smiled warmly at her. “This way then.”

  Jillian had just a glimpse of a great hall to her left as they entered through the massive oak doors. Trestle tables filled the room and ancient weapons lined one wall. Along the others, colorful tapestries were hung, contrasting with the grey of the stone and no doubt keeping some of the chill out. At the far end, a large chair sat on a dais with a silken tapestry depicting a boar’s head with horns and the Macleod motto of Hold Fast above it.

  It looked like a king’s throne. Jillian had the strange feeling of being tossed back in time again, and for a moment she could imagine Robert the Bruce holding court and the clanging of armor and banging of pewter mugs on wood tables as the famed French knights who had rallied for him at Bannockburn filled the hall for a meal. She shook her head. What on earth was wrong with her? She wasn’t normally given to such fanciful thoughts.

  Bridget led her up the stairs to a room on the second floor. Within minutes, ghillies arrived, one carrying a hip bath that he set behind a screen. Others came with buckets of warm water. Another girl brought scented soap and a soft linen night rail that she laid on the feather bed.

  “Ye must be tired,” Bridget said as she shooed the last ghillie out. “I’ll have some food sent up and then ye can rest. The family can wait ’til the morn to get to know ye.”

  Jillian was grateful for that small retrieve. Ian had said nothing about why she was here—perhaps he could fill them in. From the curious looks she’d been given, she knew they were all brimming to ask, but Highland hospitality, as the old Medieval rule of not asking a man’s name until he had eaten, probably forbid it.

  Just as well, she thought as she sank down into the tub that had a convenient bench built into it. The hot water over her shoulders was already relaxing weary muscles. The only thing that could feel better would be if Ian were to come into the room.

  She shivered a little at that wanton thought. When had she ever wanted to have a man come upon her in a bath? Never. But somehow, being found naked by Ian was very appealing. He’d already seen her back and he hadn’t been repulsed. And the things he did to her front—suckling her breasts while his expert fingers stroked between her legs… Warmth spread through her lower body that had nothing to do with the bathwater.

  She soaked, hoping he would come, but knowing that he probably would be talking to his family for quite a while. She reluctantly left the tub when the water cooled, towel-dried her hair and slipped into the soft gown that smelled faintly of heather.

  The stew, soft bread and hard cheese that a ghillie had left on the table on the other side of the screen tasted better than any of the fancy French soups and entrees that were served at English dinner parties. Jillian ate ravenously, surprising herself at how suddenly her appetite had returned. She smiled to herself as she scraped the bowl clean. Her sister would be shocked at such improper manners.

  She looked at the bed. Bridget had turned down the huge blue and green plaid with its red stripes and the crisp, white sheets beckoned to her. What would it feel like, having Ian lying beside her tonight? Possibly waking up to him in the morning? She had seen the hungry looks he had given her the past week as they rode north. He could hardly have done anything with her—or to her…she felt a delightful tingle between her legs at what he might do there—with all his men about. But tonight…after the household had quieted down, would he slip away?

  She lay down on the bed to wait. Surely, he would come.

  “Ye brought a sassenach back with ye!” Duncan MacNair glowered at his nephew as they sat across from each other in the old map room that Shane had converted into a library. “Are ye daft leading the vile English here?”

  Ian took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. It was late and his uncle had arrived just as they sat down to eat. It was just as well that Bridget had sent food up for Jillian. Meeting Duncan would be more daunting than he had thought.

  “I’ve already told ye that the lass was in danger.”

  Duncan snorted. “And ye left Jamie there to protect her sister? Are ye so barmy about the English then?”

  This was boggy ground that Ian trod on. Thanks to the rumors spread by that Tredeau mon, his uncle already thought he favored the English. He sighed. “I told ye that I left Jamie to see over the lands. I dinna have time to learn who is to be trusted.”

  Duncan looked a bit more mollified. “At least ye had sense to do that.”

  “Thank ye,” Ian said with barely concealed sarcasm.

  “As laird,” Shane interrupted, “we shouldna question Ian’s decision.”

  “Faugh!” Duncan replied. “The clan must be able to trust the laird.” He narrowed his eyes. “It there truth to the rumor that the English whoreson wants ye to marry an English lass?”

  Ian arched a brow. “Ye would do well not to refer to the prince regent as such. Even here, there may be big ears about.”

  “Not within these walls,” Duncan said emphatically. “Answer the question.”

  “’Tis true the prince would want to bind me to the land with an English heir,” Ian admitted slowly, “but I wilna be bartered nor will I take a wife I doona want.”

  His uncle sat back and appraised him. “’Tis well then. Ye can have your pick of bonnie Scot lasses. If the whoreson is so set on having an heir in place, let it be a clanswoman that gives him one. Perhaps the Dugall lass?”

