Dedication
To my writers’ critique group—Marta, Scott and Bill—none of you read romance, yet you’ve steadfastly given me good advice and wonderful ideas.
Chapter One
What a pity Jamie MacLeod had to be such a good-looking man. And so tall. With such broad shoulders.
Because he was quite the most annoying male Marissa Barclay had ever met.
He was doing it again. Mari tugged at the collar of her pelisse to cut the chill of the autumn air and sighed in exasperation as Jamie blocked the door to the carriage the footman held open for her.
“I dinnae think Jillian will approve of ye leaving for London,” Jamie said.
Mari refrained from rolling her eyes since it was quite unladylike. She might get by with such practices here at the Newburn country estate, but London’s ton would surely judge such action as boorish and common—terms she did not wish applied to her.
“My sister is in Scotland, happily married to your brother, Ian, in case you do not recall.”
A breeze ruffled Jamie’s longish, dark hair as he raised a brow. “Do ye think me daft, lass? I recall quite well yer sister said she would return to chaperone yer Season—in the spring.”
“That was before she found out she was preg—with child.” Mari reminded herself she would have to watch her vocabulary in London. One simply did not use words like pregnant in polite Society. “I see no reason to wait for spring. The Little Season will do quite nicely for an introduction into Society. Besides, I already sent a post to Aunt Agnes. She will be awaiting my arrival at the townhouse. Now please step aside.”
He didn’t budge. Mari moved to the right, and he countered with a move to his left. When she stepped the other way, he blocked her again, solid as a castle curtain wall. The footman snickered but quickly sobered before Mari could glare at him. Instead, she glared at Jamie.
“You are not my guardian, sirrah!”
“Nae? I seem to recall that Ian left me in charge of the estates.”
“Your estate!” Mari nearly stamped her foot in frustration. “Cantford. Not Newburn.”
He shrugged. “The lands are linked by marriage, are they nae? Ian left me in charge.”
“Of the land, not me!” How could one man be so maddeningly obtuse? And instead of apologizing for agitating her, he actually grinned. Grinned. And showed that disarming dimple in his right cheek that left her feeling flustered. Gads!
As if he realized the effect it had on her, his golden eyes turned the color of malt whisky. “Ye are only seven and ten. Yer sister asked me to protect ye.”
“As if you are that much older.”
“I am four and twenty,” Jamie replied, “and have been using a claymore for nigh ten years.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It proves I am able to protect ye.”
“You cannot go around London’s streets brandishing that thing.” How could Jillian do this to her? And without even a by-your-leave? This was not the Middle Ages. Mari did not need some rakish rogue ordering her about.
“She asked me to protect ye,” Jamie repeated patiently as if speaking to a slow-witted child. “’Tis what I intend to do.”
“Oooh!” Mari took a deep breath, summoning what little patience she had. Arguing with this stubborn Scot would do no good. She’d watched that happen between her sister and Ian. Ian always won, although for some reason, Jillian did not seem to mind. Thinking about it, Ian usually gave in when Jillian looked sad.
Mari managed to look contrite, although it irked her to do so. “Would you deny me an introduction into proper English Society?”
His grin faltered. “Nae, lass. Can ye nae wait for spring when this matter can be settled?”
“I will have missed two entire months of soirees and luncheons and teas.” Jamie would not understand how important a girl’s first Season was. “My friend, Madeline, has already written about a special ball planned for Almack’s in November. Everyone of the first stare will be there.” Including eligible bachelors that the likes of Violetta Billingsly and Amelia Tansworth would sink their claws into.
Jillian had endured an arranged marriage to an abusive old marquess who’d eventually cocked his toes up, so that Mari would have a proper Season and be able to marry a man of her choice—one whom she could love. Mari felt tears spring to her eyes. That was the whole purpose of this entire endeavor. Jillian wanted Mari to have a choice.
Mari wanted to find a true gentleman—one who was refined, cultured and even-tempered—not prone to violence. Lord knows, Jillian had been beaten whenever the old marquess’s temper had flared. Mari wanted no part of that, and if she missed the Little Season, her dream husband might already be taken.
