Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1

by Cynthia Breeding

Diverted, Broc looked furtively around. “Where is Fiona?”

  “I believe they’ve all gone to the village. ’Tis Market Day.” Fiona had practically been dancing with impatience to be gone from their hostile visitor when he’d turned Jillian over to her and Bridget. He hoped he could conclude this visit before they returned.

  Broc looked at him suspiciously. “It seems strange that your sisters would not greet a visitor.”

  Ian knew Broc blamed him for Fiona’s rejection of his marriage proposal. In all honesty, even if his beautiful, impish sister had been at all interested, Ian would not have given his permission. In addition to the age difference, Moffat drank too much and his fiery temper turned dangerous when he was drunk.

  “An oversight. I’m sure they were anxious to see the new wares the tinkers and craftsmen have brought. So why are ye here?”

  “We want to know where your allegiance lies.”

  “We?”

  “Your clansmen,” Broc answered. “’Tis brought to us that ye like being an English earl.”

  “I accepted the title because I need the income from the lands to help the clan,” Ian said evenly. “I told ye all that when I left.”

  Broc’s eyes narrowed. “’Tis said ye made a pact with the prince to marry an Englishwoman. Be it that one ye brought?”

  “My marriage plans—or lack of them—are none of yer business.” Ian was getting tired of having Jillian attacked. He knew the one thing both of these crabbit men would understand. “Although ’twould not be a bad match. Her lands lie next to mine and she breeds some fine Andalusian horses that would be a boon to our own herds.”

  It wasn’t altogether a lie. Even though Jillian may lose the land, Ian had concluded a bargain with Sherrington to purchase Gunnar and two mares from Wesley. They would be a surprise wedding gift to Jillian.

  As he thought they would, both men’s faces lit up with greed at the idea of such wealth.

  “So,” he said as he sat down and casually stretched out his long legs. “Who is this person who spread these rumors? What do ye ken of him?”

  Duncan looked almost guilty. “I dinna meet him. Broc did though.”

  “Aye. Louis Tredeau. A generous man, even if he were French,” Broc said.

  “What was he doing here?”

  “He said he had to leave France quickly because he had sided with King Louis and when Napoleon returned, he werena safe. He heard Scotland housed some French and he came searching for possible relatives.”

  The hairs on his nape rose. Something dinna feel right. “If the mon fled France, how did he know what was happening in England? Specifically with me?”

  For a moment, Broc looked nonplussed. “I… He dinna say… Nae. Wait. He did say he visited a friend in London who had recently left France.”

  Wesley Alton. Ian had no doubt of it. But he needed to know why. “Were either of the Frenchmen living on the edge of our lands his relatives?”

  “Nae,” Duncan cut in. “Neither Picard or Robillard knew him. Strange, though…” He paused.

  Ian’s nape hairs nearly stood on edge. “What is strange?”

  “They wanted nothing to do with him. Nearly kicked him off their places. I ne’re seen a Frenchman do that before. They usually stick together like fish guts.”

  Interesting. It was time to pay a call on his French neighbors.

  Jillian looked around in amazement at the bustling activity in the small village on Market Day. There was everything from a tinker selling metal wares to merchants with smooth bolts of linen and muslins to food. The smell of herring and other fish wafted across one end of the strip of road used by the vendors, surprisingly not causing her stomach to turn, while along another part came the delicious smell of warm breads and rolls, along with the spicy scents of meat pasties.

  People jostled each other and laughed, the women exclaiming over new items they discovered while the few men who attended stayed mainly near the wooden stand that supplied several large casks of what probably was whisky.

  Bridget had led the maids with their baskets in the direction of the vegetable stands. Shauna and Fiona were admiring a shiny silver bracelet nearby. Jillian decided to wander a bit.

  Scotland was so different from the confines of dirty, sooty London. Up here the air was clean and crisp. When the sun shone, the sky was such a bright blue that she almost had to squint and the water in the tumbling burns as clear as anything she’d ever drunk, even in the country at Newburn.