  Ian bit back a retort. Margaret Dugall’s father was a formidable neighbor, which was the reason Duncan had wanted the alliance for years. She was a biddable lass who was even more timid than Sherrington’s daughter was. As far as he could remember, she’d never had an opinion about anything, unlike Jillian. Margaret reminded him of a little, brown wren and ju
st as fragile. He’d probably do her serious injury if he ever tried to… He stopped. He couldn’t imagine even trying to bed her. She couldn’t possibly be capable of stirring his passions the way Jillian did. Just thinking about her, upstairs in a soft bed made his loins tighten. Damn. This was probably not the time to inform his uncle that he planned to marry Jillian.

  He’d fully intended to tell his family tonight that he and Jillian were to be hand-fasted according to the old ways. Fantasies of Jillian lying naked beneath him, the nipples of her full breasts tight and budded while he fondled the dampness between her silken thighs kept him in a near fever pitch through all of the preliminary conversations before his uncle arrived. By the time they returned to England, he would have pleasured her in so many ways that she would not be able to deny that marriage was best for both of them.

  He clenched his fists beneath the table. If he couldn’t tell his uncle, he couldn’t tell anyone else either. And that meant he wouldna be able to visit Jillian tonight or any night while his uncle was here. Hand-fasted, his people would accept her presence in his bed. He would not do her the discourtesy of having his people think she was his leman.

  He pushed back his chair and stood. “I’ll decide who to wed and when. Now, I’m going to bed. It’s been a long ride.”

  “Aye.” Duncan stood. “I believe I’ll hie myself upstairs too.”

  They climbed the stairs and Ian opened the door to the first chamber. “This should do well, I think.”

  Ian almost paused when he came to Jillian’s door. The temptation to try the handle was like a siren calling to a sailor.

  He forced himself to move on. He hadn’t heard the latch click on his uncle’s door and the last thing he needed right now was for Duncan to think he favored anything English, including Jillian.

  But his cock protested all the way to his own room. It was going to be a long night. A very long night.

  Jillian wandered along the stone path that led to the small chapel behind the keep. Ian had ridden out earlier that morning and his sisters had given her a tour of the main castle that morning after breakfast. “Breaking their fast” they had called it, and once again she had felt like she had been transported to another time.

  The chapel drew her. She wasn’t quite sure why since she wasn’t particularly religious. Certainly, she had never gotten caught up in the battle between the Whigs and Tories over the matter of Catholic emancipation. Why couldn’t they just get along? It seemed an irony to her that they fought when the basis for most religions was peace and goodwill. Still, something about this tiny building captivated her.

  The floor was covered in the same black and white marble checkerboard as the hall at Cantford, and above the altar, instead of a cross, a leaded-glass window had been cut. The cross-inside-a-square-inside-a-circle was the same design as the window at Cantford. Before she had time to explore the rest of the room, she heard footsteps.

  “Bridget said I’d find ye here,” Ian said as his large frame filled the doorway and he stepped inside.

  She wasn’t sure if she was relieved to see him or if she should be piqued at him for not coming to her room last night. But no. She would not let him know how hurt she was. “It’s a quiet place.”

  Ian smiled. “Aye. My sisters can be a bit wearing at times.”

  She felt herself blush. “No. That’s not what I meant. They have been very nice.”

  “And full of questions?”

  Jillian found herself returning the smile. “Well, Fiona was.”

  “’Tis what gets her into trouble half the time,” Ian agreed. “Ye doona have to answer them though.”

  “So Bridget told me,” Jillian replied and then pointed to the unusual window. “Your great-grandfather must have wanted to take a bit of his Scottish home with him when he moved to Cantford.”

  Ian nodded. “A wee bit of his heritage.”

  Jillian wrinkled her brow. “A window is heritage? How so?”

  He came to stand beside her near the altar and she inhaled the unique scent of him mingled with horse and leather. Why did just his nearness send spirals of heat pulsing through her?

  “The design is special,” Ian said. “It’s called Rosarium Philosophorum—the key to knowledge and the sum of all things.”

  She forced herself to concentrate on the conversation. “But I thought you said there was a window like this at the church by Edinburgh.”

  “Aye. Rosslyn Chapel. ’Tis a very interesting place, if ye know what to look for. But this chapel was built long before the Sinclairs built Rosslyn.”

  “Just how old is it?”

  “The cornerstone says 1320. The Bruce deeded the land himself.”

  She felt her eyes widen. “Did your ancestor fight at Bannockburn?”

  “Aye. He did. Our seannachie tell tales of how Godfroi Payns fought beside the Bruce. Some even say he helped turned the tide of that battle.”

