They were interrupted by a courtier who looked down his nose at Ian’s plaid and bowed stiffly toward Jillian. “The prince has agreed to see you. You have ten minutes.”
Damn the pompous mon’s arse. He’d take as long as he needed. However, the look on Jillian’s face warned him to take care. They’d come near to having an argument this morning about his clothes. He sighed. He had agreed to wear the English pantaloons and boots, but insisted on his plaid sash instead of a waistcoat. A mon could only be pushed so far. Ian stood up to his full height and stared the courtier down. The mon had the sense to back away and show them to the prince’s receiving room.
“Lady Newburn!” The prince exclaimed after they had been announced. “To what do We owe this pleasure?”
Ian opened his mouth to speak, but a sharp prod from Jillian silenced him. Damn the English propriety of waiting to be given permission to speak.
“Your Royal Highness,” Jillian said with a curtsy. “I have heard some distressing news that I hope is not true.”
“What would that be?”
Jillian took a deep breath. “My stepson, Wesley Alton, has told me that you granted him a special license to marry me.”
“That is true. Why does it distress you?”
“Because she is hand-fasted to me!” Ian interrupted.
The prince’s eyebrow rose nearly to his hairline. “Have We given you permission to speak?”
Ian refrained from clenching his fists in front of the idiot. Although it went against every ounce of pride he had, he looked down at the floor and shook his head.
He could not afford to anger the prince.
“We are hand-fasted, Your Royal Highness. When I went to Scotland, our vows were spoken in front of a Christian priest and the marriage consummated,” Jillian said.
Prinny waved a hand. “A Catholic priest. You know how I stand on that. As for consummation, you are a widow and quite free to bestow your favors where you will.”
Jillian blushed. “I have chosen to bestow that favor upon this man, Ian Macleod. He is an English earl and—”
“And in need of an heir,” the prince said bluntly. “I believe dear Rufus told me once about your failure in that area.”
Beside him, Jillian turned nearly scarlet and Ian thought once again it was good that Rufus was dead. What kind of a mon told others about his wife’s inability to get a bairn? He could barely restrain himself from putting a fist in the fat prince’s face.
She lifted her chin. “I believe the same situation exists for Wesley. Is he not also in need of an heir?”
The prince studied her for a moment and then he shrugged. “Newburn informed me that he has several by-blows. The oldest one would become his heir and provide a valuable link with the French king. Besides that,” he continued as he glanced at Ian, “Cantford is not English by birth, so We deem it proper and fitting that he beget an English heir. Newburn is a war hero. It will be a good match for you.”
Ian had to admire how Jillian was staying calm. Inwardly, he knew she was seething.
“About being a war hero,” she said. “I believe that Lord Cantford has some information to the contrary.”
The prince’s eyebrow went up again, but he looked at Ian. “Indeed?”
“Aye.” Ian had already sent Jamie back to Scotland to ask Picard and Robillard to come to London to bear witness, although he didn’t know that they would. They had been reluctant to admit their roles as spies and until he had their permission, he couldna use their names. “While I was in Scotland, I visited some of the French ex-patriots that live there. The version of the story that I got was that Newburn, under the alias of Gerard Fountaine, was working for Napoleon, not Wellington.”
The prince’s face darkened. “Do you have proof?”
“Not at this time.”
“We will not listen to rumor. You have a vested interest in keeping Newburn from marrying. Unless you can provide proof, you will not mention this again.” He turned back to Jillian. “We received word from Lord Newburn yesterday that he would like to marry a week hence, right here at Brighton. We have extended him that courtesy. His missive also said that he expected you to come to Us and asked that you remain as Our guest until the wedding. We have agreed.”
Jillian’s face paled. The prince would never believe Wesley killed Delia either since she had not proof. She sagged toward Ian. He put a protective arm around her.
“You are holding her prisoner?” he asked.
The prince’s face darkened. “Lady Newburn is Our guest. You are dismissed. We bid you leave now before We decide to hold you a prisoner.”