  It was the people, though, who amazed her the most. There was an open friendliness about them. Although she had gotten several curious looks because she was a stranger and obviously dressed as an Englishwoman, no one had been rude. They had accepted that she was a guest of the laird.

  Jillian walked around a corner to where some smaller stands were set up. Here housewives were selling homemade jellies and jams as well as crafts. At the far end, almost tucked away from sight, was a table with pieces of brightly threaded cloth. She picked up an intricately embroidered square of linen depicting a battle scene similar to the one in the chapel. It even had the tree and the buttercups, but she could see no faerie. In any event, the warrior was carrying the faerie flag. She ran a finger over the material noticing the absences of knots in the well-done work and then looked at the old, white-haired woman, bent with age, who had made it. How much pain had those crooked fingers endured to produce this?

  “’Tis a fine piece, nae?” the woman said in a surprisingly strong voice.

  “It is indeed. What are you asking for it?” Jillian replied.

  The old woman’s dark eyes studied her and Jillian had a feeling that they didn’t miss much.

  “Tell me what ye want it for.”

  “I’d like to make a pillow cover with it,” Jillian answered, “to remember my visit here.” It would give her something to remember Ian by when she returned to London and he was settled in Cantford with a wife who could provide heirs. She pushed the thought aside. It was much too nice of a day to be bothered with the future.

  She paid the price the woman asked, even though she knew she was expected to barter for it. She didn’t want anything, not even haggling, to mar this exquisite piece of work. Besides, the old woman had put a lot of work into this piece, and from the looks of her threadbare clothing, probably could use the money.

  Jillian was walking past a wooden stall that sagged at one end and held a small collection of shiny stones when a child stepped out from a ragged curtain that had been hung behind the stall.

  “Would ye buy a stone, my lady?” the little girl asked with a winsome smile.

  Jillian smiled back at her. She was a tiny, fragile-looking child who could have been no more than five or six years old. Her long, brown hair was streaked with shades of sun-brushed gold and the thin, green muslin dress matched her eyes. She was intriguing. “I might. Where is your mother?”

  The child shrugged. “Don’t have one.”

  Jillian’s heart went out to the waif. “Who takes care of you?”

  She shrugged again. “I have friends.” Her eyes widened beguilingly. “Will ye buy a stone?”

  She couldn’t refuse. She’d ask Bridget later about the little girl and see what could be done. “I will.” She reached down to pick up a stone with some specks of blue in it.

  “Not that one,” the child said.

  Jillian looked at her in surprise. “Why not? I like it.”

  “’Tis not the right stone.” She picked up a different one and held it out.

  For someone so young, she seemed very insistent. Still, Jillian would humor her. It didn’t matter which stone she took if it made the poor child feel better. She held out her hand and the child dropped the stone into it.

  It was a smooth brown stone, but when Jillian started to turn it over, she saw a yellow streak flash through it. She moved it back and forth. Each time, she could see the golden light that seemed to be hidden in the stone.

  “It’s very pretty,” she said.

  Th
e little girl smiled impishly. “’Tis a faerie stone.”

  One thing that could be said for the Scots, Jillian thought, was that they took their faeries seriously. Even Ian. She nodded, deciding to play along. “Then it is very special.”

  The child nodded. “Aye. If ye be in trouble, ye call on the faerie inside the stone. She will come.”

  “That’s nice to know,” Jillian said and handed the child a gold coin that should keep her clothed and fed until arrangements could be made for a place for her to stay. “I’ll take good care of it.” She tucked it into her pocket carefully. “Thank you.”

  Jillian hurried back to the main part of the market, anxious to find Bridget. She caught up with all three sisters close to the food carts.

  “We were just about to have a pastie,” Bridget said. “Would ye care for one?”

  “Not right now,” Jillian answered a little breathlessly from walking so fast. “There a little girl at the very end of the market who would though. She told me she has no mother.”

