“Who are they?” Jamie asked.
“Members of the Four-Horse Club,” Mari replied, her eyes widening as the two young drivers traded good-natured insults. “They normally assemble at Cavendish Square on alternate Thursdays to drive to Salt Hill along the Bath Road. Jillian told me it originated with a group of reckless youths racing over rough roads years ago.”
“It looks like they are getting to ready to race now.”
“That is against the rules. Sir Peyton and Mr. Annesley are the patrons who oversee Rotten Row. I know Jillian said they absolutely forbade racing.”
“Lads dinnae always follow rules, lass,” Jamie said and pointed across the way. “It looks like they are attracting an audience.”
Mari shaded her eyes and looked over to where Yancy Newell and Nevin Faulkner sat astride their horses along with a small group of onlookers. Yancy tipped his hat to her, then narrowed his eyes at Jamie while Nevin just stared at him.
Jamie quirked up a corner of his mouth. “I dinnae think those two much like me.”
“Only because Yancy is keen on Amelia and Nevin fancies himself Violetta’s beau.”
Jamie shook his head. “They are welcome to those lasses. Neither one thinks past the next party. ’Tis nae—” He stopped as a man fired a pistol into the air and the bays half reared before their handlers whipped them into racing. He watched as the carriages careened wildly, the spokes of the wheels getting much too close for safety. The young men whipped their horses again, and Jamie flinched.
“I would like to tan the hides of those two fools,” he said as he set his mouth in a grim line. “’Tis nae need to whip the beasts.” His words were almost drowned out as the small group watching yelled for their favorite to win. The carriages nearly rolled as they finished in a cloud of dust. Jamie couldn’t see who won, not that it mattered. “Eejits,” he muttered. “Idiots. Simpletons. They put those animals at risk by running too closely.”
Mari looked as though she might actually agree with him for once, but before she could say anything, Yancy and Nevin rode up.
“That is a mighty fine piece of horseflesh,” Nevin said as he looked over Nero.
“Aye, ’tis an Andalusian,” Jamie answered, “one of Lady Newburn’s bre—er, stock from Spain.”
As if he knew he were being spoken of, Nero arched his silvery neck, and his short ears perked forward while he blew softly through flared nostrils, his large, velvety eyes watchful.
“Can he run?” Yancy asked.
“Aye.”
Nevin’s lip curled. “Do you want to put that to the test? Perhaps for a slight wager?”
Jamie studied him. “Nae. I have nothing to prove.”
“One might interpret that as not having enough confidence in your mount,” Yancy said.
“Or perhaps not enough confidence in your ability,” Nevin added as he edged his horse closer.
Jamie refrained from clenching his fist and kept his face impassive. The two were baiting him. Nero snorted and pawed the ground. The stallion wanted to run, and Jamie had no doubt he could leave both lads eating his dust, but he didn’t want to put Nero at risk for breaking a leg. He’d seen how those carriages rocked over the ruts that needed to be smoothed out. The terrain was too uneven.
“Ye will have to wait until another day to find out,” Jamie answered.
Yancy nudged his horse nearer. Nero flattened his ears. “Move back,” Jamie ordered. “Dinnae close him in.”
It was too late. Nero bared his teeth, slicing at Yancy’s horse. Jamie reined him in, but not before his sharp hind hooves delivered a kick aimed at Nevin’s animal, who reared, front legs flailing. From behind him, he heard Mari’s roan squeal, and then Mari screamed as her horse bolted, thundering down Rotten Row.
Cursing, Jamie lashed out, but both men backed their horses away. He turned Nero, giving the stallion his head as he leaned over the withers to allow the powerful hindquarters to work. The gelding ahead was running full out, and Jamie could see Mari’s position was precarious as she swayed dangerously on the side-saddle. He made a silent vow he would teach her to ride astride if only God would keep her upright until he could reach her.
The hope was short-lived as the gelding veered suddenly, coming to an abrupt halt as one of the returning barouches cut across his path. Mari sailed over the horse’s head to land with a hard thump that Jamie could hear as Nero skidded to a thundering stop.
