Romancing the Rose

by Mary Anne Graham

  Mary Anne Graham

  The Lovely Lairds:

  ROMANCING THE ROSE

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Copyright © 2013 by Mary Anne Graham

  CHAPTER ONE

  “You’ll not go upstairs, sir, and you’ll surely not go to Lady Rose’s bedchamber,” said the rail-thin silver-haired housekeeper, brandishing a broom in one hand and a mop in the other. She held the handles so that they crossed in front of her. The business ends of both pointed up.

  The unwelcome visitor, Jack Richards, knew declarations of war as well as he knew how entertaining its prisoners could be–albeit, this one was well past her prime. No matter. A heady enough dose of her pain would render his most personal weapon capable of teaching her the perils of opposing him.

  “Your employer says otherwise,” Jack replied. “His Grace has given instructions that I’m to have run of the house, run of the grounds, run of the staff and run of anyone in the house.”

  Jack reached out to shove the housekeeper aside, but a rotund little woman ran out, wearing a flour-dusted apron. She brandished a rolling pin in one hand and a meat cleaver in the other. The cook shouldered her way to the housekeeper’s side, keeping the cleaver positioned to strike.

  “Lady Rose is our employer,” the Cook insisted. “And she doesn’t allow any animals above-stairs!”

  “Is that so?” Jack asked. “I shall be certain that Rose watches while I lift your skirts and thrust that rolling pin where it will teach you your place in a most unforgettable fashion.”

  Both of the stalwart defenders turned white as the hands holding their weapons wavered, ever so slightly. The little motion made Jack smile because he understood the shiver that caused it. He could hardly wait to inspire similar fear in Rose. His news alone should do that.

  Jack didn’t turn around at the huffing and heavy footfalls. He didn’t need to turn to know that Georgie, the overgrown mental midget who often accompanied him, had entered with Jack’s luggage.

  “Beggin’ ye’re apologies fer the delay, sir,” Georgie said.

  “See that it doesn’t happen again,” Jack snapped. “The staff has refused to allow me upstairs, despite their employer’s orders. Can you convince them otherwise, Georgie?”

  “Aye, sir,” Georgie said, seizing the cook’s arms and twisting until she screamed and dropped the knife and rolling pin. He picked up the scrawny housekeeper, mop, broom and all, and tossed her backwards over his shoulder.

  “Betty,” cried the cook, bustling around Jack and Georgie and off the stairs. She bent to her co-worker. “Are ye all right?”

  Jack snorted, motioned to Georgie, and they headed upstairs.

  The housekeeper and the cook exchanged a dire look, before the housekeeper whispered an urgent request to the cook. “I’ll live but ye best bustle out to the stables and get Ned.”

  ***

  Upon finding Rose’s bedroom door locked, Jack gestured to Georgie who gave it a kick hard enough to send the door flying across the room.

  The green-eyed blonde curled up on the window seat gasped, but she didn’t jump up shrieking. After doing for herself since her father’s death it took more than a flying door to cause her alarm, let alone panic. She didn’t even lift her head from the window she leaned against until she heard the voice of the man who entered.

  “Put my bags over there,” Jack said, gesturing towards an empty corner of the bedchamber. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he looked around the room, his gaze stopping on Rose. “We shall have to redecorate, my dear.”

  Yes, it took a lot to bring Rose to her feet these days and a lot more to inspire panic, but this man’s entry into her bedchamber and his use of that word did it. Rose shot to her feet, clutching the fraying fabric at the side of her dress like it might transform into wings.

  “Are you mad?” Rose asked. “Get out of my bedchamber this instant.”

  “Our bedchamber,” Jack said. “Your brother and I have signed the betrothal agreement. It gives me full rights to your person as of the date of signing. I’ve owned you for several days and have arrived to take possession.”

  Rose’s heart sank even as she stood up for the brother she no longer had reason to support. “I don’t believe you. Will wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  “Don’t pretend stupidity that you don’t possess, my dear,” Jack said, strolling further into the room. “As you very well know, if I requested it, Will would deliver you to me stark naked and in broad daylight. Your brother is presently drunk off his useless arse and floating on a poppy cloud–all by way of celebrating my insistence on a wedding along with the bedding.”

  Rose’s heart pounded so loud that she only made out every other word or so, but she really had no doubt that Jack was telling the complete truth. She didn’t doubt it a whit, but she’d not take the scoundrel’s word on the weather without looking outside to check. “Will has his issues, but I’ve no cause to believe that he has lost all brotherly affection to that point.”

  Jack clicked his tongue again as he crossed the room with sparkling black eyes focused on the straining bodice of the gown she’d outgrown but couldn’t discard. It felt as though he could see right through the garment. Sweat popped out on her forehead and her head began to swim. Her orders for him to stop and get out only turned the sparkle into shards of glass he flung back at her.

