Chapter Three
“Perhaps we should have brought one of the footmen along,” Maddie remarked to Mari as they exited a third milliner’s shop with several packages of ribbons, lace and bows. “I do not think our maids can carry any more.”
Mari glanced over her shoulder to see Effie glaring at her in a definitely unservant-like manner. Although both maids carried hatboxes containing the bonnets just purchased, none of them was heavy. Of course, that was not the real reason Effie was glowering. She had been mumbling dire words of warning ever since they left about what would happen when Jamie MacLeod found out they’d gone shopping.
Mari gave her a bright smile, refusing to let her maid’s sour mood spoil hers. Jamie had business to attend to, and they would be home long before he returned. The day was too nice to be dismal. The London sky was a rare blue, with only fluffy white clouds dimming the sunshine. The brisk breeze held a hint of early winter looming, but it also cut the soot in the air. All in all, a perfect day to be out and about as was evidenced by the number of ladies already strolling the street. It never hurt to see and be seen.
“Oooh. Look. A new modiste shop.” Mari pointed across the street. “I would love to have a new gown for that special dance at Almack’s next month.”
“Let us hope we get invitations,” Maddie answered. “The patronesses have not yet issued vouchers for the regular Season.”
“Oh, posh. Why would we not receive invitations? Jillian assured me she had the ear of Lady Jersey, and your papa is a baron.”
“The patronesses pride themselves on not bowing to pressure or titles,” Maddie replied. “I heard the Duke of Wellington was actually turned away once when he arrived a few minutes late for supper wearing trousers rather than breeches.”
Mari felt her eyes round. “The duke? He defeated Napoleon.”
“My point exactly,” Maddie said. “One of the rules is that the doors close promptly at eleven o’clock in the evening and no one—not even a duke—is an exception.”
Mari shrugged. “We must make certain, then, that we follow all of Society’s rules.”
“Hmmph,” Effie muttered from behind her. “Having a proper escort might be a good start.”
“Oh, Effie. It is broad daylight on a safe street with shoppers about. What could possibly happen?
“Hmmph,” Effie said again.
Mari ignored the grumpiness as she pushed open the door to the dress shop. “You worry too much.”
“Mademoiselles. Bienvenue.” A petite Frenchwoman came forward to meet them. “I am Madam Dubois. How may I be of service?”
“I would like to see some material for a ball gown,” Mari said, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. “Silk, I think.”
“But of course. I have the perfect color for you.” The woman turned gracefully, almost seeming to glide across the floor to a corner area. She took a bolt from the shelf and slipped a piece of the cloth over her arm. “This would go splendidly with your eyes.”
Mari touched it with a fingertip. The blue hues changed color as the material shifted, shimmering from light to medium to dark. “It is beautiful. How—”
The door swung wide before Mari could finish her question, allowing the cool air to sweep in, ruffling several other pieces of material in the shop.
“Monsieur,” the shopkeeper protested, “the door, s’il vous plaît.”
Mari heard Maddie’s gasp at the same time she heard the thud of the hatboxes the maids had been holding hit the floor. The hairs at her nape prickled as she turned slowly around.
Jamie MacLeod’s big frame filled the doorway, the huge claymore protruding menacingly above his left shoulder. But it didn’t look half as dangerous as his face. His dark hair was windblown, his golden eyes trained on her like a wolf sensing his prey. Without a sound, he moved toward her.
Wesley pulled his hat slightly down as he passed the modiste shop and hurried around the corner before he was seen.
Another interesting discovery. MacLeod’s brother had followed the little chit to London, which meant no one was tending the farm at either Cantford or Newburn. When Wesley had first moved to Newburn, he had thrown out the whole passel of Newburn servants loyal to Jillian and recruited his own. He didn’t know how many, if any, had been retained, but if Carter were still there, Wesley had a way in if he needed one.
Wesley smirked as he hailed a hackney. Having a back-up plan—or two—had kept him alive on several occasions. And he had no plans to die soon.