Jamie slid from the horse before the gravel quit flying. Oh, Lord. How badly was Mari hurt? Or worse… She was so still. He knelt beside her, half-crazed. This was all his fault. If he hadn’t insisted she learn to ride…
Mari moaned, her eyes fluttering open slowly.
“Dinnae move,” Jamie commanded, holding her shoulders as she started to stir.
“What happened? I remember—”
“Ye took a nasty spill, lass.” She blinked, and he was glad to see her pupils were normal sized. Bumps to the head could be dangerous. Very carefully, he traced his fingers along the sides of her neck, over her shoulders and down her arms, checking for broken bones. When his hands encased her ribs, she gasped.
“Ye are in pain? Tell me where.” If Mari had broken ribs, he’d need to wrap them before trying to move her.
“Not too much,” she managed to say.
“Well, lie still until I know ye have nothing broken.”
Her eyes widened as his hands slid down her hips, thumbs stroking the pelvis bones, but she remained quiet. Jamie tried not to think about how close his fingers were to the tantalizing juncture between her thighs. He forced himself to concentrate on her legs, although his wayward cock didn’t think that was much of a distraction. Christ, he should be ashamed of himself for lusting after her now.
“I dinnae think ye have any broken bones,” he said as Yancy and Nevin approached. If Jamie had not been so concerned about Mari’s condition, he would have throttled the both of them.
“Is she all right?” Nevin asked.
“No thanks to either of you eejits.”
Yancy cleared his throat. “Is there anything we can do?”
What they could do was go jump in the Thames, but Jamie held back the retort. “Aye. One of ye can get the carriage from the townhouse and bring it back. The other can get the doctor and have him waiting when we return.”
“I will retrieve a carriage since I live closer,” Nevin said, turning his horse.
“I will call on the doctor then,” Yancy added, as he spurred his mount to follow Nevin.
Jamie sat back on his haunches after they left. “Are ye sure ye feel all right?”
Mari nodded as he helped her to sit. “I think I just had the breath knocked out of me.”
“’Tis my fault this happened. Ye said ye were nae comfortable with the horse—”
“It is not your fault or the animal’s,” Mari interrupted. “You always tell me to pay attention, and I let the reins go slack.”
“Ye dinnae blame the beastie then?”
She shook her head. “If there is one thing Jillian instilled in me regarding horses, it is the rider is always at fault.”
Jamie gave her a look of admiration. “’Tis the mark of a horsewoman to think like that.”
“Well, I do not know I will ever be a horsewoman,” Mari answered as she stood, holding on to Jamie’s shoulders for balance, “but next time I will follow your instructions.”
He could hardly believe his ears. “Ye are finally going to follow my orders?”
“Not your orders.” Mari paused and then gave him a tentative smile. “But I might be open to considering what you have to say.”
Her smile was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. To think the lass could have been seriously hurt or even worse… Jamie stared into the depths of her eyes, blue as any Highland loch, and he circled his arms around her waist.
Mari stared back at him. She swallowed, the tip of her pink tongue darting out to wet her lips.
Jamie drew her to him and bent to cap
ture her mouth with his. The warm, lush softness of her lips nearly overpowered him. Mari’s hands crept slowly around his neck until she twined her fingers in his hair. When he heard her moan deep in her throat, he deepened the kiss. To his delight, she parted her lips, allowing him entrance. He slipped his tongue inside, letting himself leisurely explore the sweet taste of her mouth. When her tongue tangled with his in response, his cock swelled painfully against his breeches, and he twisted his hip away, not wanting to frighten her with the hard, thick length of him. Mari mewled softly, melding against him, and he reluctantly broke off the kiss before he embarrassed himself like a green lad.
He had promised Ian and Jillian he would protect Mari—and that meant from himself as well.
The lass really was going to be the death of him.
Chapter Thirteen
Jillian awakened to bright sunlight shining through the expensive glass window Ian had installed in her bedchamber. She had overslept again. With less than a month before the babe was due, Bridget had given strict orders to the household to allow Jillian this small luxury. “Ye will have yer hands full enough once the bairn arrives,” she told Jillian more than once.