  Bridget frowned. “All the bairns in this village have mothers. There have been no deaths that I know of.” She turned to her sisters. “Do either of you know of a child with no mother?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “She’s right over there,” Jillian pointed and then asked for a pastie. “Come with me while I give her this. Perhaps arrangements could be made to take her to the keep until a relative is found?”

  “Aye,” Bridget said as they hurried back across the dirt track. “Ian would have my head if I left a child to fend for herself.”

  They rounded the last corner and Jillian stopped. The stall and the curtain were gone. There was no sign of a little girl.

  Bridget looked at her, puzzled. “Where is she?”

  “I…I don’t know. She was right here. There was a stand with stones…” Jillian looked at all three sisters and saw the same skeptical looks on their faces. “I haven’t lost my wits. You must believe me.” She thrust her hand into her pocket and pulled out the stone. “See? This is the stone I bought from her!”

  Their eyes widened and Bridget muttered something in Gaelic. Shauna looked almost scared and Fiona gasped.

  “What? What is it?” Jillian asked.

  “What did the child look like?” Bridget replied.

  When she had finished describing the child, the sisters were looking troubled.

  “What is it?” she asked again.

  “About what? Tell me what’s got you all so frightened.”

  “’Tis the faerie stone.”

  Jillian stared at her. “That’s what the little girl said.”

  “’Tis no little girl you met. ’Twas a faerie.”

  “But that’s nonsense,” Jillian said before she could stop herself.

  “Nae, ’tis not. Even if ye doona believe, ye must keep the stone close to ye at all times. Doona let anyone except Ian know ye have it.”

  “Why?”

  Bridget took a deep breath. “Because the faerie only give such gifts to someone who’s in grave danger or about to die.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Ian fingered the stone, seeing the gold light that pierced it, and thought about how it reminded him of the gold streak in Jillian’s brown hair. Damn. He thought he was protecting her by bringing her with him. Had he put her in more danger?

  He looked over at her sitting on the sofa beside Bridget in the parlor. She was trying to appear calm, but the twitching of her fingers told another story. He wanted nothing more than to sit beside her and cradle her in his arms. Assure her that she was safe and then kiss her senseless until her fear was gone. But Bridget had taken that spot beside her with Shauna and Fiona hovering behind her.

  “Ye must take care, lass. We doona know where the danger lies.”

  “I still have trouble believing in all this,” Jillian said, but her voice shook. “I’m sure it was just a little girl that I spoke to whom I spoke.”

  Ian shook his head. “The faerie can take that shape. What bothers me is that this one showed herself to ye in the market place. They like the forest and lochs and usually avoid crowds. That makes me think the danger is real.”

  “But what danger could I be in now? I believe that Delia was jealous and trying to make me ill, if not worse. But I’m gone from there, and when we return she’ll be back at her own home. Even Wesley can’t expect the earl to allow his wife to stay indefinitely at Newburn.”

  At Wesley’s name, Ian tightened his jaw. He had been on his way over to Picard’s when the women had returned home from the market. Much as he hated to leave Jillian, it was a trip he had to make. He stood slowly.

  “I must visit a neighbor. I hope to be home in time for the evening meal. Ye are to stay with my sisters at all times.” He looked at Bridget. “Doona let her out of your sight. Make sure Shane is nearby. I wilna take any chances.” Turning back to Jillian, he added, “Ye must obey me in this, lass.”

  After he’d gotten their promises and made sure Shane would be close, he reluctantly rode out.

  Luckily, Robillard was visiting Picard when he arrived. The man invited him in and paused in the entryway before moving on.

  Puzzled, Ian wondered if there were some French custom that he was not aware of. He looked around and widened his eyes at small painting that was displayed next to one of the fleur-de-lis. The Macleod warrior with the Faerie Flag.

  Picard grinned when he saw that Ian noticed. “Since we’re neighbors, I thought it wise to acknowledge it.”

  Ian nodded. “’Tis pleasing to see. Thank ye.”