  “Godfroi sounds like a French name.”

  “’Twas. He married a Macleod woman and took her surname.”

  “How unusual for a man to give up his name.”

  “It was safer. King Edward had been ordered by the Pope to imprison any French knights in England, and since he thought Scotland was rightfully his—”

  “Wait. Edward was instructed to hunt Templars… Oh! Are you telling me that your ancestor was…?” Jillian felt a chill run down her spine. Just last night she’d almost expected to see armored knights in the courtyard, but she’d been thinking about King Arthur’s, not Templars… There definitely was a time distortion. She gave herself a mental shake. Next thing she’d be believing in faerie magic. Scotland was having an influence on her. “Are you telling me that your ancestor was a Knight Templar?”

  “Aye. Although it had to be kept secret for years. That’s why this chapel was built. Any Templar entering here and seeing that window would know it was a symbol of knowledge. And, if a mon wasna sure, he only needed to look at the floor.”

  Jillian looked down. “The floor?”

  “Aye. They were also known as the Knights of the Black and White for their flag—the beauseant—was half-black and half-white.”

  “Was your great-grandfather a Templar?”

  Ian frowned. “I doona know. If they still exist, they have kept it well-hidden.”

  “Like the treasure that was never found?” Jillian asked.

  He raised an eyebrow. “For a lass, ye know your history.”

  “I read a lot.”

  “Good. Then would ye want to learn about Clan Macleod? Shane has collected as many stories as he can find.”

  She smiled. “I would like that.”

  “Ye can start with this.” Ian took hold of her shoulders and turned her around to face the back wall.

  Her mind centered on his touch. His warm, strong fingers slid down the length of her arms, and for a moment she thought he might cup her breasts and pull her back against him his hard chest. Of course, she didn’t expect him to do much more than that. They were in a chapel, after all. But maybe a kiss…

  “Do ye like it?”

  She blinked, bringing herself out of her reverie and gave a little gasp. In the center of the wall, a mural had been painted, but it was no Madonna with her Child. Instead, it was a battle scene, with bodies littering the ground and a tartan-clothed man sitting astride a huge horse, a claymore lifted in one hand and a banner of crimson and yellow in the other. The man’s eyes never left her face no matter which way she turned.

  “It’s very realistic,” she said slowly. “Who is he?”

  “’Tis Leod, our first chief, son of Olaf the Black, King of Man,” Ian replied, “but what he carries is what is important. ’Tis the Faerie Flag.”

  Jillian moved closer. Whoever the artist had been, he had been good. She could almost see the silk banner waving in the wind. “Interesting,” she said, “but what is a painting of a battle doing in a chapel?”

  “’Tis in honor of Godfroi’s wife, the Macleod,” Ian replied. �
��The seannachie say it has to do with the balance of power.”

  “Between husband and wife or between Christian and pagan?” Jillian asked as she studied the painting further.

  “Perhaps a wee bit of both,” Ian said as he came up behind her and rested a hand on her shoulder. “If ye look closely, ye will see the Green Man etched into the tree at the side of the battlefield and, at the base of the tree, perched amid the buttercups that were left untouched by the blood and gore, sits a wee faerie. Do ye see her?”

  Jillian squinted, all too aware of how close his fingers were to her breast. If she turned just a bit… No. She would not throw herself at him. She leaned forward. The artist had painted the faerie so ethereally that she blended in with the flowers, the reddish brown hair forming a stem while the wash of gold in her hair blended in with the yellow flowers. “I see her.”

  Ian’s breath tickled her ear as he whispered, “Do ye see the streak of faerie gold in her hair? ’Tis like yours.”

  Jillian felt another small chill slip down her spine, although whether from the uncanny portrait or the fact that Ian’s mouth as only an inch from hers, she didn’t know. She turned slightly and Ian’s lips brushed hers just as a shadow filled the open doorway.

  John stood scowling at both of them. “Broc Moffat be here, stirring up Duncan. Ye’d better come.”

  Ian cursed under his breath as he walked back to the keep. The timing couldn’t have been worse. That stolen, small kiss had just whetted his appetite for more of Jillian’s deliciously soft lips and warm, pliant mouth. Standing so close to her had inflamed every nerve ending in his body. The last thing he wanted to do was have a conversation with his hard-headed uncle and his hair-trigger brother.

  “Why do ye need to protect an Englishwoman?” Broc demanded when Ian had barely cleared the doorway to the parlor where the men waited.

  Duncan had lost no time in telling Broc about Jillian. Ian managed to keep his voice civil. “She’s a widow. ’Tis her own stepson that is the danger. I would expect a mon to do the same for my sisters, nae?”