Ian tightened his hold on Jillian even as palace guards surrounded him. If he had his claymore, he would take them all on right now and whisk Jillian far away from here. But the guard had even taken his dirk from him at the gate.
“Go, Ian. I’ll be fine,” Jillian said.
In her eyes was an unspoken message. If Ian ended up in the dungeon, he would not be able to help her at all. He held back a curse. He knew Jillian wouldn’t be mistreated, but a week’s time was not enough for Jamie to get to Scotland, persuade the Frenchmen and return with the proof that Ian needed. The look she gave him told him she had faith in him to get her out of this and, by all the auld gods, that was what he was going to do.
“Doona fash,” he said and leaned down to give her a sweeping kiss before the guards could stop him. “Doona fash.”
Jillian had been sick to her stomach every day that she was confined in the prince’s Pavilion. Although the food that was sent to her room was of the best quality with savory soups and rich gravies, she had no appetite. Who could eat when hell loomed closer each day? The well-appointed room with its feather bed and satin duster might as well have been a cell deep below stairs. She rarely left the room, and when she did she was accompanied by at least two guards. Escape was literally impossible.
There had been no word from Ian. She suspected the prince had refused to allow him entry. Each night she prayed for some sort of miracle. This was her last night of hope. Tomorrow was the wedding day. The only thing she was grateful for was that she had not seen Wesley either.
The day of the wedding dawned grey and somber. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, threatening to storm, and it fit her mood exactly. When the maid and hairdresser arrived to prepare her for the wedding, she was already wearing the plain, traveling dress that she had arrived in. Wesley had sent an ivory silk gown embroidered with seed pearls and slippers to match. It lay in its box. She refused to touch it and she refused to let the hairdresser do her hair, simply pulling it back with a leather thong like Ian’s sisters did. Both servants showed obvious dismay over her choices, but she refused to budge. She picked up the plaid sash that Ian had left behind and adjusted it over her shoulder.
Let the prince be angry. She’d rather spend her time in Newgate or Bedlam than with Wesley.
The guards arrived to escort her to the church a short distance away. She was surprised to see six of them and even more waiting at the carriage. Obviously, Wesley had persuaded the prince to use every precaution to keep her from getting abducted. Jillian looked anxiously around the small crowd that had gathered in front of the Pavilion, but Ian’s tall, broad-shouldered frame wasn’t among them. She chewed her lip nervously. Ian wouldn’t desert her. Had the prince cast him into prison after all?
She couldn’t go through with this. Jillian tried to break away from the guards, but one on each side held her arms firmly and physically lifted her into the carriage and then climbed in beside her.
She was going to be ill. She had not eaten anything beyond a few bites of bread this morning, but her stomach threatened to heave even that small amount up. The bile rose in her throat and one of the guards must have noticed, for he suddenly placed a linen square over her mouth. He looked disgusted as he wadded up the mess and tossed it into a corner. “You’re not an innocent maid to be so scared of a wedding,” he said.
She ignored him, trying to keep her stomach from t
urning inside out again. When the carriage arrived at the church, she scanned the people, but no sign of Ian or anyone wearing Scottish plaids could be seen. She made one last effort to hold unto the carriage door, but the guards were too strong for her. They literally carried her inside the church.
Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a tall man with greying hair descend from another carriage. He wore a grey greatcoat with a cape and white cravat. From his erect bearing, she took him to be a military man, and when he was surrounded by the Dukes of Argyll and Devonshire as well as the Duke of Norfolk, she knew who he was. Colonel Arthur Wellesley, better known as the Duke of Wellington. The man who had defeated Napoleon.
A bit of hope sprang into Jillian’s heart. If she could capture his attention before the wedding, maybe the prince would listen to what he had to say about Gerard Fountaine.
But that hope was dashed as he disappeared into the recesses of the church.
