Rogue of the Isles

by Cynthia Breeding

He smiled. “Call me Nicholas, please.”

  “Nicholas.” Ah. Well, if he wanted her to call him by his Christian name, perhaps all was not lost. Mari wished suddenly that Jillian were here for her to talk to about keeping a man interested but within bounds. “I hope you do not think—”

  He placed a finger lightly on her lips. “I do not think anything. It is time we got back since I asked the driver to return within the hour.”

  The carriage had just arrived as they reached their picnic spot. Effie was asleep, propped against a tree. Mari frowned. It was not like Effie to fall asleep during the day, much less while she was acting as a chaperone, even given the fact she had let Mari and Nicholas walk alone. Perhaps it would have been wise to have had Effie along, at that. Mari leaned down to shake the maid’s shoulder. “We are ready to go home.”

  Effie’s eyes fluttered open slowly, and she struggled to sit only to fall back against the tree. “I feel ill.”

  Alarmed, Mari knelt down and felt the maid’s cheek. “You do not seem feverish.” She couldn’t remember when—if ever—Effie had been sick. “Perhaps it was too much rich food and all that chocolate.”

  The maid groaned and clutched her stomach. “You may well be right. I was a glutton.”

  “Let me help you,” Nicholas said as he took the maid’s arm to help her stand. She moaned again, turning pale. “I feel quite dizzy.”

  Nicholas beckoned the driver to help him lead Effie to the carriage. Mari climbed in first to aid her, although the maid nearly slipped from her grasp as she fell onto the squab. Nicholas climbed in behind her, pushing Effie’s shoulders down when she attempted to sit.

  “You will be more comfortable if you recline,” he said and took his seat beside Mari.

  Effie made an effort to speak. “But you should be sitting on this side.”

  “Do not concern yourself about that,” Nicholas replied. “The ride is not that long.” He motioned the driver to go. “We will be home in no time.”

  As the barouche left the inner circle of the gardens and passed by the playground area, Mari saw the two mothers who had been at the pond. They glanced up as they were assisting their children into a waiting carriage. Mari wished she could stop and explain—although she was really not sure what she would say—but at least to tell them the earlier incident was not what it appeared. With Effie lying flat in the seat across from her and looking as though she were going to cast up her accounts any minute, there really was not time to delay. The explanation would have to wait.

  The short ride seemed to take an eternity, and Mari couldn’t remember when she had seen the streets so busy and bustling with other buggies. It seemed half of Mayfair was out enjoying the unusually sunny autumn day, but finally the barouche halted before the townhouse and they were home.

  Mari hopped down, not waiting for assistance, and bounded up the steps to summon Givens and Dobbs to help Effie inside. The door swung open before she could use the knocker.

  Jamie stood there, feet apart, muscular arms folded across his broad chest, his face as thunderous as a winter storm rolling in from the Thames.

  “I have been waiting for ye, lass,” he said.

  Mari swept by him as if she hadn’t heard, calling for Dobbs. Jamie was of a mind to sling her over his shoulder once more and carry her off to his chamber, but he was not sure what he would do once he got there. Putting the lass across his knee for a sound spanking warred with wanting to place her on his bed and claim his spot on top of her. She had ignored his orders once again, when his only concern was for her safety. Jamie grimaced. In truth, safety was no longer his only concern. Mari had too many lush curves and too much spirit—even if she showed it by acting like a petulant child—for him not to desire her as a woman as well. He rubbed his temples. Hell and damnation. Even his sister, Fiona, had not been this much trouble.

  Behind him, Ian chuckled.

  Jamie ignored him, although his brother was close to being invited outside for a good round of fisticuffs. He turned to find Mari pulling Dobbs by the hand, Givens following closely behind.

  “Did ye nae hear me, lass?”

  “Not now, Jamie. Effie is ill.”

  Frowning, he hurried down the steps after her, for the first time seeing the maid lying prone on the carriage seat. “What happened?” he asked as Nicholas tugged the woman to a seated position so Dobbs and Givens could help her out of the carriage.