Jillian suspected, however, that her presence at the morning fast-breaking was still not appreciated by either Duncan or Broc, and Bridget thought to prevent any unpleasantness that might have an effect on the babe. Superstitions prevailed in the Highlands, with most Highlanders firmly believing that if the máthair were happy while carrying the child, the bairn would be less fussy. And who knew? Perhaps they did have a point.
Still. It seemed she was tarrying later and later in greeting the day, perhaps because Ian had been gone nearly three weeks and she missed him constantly. Only two missives had arrived, the last just several days ago saying he would be going to London to see Jamie before returning to Glenfinnan.
Jillian swung her legs over the side of the bed and pushed herself into a sitting position, patting the great bulk of her stomach. “Soon,” she said as the babe gave her a good-morning kick. “Soon.”
As she entered the dining hall a short time later, Bridget and Shauna, Ian’s middle sister, were deep in conversation at the table. Helping herself to the still-warm pot of porridge on the sideboard, she joined them.
“You two look gloomy for such a nice day.”
“’Tis our uncle and his brother,” Shauna said.
“Nothing for ye to worry about,” Bridget interjected.
Jillian looked from one sister to the other. “Are they upset with me? Taking me to task for being a slovenly sleep-in?”
“Nae,” Bridget answered. “’Tis just spoutin’ off they are doing.”
“But they are not happy with me.”
“’Tis nae ye in particular,” Shauna replied. “They just hate the English in general.”
“Culloden was a long time ago.” Jillian sighed. “Scotland is part of the English Crown. Can they truly not accept that?”
“Och, they can. They like to blether on about it though,” Shauna said, “but this has to do with the burnings last year.”
Jillian frowned. “Burnings?”
“Nothing for ye to fret about,” Bridget said firmly.
“I want to know. I promise not to let it upset me.”
Shauna looked at Bridget. “Jillian is Ian’s wife. She has a right to know.”
Bridget grimaced. “I suppose ye are right.”
“Ye have heard of the Scottish Clearances?” Shauna asked.
“Yes, to some extent. The lands were cleared for sheep-grazing and people moved to the coast to work in the kelp industry.”
Shauna gave her a skeptical look. “That is the English version?”
“Is that not what happened?”
“Aye, it did. Yer version leaves out the fact most crofters were burned out of their homes and forced to leave by the lairds themselves.”
Jillian felt her eyes widen in shock. “How terrible. Why would their own clansmen do that?”
“They had little choice. After the defeat at Culloden, the English imposed high rents. To keep their lands, the lairds had to raise the money. Sheep were the answer, but they need grass and crofters used the ground for planting. Land means everything to a Highlander.”
Jillian knew that. Ian had accepted the English title of earl for that very reason—to be able to support and hold his Scottish land near Loch Shiel. “But did this not happen a long time ago?”
“The first stage did,” Shauna answered, “but the second stage took place just last year.”
“Last year?”
“Aye. ’Twas the Countess of Sutherland who ordered the burnings herself.”
“As far north as it is, I always thought Sutherland was one of the strongest Scottish holdings,” Jillian said.
“’It was. The Gordons and Mackays were loyal Scots. The present countess, though, dinnae even speak Gaelic. She and her husband, the Marquess of Stafford, reside in London and pay Sutherland no mind except to collect rents.”
Jillian furrowed her brows in puzzlement. “Then why would she order anything to be burned?”
Bridget grimaced. “Greed. But they didnae dirty their own hands. They hired two factors—I think ye call them solicitors?—to take care of the problem, as they called it. Both men hated the Gaels.”
“Two hundred and fifty homes were torched in one day,” Shauna added. “An elderly lady, Margaret Mackay, died in the fire. The rest of the people had nowhere to go.”
“How many people were affected?”
“In all, around fifteen thousand,” Bridget said.
“Fifteen thousand. No wonder Duncan and Broc are still upset. I had no idea,” Jillian replied.
“’Tis only part of the reason they are angry,” Shauna said.