  Picard directed them into the parlor and ordered wine. When it had been brought he said, “This is your first visit here. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “What can ye tell me of Louis Tredeau?” Ian asked.

  “He’s no relative of either of us,” Robillard answered. “He seemed more interested in our views on whether Napoleon would win his war than anything else.”

  “Oui,” Picard agreed. “He even hinted that there is a movement forming to aid Napoleon.”

  “Did he ask ye join it?” Ian asked.

  Picard shrugged. “Not in so many words. One must be careful, he said, even in Scotland, for English spies are everywhere.”

  So the man had a dual purpose in being here. Not only did he want to make the Scots think Ian had turned redcoat, but he was mixing French politics into it as well. And he had given conflicting stories. “Did he mention a man named Wesley Alton?”

  Both of the men shook their heads.

  “How about Gerard Fountaine?”

  “Oui. Gerard Fountaine is the man starting the movement here,” Picard said.

  Ian’s nape hairs prickled. “Are ye sure?”

  He nodded. “Tredeau said he was using another name, though, and wouldn’t say what it was.” He looked thoughtful. “Is it Wesley Alton?”

  Ian gave them a crooked smile. “He’s been declared a war hero by the prince for supposedly letting the English colonel know about an unguarded bridge near Trespuentes.”

  Robillard looked at Picard and then back to Ian. “That was the battle of Vitoria. We were there. Fountaine fought for Napoleon.”

  Ian’s hair bristled again. “How do ye know this?”

  Another glance passed back and forth between Frenchmen before Robillard answered. “We were French spies, working for King Louis. On June 21, 1813, Fountaine was sent by Napoleon to deliver a message to his second-in-command. We were the ones who made sure Fountaine got intercepted by the English.”

  Ian sat up straighter. “Did they find the message?”

  Robillard shook his head. “Napoleon took no chances. Fountaine had memorized it in case he were caught. All we could do was make sure that he was stopped.”

  And Newburn had somehow managed to twist the story around and get himself declared a war hero. Ian swore silently. “Would ye be willing to write out the account and sign your names to it? The prince regent willna believe me without proof.”


  The Frenchmen exchanged glances again and Robillard spoke. “I’m sorry. We live under assumed names. If our real identities were to be discovered, it could place our families in danger.”

  Ian nodded and stood. “I thank ye for your time. I must be getting back. I’d like ye to come visit and see the wall mural we have of the Macleod.”

  “I’d like that too,” Picard said. “Before you go, you might want to borrow my journal of the battle of Vitoria. It’s in the library. Come with me.”

  Ian followed him down the hall to a small library whose shelves were lined with leather-bound books. A large mahogany desk was littered with papers and several books lying half-open. He wondered how Picard could have accumulated so much wealth.

  “You’ll have to excuse the clutter,” Picard said. “I’m a student of history and I tend to get carried away when I do research.” He pulled open a drawer to retrieve the journal and handed it to Ian. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t write anything about our stopping Fountaine. Some of the information is written in code. I don’t know if it will help you prove anything about Wesley Alton.”

  “Thank ye the same,” Ian said. “I’ll read it before I leave for England and leave it with my cousin, Shane. When ye come to see the mural, it will be waiting for ye.”

  It was only as he was riding home that he recalled the floor in the library. Beneath the expensive rugs had been marble squares of black and white.

  By the time Ian returned home, he had reached a decision on at least one thing. Jillian had no inkling of the importance of a faerie actually appearing like this one had. And the protective stone…a powerful portent.

  If Ian were to protect her, she must not leave his sight. And that meant at night as well. His groin tightened eagerly in anticipation of the open, wet heat between her legs that would welcome him as her naked, silken flesh pressed against his own bare skin. He had squirmed in agony each night on the trip up here, his cock hard as rock, knowing that satisfaction lay behind a closed door.

  Jillian would move into his chambers tonight. His mind warned him that Duncan and Broc would see the act as betrayal. When they learned that Jillian was not to be his leman, there would be an uproar.