  “I think she had too much chocolate,” Mari answered distractedly as she dabbed her handkerchief along the maid’s brow.

  “Chocolate?” Jamie leveled a cold look at Nicholas. “I want an explanation, Algernon.”

  The man just shrugged in the maddening way the French did. “I bought truffles for all of us.”

  “Do not blame Nicholas,” Mari said. “I ate them too.”

  She followed Dobbs and Givens, who were half lifting, half dragging Effie between them. The maid looked as green as one of Shane’s newly apprenticed sailors on board a vessel pitching between stormy swells and deep troughs.

  Jamie had his suspensions about chocolate causing her illness, but he felt Ian’s warning hand on his shoulder. He would let it go for now, but he wasn’t finished with the Frenchman.

  Not by a long shot.

  Wesley Alton scratched his scraggly beard and shoved his fake spectacles farther up his nose as he sat down beside Nicholas on a worn bench not far from Tower Bridge the next afternoon. “Please tell me you are making progress with that little bitch. I am getting quite tired of assuming this disguise.”

  Nicholas handed him a bottle of French cognac wrapped in newspaper. “This should help you cope with your predicament,” he said and then added, “Actually, I am doing quite well. I have completed two portraits and am commissioned for another three—”

  “I do not give a ship’s rat’s arse about your painting.”

  “You should.” Nicholas smiled coldly. “Those fees are what is keeping you supplied with the cognac you are so fond of.”

  “Merci.”

  Nicholas ignored the thank you since it was probably said in sarcasm anyway. “Those fees are also allowing me to make quite an impression on the little chit.”

  “So things are progressing?” Wesley asked. “Is the Highlander still a problem?”

  Nicholas shrugged. “I managed to lure the Barclay girl out without his presence. Things went quite well.” Actually, things had gone even better than Nicholas had hoped. He’d made sure a good amount of laudanum had been put in the maid’s truffles—all he’d had to do was lie about giving them to his ailing mother—so he’d have time to get Marissa into a compromising position. He’d deliberately chosen the gardens, knowing they would be crowded with matrons of the ton. That one of the women actually knew the little bitch was luck, but even more so as they were seen leaving. He had made sure there was enough of the opiate in the chocolate that the maid would be passed out, and it would appear he and the Barclay girl were alone. All had gone according to plan.

  “How did you manage to distract the bastard?”

  “It was not hard. Marissa informed me his brother would be arriving yesterday. I had a street urchin waiting in the street to let me know when he arrived.”

  Wesley stared at him. “The earl is back in London? Did he bring his wife?”

  Nicholas gave him a sharp look. “No. I believe the chit said her sister was enceinte.”

  Wesley’s face darkened. “I hate that son-of-a-dog.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “I can hire a couple of men off the wharves to dispose of both of them,” Wesley said.

  “Getting rid of an earl would raise a lot of questions. This is hardly the time to arouse suspicions of your whereabouts.”

  “I suppose you are right,” Wesley muttered, “although I would love to make Jillian a widow once more.” He sighed. “We can wait until Ian leaves to get rid of the brother.”

  “If he continues to get in my way, we will do it,” Nicholas agreed. “However, I le
arned a tidbit of information today that may just solidify my grounds for marrying the little bitch and collecting a very nice dowry.”

  Wesley’s ears practically perked up. “What would that be?”

  “For now, my secret.” Nicholas nearly laughed as his father narrowed his eyes and looked about to argue, but at the moment, the old man was dependent on him. A point Nicholas might need to remind him of soon.

  The Barclay girl blurting that she had a unique birthmark in a very private place had been a stroke of luck Nicholas had not anticipated. Once he painted her with that mark exposed, the gossip would be rampant. Marissa Barclay would be ruined.

  And Nicholas would play the gallant knight who would rescue her.

  But it would be costly.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jillian groaned and opened her eyes slowly to pitch blackness. For a moment, she thought she was blind, but then the sliver of moon peeped out from behind a cloud, allowing for a dim light. As she gradually became aware of her surroundings, pain jabbed through her abdomen like a sharp knife. She gasped at the intensity and clutched her stomach. The baby.