  When he reached her, Jack seized the hand she’d flung up in a stop motion and twisted her arm behind her back as he snatched her close. While he was busy torturing her arm and pushing her into the thick weapon between his legs, she used her free hand to claw his face.

  “Fucking bitch,” Jack swore and grabbed her throat, squeezing tight enough to cut off her air supply.

  Her vow not to give him the satisfaction of letting him see her struggle lasted past her feeling that she was falling in a place where no ground existed. It lasted past her daze. She didn’t break until her body reacted involuntarily, in the beginning of a convulsion. She’d witnessed those in patients, and she knew how scary watching it could be–and she might not have broken if Jack looked the least bit frightened. He didn’t, not a’tall. Jack looked jubilant and the weapon between his legs thickened.

  Her pain excited him and knowing that broke her. She grabbed his shoulder and tried to mouth the word ‘please.’ His joy and his weapon grew and that should have been enough to make her stop, to take whatever came next with dignity rather than giving him more pain to feed his ecstasy. But she was too weak, too pathetic, and so she wrapped her arms around his neck and repeated the plea until blackness began to overtake her ability to form words. The black tide surged closer and closer…

  She didn’t remember him turning loose of her throat and had no recollection of how she came to be standing beside her bed instead of the window seat. He must have shoved her there. But she’d never forget the sharp glee on his face as he very slowly, very intentionally stepped between her legs, planting a boot on the hem of her gown as he planted his cannon between her thighs. He wrapped an arm around her waist and bent her backwards, laughing at her horror as she heard the sound of a ripping seam.

  He cocked his hand back and slapped her with all his strength just as she felt air on her breasts. She fell backwards onto the bed, near paralyz
ed with shock for the briefest of moments before she folded her arms over her chest, frantic to cover herself, not wanting this man to have possession of anything as intimate as the sight of her bosom.

  “Tuck your hands under your head this minute or I’ll choke you while I fuck you,” Jack said. “I may do that anyway. Until you’re properly trained I’ll likely get more pleasure from fucking you while you’re unconscious.”

  Rose tried weighing the pain of being choked unconscious whilst Jack conquered her helpless body against living the horror of displaying herself as a prize for him. Her brain wouldn’t process the choice. She lay with her eyes shut tight, clutching her chest and rocking as she hummed a lullaby that her mother used to croon.

  Jack wasn’t a patient man so it wasn’t long before he snarled, “Ignorant bitch. Make me wait, will you? I’ll tie your bloody tits behind your head like a noose.”

  He launched, kneeling over her on the bed and seizing both her hands in one of his. Jack grabbed her right breast with his free hand, gripping as much as he could hold and twisting, twisting, until she screamed. He gave a demented laugh and kept laughing as he started twisting again – The pain stopped, Jack’s hand fell away from her breast slowly and Rose felt his body going backwards. She opened her eyes as she heard the muffled thud of Jack being lowered to the floor by Ned Sutherland. Neddie was the last remaining man on the place–the others having left for work where their wages would be paid. Ned worked mainly with the horses, but Rose knew he’d stayed out of loyalty to her father, though he longed daily to return to his beloved Scottish Highlands.

  “Get up, lass, time’s awaistin’,” Ned said, averting his eyes from her torn dress and exposed bosom. “I’d have been here sooner if I’d been able to take care of this one’s hulking giant a wee bit faster. I’m thinking I’m a mite too old for such business.”

  Rose jumped to her feet without question, accepting the dress Ned jerked from her bureau. She would have been in a tearing hurry to get out of any room that contained Jack for that reason alone, but Ned seemed to have more in mind. As she slipped the dress over her head, Rose asked, “Why is time waisting? I’ve nowhere to go and I fear Jack will be even meaner when he wakes, assuming that is possible.”

  “We’re off to our family in the Highlands,” Ned said.

  “Our family?” Rose asked. “I haven’t family anywhere save for here and a couple of cousins in America.”

  She accepted the small satchel without looking to see what he’d stuffed inside. But she dropped it again when Ned explained his comment.

  “We’re off to meet your betrothed, lass,” Ned said. “’Tis far past time to collect on an old promise.”

  “My what?” Rose asked.

  “I’ll explain more on the way,” Ned said, pushing her slightly to get her feet moving. “For now, what matters is that your betrothed is a fierce laird who’ll protect you from anything your brother and Jack might do. Faith, the Ram would spit in the eye of your King himself and thank me for giving him the excuse.”

  “The Ram?” Rose asked. “I’m betrothed to livestock?”

  “Not quite,” Ned replied. “But even if you were ‘twould still be a sizeable improvement on Jack Richards.”

  Since that was the absolute truth, Rose didn’t argue the point.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I hear congratulations are in order,” said Hugh Sinclair, striding onto the hill o’er the field where Ramsay Sutherland watched his young warriors train and the seasoned ones practice.