Mari watched Jamie advance warily. How could such a big man—with that unwieldy sword—move so quickly or gracefully? His golden eyes penetrated, his gaze never leaving hers. Suddenly, the modiste’s shop seemed much too small. Mari fought the urge to step backward. Her chin went up defiantly. She had every right to be shopping on Bond Street in the middle of the day.
“You need not have come—”
“We will be discussing the matter once we are home,” Jamie answered and reached for her.
“What do you—humpph.” The air whooshed out of Mari’s lungs as she was lifted and slung over Jamie’s right shoulder like a sack of grain, his strong arm firmly around her thighs. She heard Madam Dubois gasp as Jamie turned and headed for the door. From her upside-down position, Mari could see both maids gaping at her while Maddie stared in shock. How utterly mortifying. The barbarian couldn’t be thinking of actually walking into the street with her in this position!
“Put me down,” she gritted, pummeling his back.
He grunted. “Dinnae hit me, lass.”
She pounded harder, but she might as well have been striking the thick leather scabbard for all the good it did. His back was as hard as that humongous steel sword.
Mari felt a distinct sting as Jamie’s free hand found her exposed rump. “How dare you!”
“I told ye nae to hit me, lass. If ye keep it up, I will take ye over my knee once we are home.”
“You would not—” Mari stopped. The brute probably would. And what was he doing now? He had her legs clamped firmly against him, but his other hand was massaging the spot where he had spanked her. How dare he take such liberty? It was totally improper and indecent. And yet the lingering sting now turned into something warm and tingly. Oddly enough, a little spot at the juncture of her thighs began to pulsate too. She squirmed and heard him grunt again.
“Take care, lass.”
For what? She couldn’t hurt him, and his hold was too tight to drop her. Maybe she was getting heavy? “Put me down then.”
“Nae.” He stopped at the door, turning to Maddie so quickly that Mari’s head spun and she had to grip his waist. That was all hard muscle too.
“Gather yer things and get in the carriage. I’ll see ye safely home.”
Maddie opened her mouth and then closed it without saying a word. Silently, Effie and Maddie’s maids picked their parcels off the floor and hurried out the door.
“I can walk to the carriage,” Mari said, squirming again.
Jamie’s hand slipped down her thighs and, for a moment, it felt like he was caressing her. Then he lifted her from his shoulder, loosening his grip just enough that she could slide down his broad chest. Unfortunately, that meant she maintained full body contact with him, causing her nipples to peak from the friction of rubbing against him. That odd little throbbing began between her thighs again.
His eyes were molten gold as he looked down at her. “Do I have yer word to behave?”
Behave? As if she were some errant child? Mari pushed away from Jamie and stepped out into the sunlight. Her face felt aflame, but that was surely from being dangled upside down. She refused to acknowledge the coachman’s startled expression and could only hope the two matrons suddenly intent on the window of the next shop had not seen what had taken place in the doorway.
With as much dignity as she could muster, she climbed into the carriage, ignoring Jamie’s proffered hand. The corner of the cad’s mouth twitched, as though he were trying not to laugh.
/> She sniffed and sat down hard on the padded seat next to Maddie. Her friend’s eyes were still wide, and her voice was breathy. “I think it rather nice that Mr. MacLeod is so protective,” she whispered. “Almost like a knight in shining armor.”
Mari gave an unladylike snort, drawing a severe glance from Effie. Jamie’s climbing into the carriage prohibited her from answering her friend. A knight indeed. More like a complete ruffian to have actually manhandled her.
The next time she saw Jillian, she would tell her sister just what she thought about this so called guardian that she did not need.
Mari lifted her head and gazed out the window, refusing to look at the scoundrel who sat across from her, but from her peripheral vision she could tell he was grinning.