  She lay perfectly still, wondering how long she had been in the ravine. It was still night, so maybe she had lost consciousness for only a short time. The place was eerily quiet. There was no sound of men’s voices or tramping of feet. Thankfully, there was no sound of animals rustling nearby either.

  The jagged edge of a rotted tree branch poked her side. Gingerly, she shifted a little, and then inhaled sharply, grasping her stomach at the stabbing pain. An odd heat seared through her hand and she remembered cutting it on the edge of something sharp. Once she was aware of it, the throbbing began. Resolutely, she steeled herself to ignore it. The baby was more important. Had she killed it in her fall?

  Dear God. Ian would never forgive her. She grimaced as a contraction began. She had to get out of here. Very slowly, she moved her ankles and then her legs. Nothing seemed to be broken, but when she tried to sit, she collapsed back on the ground. The stomach pain was too intense. Perhaps if she rested for a few minutes, she’d gain enough strength to sit and then stand. Jillian closed her eyes. Just a few minutes…

  She drifted in and out of consciousness, barely cognizant when the sky began to lighten into the first glimpse of dawn. It seemed to her that an old lady appeared before her, but she wasn’t sure if it was a dream. When she opened her eyes—or at least she thought she did—no one was there. Yet when she closed them, the old woman was back. The ancient picked up Jillian’s hand, and the pain subsided.

  “Sleep,” the Crone of the Hills whispered.

  “Shane! Shane!” The twelve-year-old twins, Caitlin and Caylan, raced out the front door of the castle the next morning as their brother rode into the courtyard. “Ye are finally home!”

  Dismounting, he gathered one twin under each arm, picking them up and swinging them around as though they were sacks of feathers, causing them to squeal before he set them back down.

  Bridget shook her head at the girls as she came forward to give Shane a hug. “They were up at the break o’ dawn, waitin’ for ye, cousin. Were the seas kind to ye?”

  “Aye. Hardly a swell between Ireland and here,” he answered as they all walked toward the castle entrance.

  Bridget rolled her eyes. “What that means is the seas were less than ten meters and the ship still has all her masts.”

  Shane smiled indulgently at her. “My ship is well-founded. She enjoys a bit of a wild ride, nae?”

  “Just like a good woman,” Duncan said as he came forward to greet Shane with a clap on his shoulder.

  “Ye will mind yer mouth,” Bridget snapped at him. “The twins have ears the size of meat platters.”

  “’Tis glad I am to be back,” Shane said, changing the subject. “I brought gifts for the girls and a compass for the fishing boat we keep on Linnhe, but best of all, I bartered for a book on ancient Irish history that I look forward to reading in front of the fire tonight, along with sipping a wee dram.”

  “What good does it do a mon to read about what happened before?” Duncan asked. “’Tis what is happening now that is important.”

  “If we learn from history, we do not repeat mistakes,” Shane replied.

  “We can take care of mistakes with the sword, laddie.”

  “Mayhap the sword would nae be needed so much if a mon took to heart the lessons from the past.”

  Duncan snorted. “Ye spend too much time with yer nose in books.”

  “And ye might do well to read one,” Bridget retorted.

  Shane smiled at Bridget’s defense of him, but it was not necessary. That some men did not appreciate history and literature did not bother him, although being thought a scholar of sorts was incentive to keep his sword arm strong.

  As if she read his thoughts, Bridget added, “Shane can swing a claymore with one arm, if ye remember, uncle.”

  The older man’s face grew red, and Shane knew he was thinking about the time when Shane had done just that—slaying two men who had Duncan’s back to the wall. The man’s pride had been wounded more than his body. Best to change the subject

  “Is Ian about?”

  “He has gone south to check on the estates,” Bridget informed him as they entered the dining hall where others were breaking their fast.

  “I thought Jamie was doing that.”

  “Aye, but Jillian’s sister took it into her head to go to London, and Jamie had to follow to protect her.”

  Shane raised a quizzical brow. “To protect the lass? Knowing my cousin, she might need protecting from him.”