She started at the feel of Jamie’s hand beneath her chin, tilting her face upward. His thumb swiped a tear away. She stared at him as if moonstruck, unable to move. His big, calloused hand was surprisingly gentle.
Lowering his hand, he frowned. “Does it mean so much to ye, lass?”
Swallowing hard, she could only nod.
Jamie studied her a moment longer, then he sighed. “Verra well. If ye must go to London, I will go with ye.”
Mari suddenly found her voice. “What? I assure you, there is no need. London is quite civilized.” She could just imagine how members of Society would react to a massive Highlander striding down Fleet Street wielding that huge Scottish sword.
Jamie set his jaw. “These be my terms. Ye can accept them or ye can stay right here. I gave my oath to protect ye, and I canna do that if we are parted.”
Recognizing the stubborn line of his chiseled jaw, Mari knew there would be no arguing with him. Lud! How was she ever going to find an eligible husband if this great hulking Highlander hovered over her? She certainly was not going to find a husband staying in the country either. She would just have to find a way to discourage Jamie’s presence once they got to London.
A sudden thought came to her. A number of debutantes came out during the Little Season. The perfect solution would be to find one to distract Jamie and free her from his bossy guardianship. Considering the maids at Newburn made calf-eyes at him—which he did not discourage—the task should not prove difficult. Mari gave Jamie her best smile.
“If you insist,” she said.
Because of their mulish argument and the fact that Jamie had to pack a trunk, it was near noon before the landau finally rolled off the graveled drive of Newburn onto the London road. Mari suppressed a vexed sigh. Jamie—the lout—had actually insisted she go with him to Cantford while he got his things. As if she would leave without him. She paused in her fuming. Well, to be honest, she probably would have. But did he think her such a ninnyhammer that she could not take care of herself? Not only did she have her maid, Effie, with her, but two footmen rode the rear of the carriage—footmen Jamie had personally trained to handle weapons, much to their delight.
This time she did sigh. Highlanders thought everything could be solved through might. In the few weeks Jillian and Ian had been gone, Jamie had turned the entire ranking of staff upside down. He had chosen the strongest—braw was the word he used—of men to train, whether they were stable boys or house servants. Adams, the butler, nearly had an apoplexy when Jamie ordered him and the steward who kept the books to the makeshift pistol range. Every man should be able to defend the women of the estate, Jamie had said.
From what did they did to be defended? Since Napoleon had been defeated, England wasn’t even at war. Certainly, their neighbors were not suddenly about to attack. England was civilized.
A thought niggled at her mind. Wesley Alton, the son of Jillian’s dead husband, had tried to retake Newburn through a forced marriage to Jillian approved by the prince
regent. Mari had to admit it truly had been a wondrous spectacle to see Ian and Jamie breaking through the doors of Brighton’s chapel on the day of that fateful wedding, wielding their great claymores as though they were children’s toys. The priest had fainted, and the whole incident was totally scandalous, but Mari had felt a shivery thrill shoot through her body at the sight of them and their clansmen charging through the church, broad chests clad only in tartan sashes and kilts revealing strong, well-muscled legs.
After all, how often did a lady have the opportunity to see bare, bulging biceps and muscular thighs? English Society was rather overdressed in that respect.
Still. There was hardly a need for medieval behavior. Although Wesley Alton had attempted to rape Jillian and was suspected of killing his mistress, the Earl of Sherrington’s wife, the man was safely in Bedlam, under the care of doctors determining his sanity.
“With all your sighing, miss, a person would think you aren’t happy to be going to London,” Effie said. “Lord knows, you’ve fussed over which gowns to take and badgered me to get all the packing done.”
Mari had given up long ago trying to train her maid to be mindful of her place. The woman was ten years older than she and her widowed Aunt Agnes’s friend. Effie had helped raise Mari since her mother died in childbirth. “I am excited to be going to London. I just wish we could have gotten an earlier start. We will never cover the twenty-five miles to Town before nightfall, thanks to the delay this morning.”