“Mmmm,” Jillian murmured as she woke slowly to Ian nuzzling her neck, trailing feathery kisses down her throat. He draped his arm over her side, large hands surprisingly gentle as he rubbed a tender nipple between calloused fingertips. Bright sunlight filtered through the curtain at the window, telling her they must have overslept again. Ian was spoiling her to no end, allowing such lax behavior for a laird’s wife.
“Should we not be up and about? Your men will fault me for keeping you from your duties.”
She felt the vibration of his quiet chuckle against her back where he held her pressed against him. “They will nae doubt be jealous of a mon with such a lovely wife and understand the need to stay abed in the morn. Besides, Shane has taken over Jamie’s role of seneschal. I doubt any of the men are lingering long at breaking their fasts.”
“I should be setting an example. Your sisters are always up at dawn.”
Ian’s hand slipped down to caress her extended belly, and his skillful fingers stroked downward to her core, slipping inside to smooth her wet heat upward along her folds to cover the little nub that already pulsated at his touch.
He chuckled again. “Ye canna deny ye want me, wife. Yer body says otherwise.”
Jillian moaned again as the tension began to build. That Ian still found her attractive at seven months along was a constant source of surprise and happiness. Men in the ton routinely took mistresses as soon as they found their wives to be pregnant, sometimes even flaunting the hoyden at the theatre or in Hyde Park. The wife stayed home since Society dictated ladies did not display themselves publicly once it was obvious they were with child.
That Scottish women could carry on about their business with their bellies heavy was another thing Jillian loved about her new home. Instead of the whole process of producing a child being somewhat clandestine, here the women reveled in their state, and their husbands practically swaggered with male pride.
Ian lifted her thigh back and over his, the hard tip of his erection probing her entry. “Tell me if it hurts, Jillie. I dinnae want my son thinking his da is a cruel mon.”
Jillian shifted slightly, allowing him to ease into her, his thick length filling her completely. Ian withdrew slowly, pushing in again, keeping the rhythm easy. With the pressure the babe put on her bladder, the feeling was exquisite. Her muscles clenched around him, and she shuddered her release. He allowed her to fully absorb her pleasure then gave a final hard thrust, and she felt his hot seed burst inside her.
“The babe could be a girl, you know,” she finally said when they’d both gotten their regular breathing back.
“Or twins,” Ian answered. “Did the Crone of the Hills nae say as much?”
“She did.” Jillian smiled at the thought as she nestled her head on Ian’s shoulder. The crone carried the Faerie blood of the MacLeod ancestors. She had originally appeared to Jillian as a small girl at the local market and given her a stone with the solemn request that she keep it on her person always. At the time, Jillian had agreed to humor the serious child, not realizing the stone harbored a faerie who would save her from being raped by Wesley.
“Twins run in the family, ye ken.”
“Mercy. If they turn out like Shane’s sisters, Caitlin and Caylin, I will have my hands quite full.”
His voice lowered. “Ye will be the perfect máthair.”
Jillian wondered if he were recalling his own mother who had died birthing Fiona. His father had remarried—a beautiful woman who, by all accounts, had been haughty and cold, more interested in the power a laird’s wife held than in being a mother to his children.
Jillian raised her head to look at Ian. “You will be a wonderful father too.”
“I intend to be,” he answered seriously.
She knew he’d worshipped his father. Bridget had told her how Ian had grieved when his father’s carriage slipped down a ravine during a sudden snowstorm. Both his father and the stepmother were found frozen to death the next morning.
“I hope—” She didn’t get to finish her sentence since someone was bellowing in the courtyard.
Ian groaned and released her, sitting up to reach for his breeches. “That sounds like Uncle Duncan or his brother, Broc. What could ail a mon so early in the morn?”
Jillian sat up too, reaching for her dressing gown. She no longer bothered with a night rail. It fit tightly with her swollen stomach, and Ian rarely left it on long anyway. “I do not think your uncle or his brother has really accepted me. They hate the English.”