Her feet barely touched the floor as the guards lifted her by each arm and literally carried her to the altar where Wesley waited. There was a collective gasp about her attire and Wesley narrowed his eyes dangerously. She glanced frantically over the guests once more for Ian. Dear God, where was he?
The minister began the ceremony. Wesley’s harsh grip on her arm as he recited his vows told her what was going to be in store for her later. When it was her turn, she lifted her chin.
“I would like to speak to His Grace, the Duke of Wellington.”
An instant hush fell over everyone. Wesley’s grip tightened painfully and the prince, from his dais, did not look pleased. Wellington looked confused, but he stood and came forward.
“Have we met?”
“Once, Your Grace. I am the widow of Rufus Newburn. I want to ask if you know my future husband. He went by the name of Gerard Fountaine.”
Wellington smiled and extended his hand to Wesley. “We’ve not met, but I understand it was you who gave us the information regarding the bridge at Trespuentes. Thank you.” He turned to Jillian. “I’m sure you’re proud to be marrying a war hero, my lady. My best wishes.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Wesley said with a smirk.
Jillian heart plummeted to her toes and she felt dizzy. Wellington didn’t know about the treachery. He had been her last hope. Her knees began to shake. “I don’t—”
There was a commotion by the vestibule of the church, followed by a loud crash and the roar of Ian’s voice.
“Hold fast!”
Jillian gasped and then everything happened in a blur. Ian and Jamie, followed by some of the clansmen, charged into the church, wielding their claymores. Ian had never looked more barbaric than he did right now, and Jillian didn’t think she’d ever seen a more beautiful sight.
The minister muttered something about weapons in his church and then passed out, while Prinny called for his guards to surround him.
He needn’t have bothered. When Picard and Robillard walked in behind the Highlanders, Wesley blanched and then bolted for the door near the pulpit. Ian’s men streaked through the church in pursuit. Ian paused just long enough to kiss Jillian and then he was gone.
She sank to the floor in relief. Ian had come after all. Her wild warrior had not let her down. She wept in relief
Cocooned in the warm strength of Ian’s arms, Jillian curled against him on the sofa in the prince’s private quarters later that night. Wesley was being transported to Newgate under orders from the prince and escorted by a score of Ian’s men.
“We are still not sure how such a mistake could have been made,” the prince said as he stared over the rim of his wine goblet at Wellington.
The duke looked unruffled. “The information I received was that the bridge was unguarded. Which it was. I had no cause to doubt that Fountaine was not working with us. However,” he added as he gestured toward Picard and Robillard, “I do know which side these gentlemen fought on, even if they used different names then. If they say that Fountaine was working for Napoleon, then he was working for Napoleon.”
“Very well,” the prince answered. “He will be tried for treason.”
Jillian tried not to think of the consequences of that or her stomach would turn again. She was just grateful that someone had stopped Ian from running the point of his sword through Wesley.
“Ye will allow our banns to be read?” Ian asked as he tucked Jillian closer to him protectively.
The prince sighed. “We still think you should provide an English heir, but given the fact that you not only uncovered a traitor among us, but that you also restrained yourself from killing him and allowing English law to rule, I will allow it.”
Ian tilted Jillian’s chin up and gave her a long, deep kiss as the men looked discreetly away. She should have been embarrassed, but she didn’t care. Ian was hers.
The prince cleared his throat and they reluctantly broke apart. “We suppose We will have to do something with the marquess title now that we know Wesley won’t be inheriting it. We will have to present a special bill to parliament, but the title will pass to you, Lady Newburn.”
Jillian stared at him. Heaven was truly raining blessings on her. First, she and Ian would be married. Now she was going to own her lands and the Andalusians. She knew what a rarity it was for a woman to hold title. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“We would suggest you consider adoption as soon as possible,” the prince replied.
She glanced at Ian. He gave her a hug. “I will be happy raising the bairn as our own, lass. Doona fash.”