  “Mayhap,” Bridget agreed as servants set steaming porridge on the table in front of Shane, “but Ian says the lass has a fiery temper and can hold her own.”

  “’Tis an interesting thought,” Shane said as he sat down. “How does Jillian fare?”

  “Well enough,” Bridget answered, “although I think she misses Ian more than she lets on.”

  “Aye. Jillian is a fine woman. His choice was a good one.” Shane looked around the room. “Does she rise early to break her fast?”

  “Nae. The babe is due within a moon so we indulge her by letting her sleep in the morn. Her hands will be full enough once the bairn arrives.”

  “True enough,” Shane agreed. “Do ye ken when Ian will return?”

  “Verra soon, we hope. He said he’d be back before the snow fills in the passes.”

  “He had best be on his way then,” Shane answered. “The boatswain said the glass was falling the whole trip north. ’Tis a bad storm that is brewing.”

  “I knew ye did nae have smooth sailing. How bad do ye think it will be?”

  “It dinnae bode well. ’Tis early in the year for the glass to dip so sharply.”

  “Ian—” Bridget began and was interrupted by Shauna’s approach. Her sister greeted Shane warmly and then turned to Bridget.

  “Have ye seen Jillian this morn?”

  “Nae. Ye ken she lies abed for a wee bit.”

  Shauna’s brow furrowed. “I checked her room. She isna there.”

  Bridget frowned. “She isna there?”

  Shauna shook her head. “Her bed has nae been slept in.”

  Search parties were quickly organized. Shane made sure Bridget, Shauna and Fiona each had two able-bodied guards with them as they set out to look for Jillian. He also ordered another dozen men on horseback to ride the roads leading away from the castle, although he doubted Jillian would have just ridden off, especially in her condition.

  Shane slipped inside the small chapel near the back curtain wall and paused to let the serenity of the place seep through him. The prerequisite crucifix stood on the altar at the front of the chapel, but that wasn’t what drew him. Instead, he looked to the eastern wall where a stained glass window depicted an equal-armed cross inside a square inside a circle. The design was called Rosarium Philosophorum, Latin for “The key to knowledge and the sum of all things.” It had been part of the code of the Knights
Templar for nearly six hundred years, and it never failed to move him. The fact that the order still existed—albeit secretly—proved the truth to the slogan.

  If necessary, he would call on his Templar brothers—Ian’s French expatriated neighbors—to aid in the search, but he did not think it would be necessary. Shane’s gaze moved to the tapestry hanging on the wall below the window.

  The scene was of a battle, bodies littering the ground while the victor sat astride a huge horse, claymore lifted in one hand while the other held a banner of crimson and yellow—an unlikely tapestry for a chapel, but the man astride the horse was their first chief, Leod, son of Olaf the Black, King of the Isle of Man. More importantly, he held the Faerie Flag of the MacLeods.

  Jillian was now a MacLeod. She carried the bairn of the current laird. The ancestors would come to her aid.

  Shane moved a little closer, eyeing the side of the battlefield where a tree stood amid buttercups untouched by the blood and gore. Such was the balance of life.

  But he wasn’t there to philosophize. Shane peered into the splash of bright yellow flowers and waited. Slowly, a faerie emerged, the auburn of her hair forming a stem while golden strands blended in with the petals. One of the green leaves lifted, gracefully shifting into a slender hand and arm, and she pointed.

  Shane bowed and nodded. Then he turned and walked out of the chapel.

  The Crone of the Hills would be waiting for him.

  “Thank the Lord! You found her!” Bridget exclaimed less than an hour later as Shane carried an unconscious Jillian inside the castle and up the stairs to her chamber.

  “Is she alive?” Fiona asked, trailing behind him.

  “Of course she is,” Shauna admonished her sister. “She is terribly bruised though. Go tell cook to boil some water and have a maid fetch bandages.”

  For once, their sister didn’t argue. Bridget hurriedly turned down the coverlet so Shane could lay Jillian down. She groaned feebly as the maids bustled in with supplies, followed by Mrs. Ferguson, the housekeeper.

  “Och, the poor lassie,” she said and set to ordering the maids about.