Bridget sent her a warning look. “’Tis nothing to worry Jillian about.”
“I want to know,” Jillian countered.
“Verra well.” Bridget took a deep breath as if deciding how much to say. “The mon who brought Ian’s letter told Duncan the Sutherlands were on their way north for a rare visit. Some of the men have been blethering about…confronting them.”
“What good would that do?”
“It wouldna do any good. ’Twould just make matters worse.”
“I wish Ian were here. He could talk sense into his uncle,” Jillian said.
“Mayhap. Duncan and Broc are hot-headed though.”
“But are they stupid? Surely they can see nothing can be gained by opposing nobility.”
The sisters looked at each other.
Bridget shrugged. “They are men.”
The news still bothered Jillian later that afternoon as she stood inside one of the stable stalls grooming Gunnar. Besides Ian, she was the only person the Andalusian stallion tolerated brushing him. The boy assigned to feed and water the animal had been only too glad to turn over grooming duties after he’d been kicked and nipped. Jillian had tried to explain that Gunnar had been mistreated while being broken to saddle, but the lad had looked skeptical. Since she could not ride this late in her pregnancy, she enjoyed the contact with the horse.
She took a chunk of apple from the sporran she’d borrowed and held it out for Gunnar, about to tell him what a fantastic animal he was when she heard male voices talking in low, conspiratorial tones. Shrinking back against the wall as the men neared her stall, she could tell Duncan was speaking.
“Did ye get the word out?”
“Aye,” Broc answered in a near whisper. “The men will meet ye at midnight at the deserted croft just past the cairn.”
“’Tis a fittin’ place to meet. The old mon who lived there was a fool to believe the damn redcoats about money to be made in Dundee.”
“His widow said he caught his death of cold halfway there.”
Duncan snorted. “The English are the devil’s own spawn.”
“Mayhap the world will be less two of the devils if our plan works.”
“It will work.”
The
men moved on to the tack room. Jillian slipped out of the stall and hurried to the house. If Duncan and Broc were gathering men to try to intercept the Countess of Sutherland’s entourage, they needed to be stopped. The English guards would be armed with muskets as well as bayonets and sabers. There probably would be a large retinue from Ft. William as well, since this far north in Scotland was still considered somewhat uncivilized by Prinny’s set. Duncan and his group would be massacred.
Should they happen to kill—or even injure—the countess or her husband, there would be hell to pay. Retribution would be swift. Jillian had no doubt the Prince Regent would raise the rents at Loch Shiel to astronomical numbers and probably revoke the titles to both Cantford and Newburn as well.
Jillian had to tell someone, but whom? With Jamie gone and Shane not back from his trip to Ireland, Duncan was in charge. She could hardly go to him. Even if she thought he would listen to reason, there was no way he would listen to her. She was one of the hated Sassenachs.
Should she go to Bridget? Unfortunately, Bridget’s husband had gone to Arisaig the day before to deliver a pair of breeding mares. Brodie would not be back until tomorrow.
Perhaps it would be better if she followed Duncan and Broc herself to find out what the details of the plan were before she involved anyone else. She knew where the cairn of stones marked a crossroad, and she thought she remembered an abandoned croft when she had been out riding. It was not far from the castle, and the walk would do her good. Everyone fussed over Jillian’s need to rest, but what she really wanted was to move about.
She would be back well before dawn with no one the wiser. When Brodie returned tomorrow she would tell him she overheard everything in the barn. A little white lie, but better than being lectured by well-meaning MacLeods about leaving the castle unescorted.
Much later that night, Jillian was sure she had made the right decision. Duncan and Broc had been unusually quiet at the evening meal, but she had noticed the looks they exchanged. Now, near midnight, she huddled behind some bushes close to the postern gate. She doubted Duncan would try to leave by the main entrance since the old portcullis that Ian maintained in working order was down for the night with guards posted on the battlements above. She wrapped the dark blue and green MacLeod tartan more closely around her, glad the dark wool plaid both hid her and held in her body’s warmth.
Rogue of the Isles Page 12