Could she ask for a better husband? And Mari…she would have her Season with both the townhouse and a country home. She took Ian’s hand and smiled at him.
“Ah, yes,” the prince said, “We think it’s time We retired and left the two of you to your own resources.”
Everyone stood when the prince did and after he left, Ian turned to Picard and Robillard. “I want to thank you for coming. I still don’t know how you got here so fast.”
Picard and Robillard exchanged glances. When Robillard nodded slightly, Picard turned to them. “I had ridden over to your place shortly after you left, to pick up the journal about Vitoria. That’s when I noticed the floor in your library.” He hesitated. “And the window.”
Ian’s gaze sharpened. “Your ancestors were Templars?”
“We are Templars,” Robillard replied and then smiled at the confusion on Ian’s face. “The Brotherhood still exists. And the Brothers never let one of their own fight alone. It’s why we came. When Jamie met us we were already south of Carlisle.”
“I don’t understand,” Ian said. “I’m not a Templar.”
“No, but your cousin, Shane, is.” He and Picard moved toward the door. “I trust our secret is safe with you?”
“We swear it,” Ian and Jillian said at the same time and then Jillian added, “We owe our lives and happiness to you.”
When they had gone, Jillian turned to Ian. “I had no idea that the Templars still existed. I guess if I can believe in faeries, I can believe in Templars existing.” She looked around the room speculatively. “I almost expect the knights of the Round Table to put in an appearance too.”
“Is it a knight in shining armor that ye want?” Ian asked.
Jillian shook her head as she slipped her arms around Ian’s neck. “All that armor would make it hard for me to do what I want to do right now. I think a Highland rogue in a kilt will suit my purpose better.”
Ian wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. “What purpose would that be, lass?”
Jillian arched her back so that her breasts pressed against him. “Something like this,” she said and swiveled her hips against his hard erection.
“If ye keep this up, we’ll not make it back to our chambers.”
She slid her tongue over his lips. “Who said anything about going to our chambers? It’s quite comfortable here, don’t you think?”
Ian grinned. “The prince’s private quarters? ’Twould not be proper, would
it?”
“It would be most improper,” Jillian said and gave him a seductive smile, “which is why I suggested it.”
Ian’s mouth claimed hers, his tongue invading the warmth of her mouth as he backed her against the door. He slipped one sleeve off her shoulder and down her arm, exposing the soft, white mound with its petal-pink nipple. He trailed kisses down her neck, his thumb flicking the tight little peak as he pushed up her skirt and lifted her thigh to fit over his. His fingers found the slit in her pantaloons and he slid two of them deep into the wet, hot recess of her while his mouth covered her breast and he began to suckle.
Jillian made a soft mewling sound deep in her throat and fumbled with loosening Ian’s sporran and the numerous pleats of the plaid. When she finally freed him and began to stroke his granite shaft, his moan joined hers.
His lips claimed hers again, hard and demanding, as his hands moved to cup her buttocks and she suddenly felt herself lifted.
“Wrap your legs around me, lass,” he whispered with a wicked grin. “Hold fast.”
Jillian clung to him, arms tight around his neck and ankles crossed behind his slim hips. She had an odd sense of weightlessness and then she felt herself being stretched wide as his long, thick member plunged deep inside of her. He set the rhythm, holding her in place as he drove into her, his shaft butting the head of her womb with each thrust. Her body began to shudder as desire built in an increasing crescendo. Muscles tightened deep in her belly as Ian shifted her slightly, causing her nub to begin its own throbbing rhythm. The shudders deepened into undulating contractions, like waves building upon each other, threatening to crest and spill over. Jillian clenched her legs more tightly about Ian as the inner wave crashed and her body shattered into weightlessness once again. With one last, mighty lunge, she felt Ian’s seed spill into her.
He held her there against the wall, his damp forehead against hers. “Dinna I tell ye once that a wee bit of risk makes life more interesting?”
Jillian smiled. She’d had no idea.
Epilogue
Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1 Page 32