“There is a very nice inn at Windsor,” Effie replied. “Besides, it gives a body comfort to know we have a nice, strong man riding alongside.”
“Humph. An overbearing, bossy semi-barbarian, you mean.”
“You’ve always been a headstrong girl yourself.” Effie chuckled. “Seems fitting you’ve met your match.”
“Jamie MacLeod is not my match. Not in any sense of the word. He is stubborn, willful, unyielding once he gets an idea into his head—”
“Sounds like you are repeating yourself, Miss.” Effie gave her a sly look. “But maybe those are attributes you admire?”
“I certainly do not. The man is nearly insufferable and much too sure of himself. He thinks because he’s good-looking and has all those muscles women should swoon at his feet. Remember how he practiced sword play without his shirt—” Mari snapped her mouth shut. Lud! She didn’t need to recall the rippling muscles of his arms and back or his broad chest with the light dusting of dark hair turning into a tantalizing line down the hard ridges of his belly… It was suddenly quite warm in the carriage, even for an autumn day.
“Um-hmm,” Effie said wisely.
Mari Barclay had to be the most vexing lass he’d ever encountered. And one of the most winsome as well.
Jamie grinned to himself as he held the Andalusian stallion at a steady jog to stay abreast of the carriage. Over the past few weeks, he’d caught Mari watching him when she thought he wasn’t looking—like the time she’d shooed the housemaids inside while they watched him train in the courtyard. He’d even admit he flexed a little extra muscle for her benefit, although, of course, she hadn’t acknowledged it. Instead, she’d tossed her bonnie head, making the blonde sausage curls dance, and lifted her wee nose in the air.
Faugh! The English had strange ways. What was wrong with admitting an attraction between a man and a woman? Mari might shoot blue fire from her eyes when he teased her—which he did on purpose to savor her spirited reaction—but he’d also seen those eyes deepen to the color of a Highland loch when he stood close. Not that he would boast of such things, but he did have a wee bit of experience with lasses. Well, perhaps more than a wee bit, given that Ian and he spent many a night carousing with wenches. Jamie always made sure the lass took her pleasure as well, and he was careful no bairn would result. What more could a lass want?
Jamie had given his oath he would protect Mari. At his home on Raasay Isle, a lass would take that as a great compliment. Women expected the men to protect them. He sobered. He had not finished training the men at either Cantford or Newburn. Not that house servants or outdoor ghillies barely old enough to be called men qualified as real fortifications, but it had been a start. Ian would not be pleased that he’d left the estates to follow Mari to London, but what choice did he have?
The wee vixen was as headstrong as their older sister Bridget. Jamie suspected Mari had a nose for adventure and trouble as much as his little sister, Fiona, did. How many times had Ian and he rescued that one from ill-fated escapades? Mayhap those experiences would serve him well in keeping Mari in his sights while they were in London. She wouldn’t be going far without him.
Cold rain pelted the carriage the next morning as they left Windsor Inn, the sodden skies turning already brown fields into hapless slabs of mud. Mari invited the two footmen to ride inside instead of on the rear bumper seat even though Effie scolded that the ton would certainly consider such behavior completely unacceptable. Mari knew that was true since Aunt Agnes had spent countless hours schooling her on what was proper and what was not in London’s haute ton Society. Still, they weren’t in London yet, and Mari saw no reason why the young men should sit in the drenching downpour. Even now, they both wore broad, appreciative smiles on their faces.
Or maybe that was because of the situation they were facing across from them.
What Mari hadn’t considered was Jamie tying his horse behind the carriage and riding inside also. He planted himself firmly between her and Effie, ignoring the maid’s protests that such closeness was improper. With every jolt of the landau, Jamie managed to brush his thigh against hers—and the road was becoming quite rutted with rain forming rivulets everywhere.