“Bah! The mon is stubborn as a mountain goat. He will be singing a different tune once the fine English lands we own provide coin for the clan. Besides,” Ian said as he leaned over to give her a quick kiss before striding to the door. “Once the bairns arrive, he canna deny that ye belong to the MacLeods.”
Jillian watched Ian leave and then frowned slightly. Something about Duncan MacNair and his half-brother, Broc Moffett, always made her uneasy. She could not put her finger on why, but she had a sense of foreboding.
Chapter Four
“Nae quite so fast, lass,” Jamie said as Givens closed the front door behind them and Effie took off like a freed hare out of a trap. Mari had almost made it to the stairs. She turned to glare at him.
“I believe you have had enough sport with me for one day,” she said icily.
Jamie smothered his grin. The lass was in a fine mettle already—no need to push her further, although he rather enjoyed setting sparks to the flame of her temper. He had been in a fine fury himself when she went off on her own and when he’d caught up to her meandering along the street oblivious to everything but the shop windows. His own temper had eased considerably once he had Mari over his shoulder. The softness of her breasts pressed against his back might have had something to do with it, or the feel of her thighs through the silkiness of her stockings. She had a finely rounded arse too, which he’d discovered, much to his delight, when he massaged the area he had smacked. A very nice arse, although too many layers of clothing had been between his hand and her bottom.
Jamie sobered. The lass had put herself in danger because she did not heed him. “In here,” he said, gesturing to the parlor. For a moment, he thought she would defy him again—he almost looked forward to it, so he could physically carry her in there—but she seemed to read his thoughts and reluctantly turned and proceeded him into the room. Mari seated herself primly on one of those fancy chairs with the carved legs that looked not strong enough to support a man.
“Say what you must,” she said. “I should like to retire to my room.”
He took a seat on the sofa. “Ye didnae follow my orders.”
Icy blue flames shot from her eyes. “Your orders?”
“Aye. I told ye nae to wander about without my protection.” He could have sworn the room chilled considerably as she lifted her wee nose and sniffed.
“I will repeat, sirrah, that I do not need, nor do I welcome, your protection. The streets of Mayfair are quite safe.”
Jamie rubbed his temples. The lass was even more stubborn than his sister Bridget. “Ye can nae be sure of that. My duty is to keep ye safe. I gave my oath to yer sister and Ian.”
Mari threw up her hands in exasperation. “Jillian had no right to ask
that of you, nor did Ian. In any case, I release you from that oath.”
“Ye canna.”
“I can!” Mari jumped up and began pacing. “None of you owns me. In England, women ceased to be chattel some time ago. Whatever medieval customs you practice in the Highlands do not apply here.”
Jamie frowned, his own temper beginning to stir. “Medieval? Our lairds—a title your English king stripped from us—are still responsible for the protection of their people. When a mon marries, it is with the understanding he will lay down his life to protect his wife.”
“You are not my husband, and we are not talking marriage!”
A fleeting thought of being married to the lass passed through Jamie’s mind. What would it be like if she were his? Would she be as passionate in bed as she was when she argued with him? His cock stirred in anticipation. Having Mari in his bed where his hands could knead the bare, plump mounds of her breasts or massage the naked flesh of her arse…
Jamie shook his head, refocusing on the present. He had no intentions of marrying anybody for several more years, if at all. He didn’t want to make the mistake his father had. A pretty face could be deceiving. He could not recall his stepmother even once giving tiny Fiona a hug—or touching his father for that matter. In any event, there were still too many pleasures to be had to consider something like marriage. “Agreed. My point is ye are nae married so ye dinnae have a mon to look after ye.”
“Oooh! You have not heard a word I said!” Mari moved toward the door. “Unless you intend to sleep outside my door, I will come and go as I please.” She lifted her chin defiantly and spun on her heel, her skirts billowing as she left the room.
Jamie let her go. The lass was more stubborn than Bridget. His mouth suddenly twitched. Maybe sleeping outside her door would nae be such a bad idea after all—just in case the lass suffered from nightmares, of course.
Rogue of the Isles Page 3