At least the man was wearing doeskin breeches and not the kilt that left his calves and part of his thighs bare. Mari sucked in a breath. Lud. Why was she thinking about his naked legs? Thank goodness, she was wearing a heavy, wool traveling dress and a solid cotton chemise under that. But how would… She pushed the thought firmly aside. A lady did not think about how a man’s skin would feel pressed up against her own flesh.
She had no more than folded her hands primly in her lap when the carriage lurched again, sending her sprawling forward.
Jamie wrapped strong arms around her waist as he caught and placed her back on the seat. To her chagrin, he looped an arm over her shoulder and tucked her against his side. Cocooned in his warmth, Mari inhaled his clean, soapy scent mingled with a hint of leather. Suddenly, she became aware that her breast was pressed against the hardness of Jamie’s chest, her nipple tingling at the strange feeling.
“Let go of me at once,” she said, struggling to sit up.
He loosened his hold, allowing her to sit up, although he didn’t remove his hand from her shoulder. When she looked up at him, his eyes had gone that dark-whisky color again. “Your hand also, if you please, sirrah.”
A corner of his mouth lifted, the dimple just beginning to show. “’Tis for yer own safety I will leave my hand where it is. Unless ye have a wish to land in the laps of young Robin and Joseph there.”
The footmen started to grin and Effie glared at them. “Mind your stations else you will find yourselves back in the rain,” she said.
Both young men blanched and stammered apologies, suddenly finding the landscape on either side of the landau fascinating.
“This is far too intimate,” Mari protested, keeping her voice to a whisper.
Jamie remained unfazed. “Ye have a strange idea of intimacy, lass. A kiss would be intimate.” The dimple deepened. “I will be verra happy to show ye the difference.”
Her breath hitched. Did he really mean to…right here? In front of servants?
Jamie leaned toward her, so close his warm breath fanned her cheek. Her nipples started tingling again. Merciful Heavens. She closed her eyes.
Nothing happened.
Mari opened her eyes slowly. Robin and Joseph were still surveying the passing fields intensely. She could hear Effie muttering. When she looked at Jamie though, he
was studying her with an odd expression on his face.
“I think ye want to be kissed, lass.”
“I…I…no. Of course not.” Why did she feel so flustered? “You are quite rude to even suggest it. Do you think me a lightskirt?”
Jamie frowned. “Nae. I dinnae think ye such. ’Tis that I see no harm in a mon and a lass enjoying a wee bit of sport.”
“A wee bit of sport?” Mari managed not to squeak. Really. The man was insufferable. “I will have you know the ton considers a young lady compromised for such behavior.”
His eyes widened. “For a kiss?”
“Indeed.”
Jamie shook his head. “With such notions, ’tis a wonder England has bred enough lads to supply the Army.”
“That, sirrah, is indelicate talk.”
“Is it now? Does yer London ton have some proper explanation for bairns then?”
“I am not going to discuss childbearing with you.” Mari heard a collective gasp from both the footmen and Effie. Her cheeks warmed. The arrogant Highlander brought up the most improper subjects. And, somehow, she couldn’t seem to refrain herself from answering him. “Do you enjoy embarrassing me, sirrah?”
“Nae. ’Tis not my intention.” He leaned close again and whispered, “When I do kiss ye, embarrassment is nae what ye will be feeling. Ye have my oath on that.”
By the time the carriage clattered over the cobblestones of Mayfair’s streets, the rain had slowed to a mere drizzle. Robin and Joseph were situated on the bumper seat again, and Jamie had—thankfully—taken the bench opposite Effie and her. Mari wasn’t quite sure how much more of his closeness—or his insinuations—she could have taken. The inside of the carriage had grown unbearably stuffy and hot. Her skin felt on fire and she longed to open the buttons of her pelisse, but the friction of fabric rubbing over breasts that felt oddly heavy and tender made her stop short.
Thankfully, the butler, Givens, hurried down the steps of the townhouse to greet the carriage, keeping Jamie from putting those strong hands on her waist again to lift her down. Mari briefly wondered where Dobbs was that Givens would come out in the damp weather to meet them, but she was too glad to be out of the confined space of the carriage to care.
Rogue of the Isles Page 1