  “Twice,” said David Ross as he joined his two friends.

  “Regular court jesters ye are this morn,” Ram grumbled.

  Of the three men widely known as the ‘lovely lairds,’ only Ram looked more livid than lovely–not that any of the lasses clustered around sighing and dreaming would have agreed. To them, the men were always handsome regardless of their expressions. Mind you, each had her particular favorite.

  The lairds on the hill took no notice of the attention from the ladies. They received it in all of their holdings, in most of Scotland and on rare occasions when they ventured onto the hated soil, in England. However, they’d not miss the opportunity to bedevil one of their own. Despite his present grumpy disposition, Hugh and David knew that Ram would expect no less.

  “We have the situation to thank for the humor rather than me or David,” said Hugh. “’Tis particularly amusing given that it’s you and you’re the least romantic lad I know.”

  “Damned straight,” David said. “Ram, I know of no one who pays less heed to romancing the lasses than you. Even Hugh and I dabble on occasion.”

  At that, Ram cracked a reluctant wee grin. “Hell, lads, I dabble with the wenches plenty–so long as they’re not of a sort to demand a marriage vow as fare for the ride.”

  “But this is ye’re first time dabbling with proper lasses and it’s not gone so well now, has it?” Hugh asked.

  “He’s confused,” David said. “Dallying with two wenches at once is fine but dallying with two betrotheds–not so much.”

  “I do not,” Ram snapped, “have two betrotheds.”

  “We heard it a bit different,” Hugh said. “Are you claiming that long-lost Neddie didn’t show up here during the night with an English lass betrothed to you since you were both bairns?”

  “Perhaps he’s saying that he didn’t return yesterday with a signed betrothal agreement pledging him to Laird MacKenzie’s daughter, Flora?” David asked.

  “Shit,” Ram said. “I’m saying that Neddie’s been lost long enough that his loyalty may have shifted. If my father betrothed me to an Englishwoman, or if he ever mentioned my betrothal to an Englishwoman, I’d have known he’d gone daft. Da had no more love of the English than I do, and ye know that I hate them and the ground they walk on.”

  “So you don’t put much store in Ned’s tale?” Hugh asked.

  “Not a whit,” Ram said, just before a young lad ran up with a note for the laird from the clan’s elder counsel. The counsel required an urgent meeting with the laird to discuss a few things about “the Lady Rose business.”

  Something about the tone or the words–or perhaps those things combined–made the hair on the back of Ram’s neck stand up. That never boded well.

  “Problem?” David asked.

  “Shit,” Ram said again, cramming the note in his pocket. “’Tis possible that I may have to modify my assessment. I’ll let you know after my meeting with the elders. I’m assuming that neither plague nor pestilence could pry you away before dinner?”

  “Oh, we shall be here a while yet,” Hugh said. “We must meet this English lady with a possibly well-witted claim to your hand.”

  Ram’s parting words made a blunt and physically impossible suggestion about what his friends could do with their wit and their curiosity.

  ***

  A few hours later David and Hugh sat on stumps at the edge of the pond throwing rocks, telling tall tales and awaiting Ram. He didn’t appear. What did was a sporadic trail of limping, bloody warriors–seasoned men all. With a nod, they rose and moved along to the path where they intercepted the next man who hobbled by, blethering to himself like an eejit.

  “What ho, Fergus,” David said, hailing Ram’s second-in-command who was far from an idiot, present circumstances aside. “Ye don’t look well. Don’t tell me that the laddie warriors put you in this shape.”

  Fergus snorted, shuffled his feet, but still looked black affronted. “As though the bairns would ere have a prayer of such! ‘Twas the laird.”

  “Ram?” Hugh asked. “Ye must have had quite a falling out for it to end with ye black and blue, bloody and with a swollen nose.”

  Fergus made a disgusted noise. “Himself were spoiling for a right good battle when he marched in and dismissed the young ones. We started out with swords which is where I got the nick to my shoulder and the other one to my arm. Mind ye, that weren’t so bad.”

  Hugh didn’t disagree, nor did David, although it was pretty pla
in that what Fergus called “nicks” would likely need attention from a healer. But whatever bug crawled up the laird’s arse ‘twern’t happy with that. Aye, the laird needed to pound something and guess who he pounded?”

  “We’ve been watching the walking wounded,” David said.

  Fergus nodded and headed on towards the village. Likely, the clan healer had patients stacked up like corn in a cart. The healer wasn’t young to begin with and worst of all, he was a talker. He tended to take his time in even the most urgent circumstance. David and Hugh watched Fergus limp away, calling out good wishes.

  After the wounded warrior disappeared around the bend the two lairds exchanged a look and a nod. Not a word was said, but none was needed as they set out in search of their irate friend. Ram’s fury meant that the meeting with the elders hadn’t gone well. It meant there was a story. Scots to the bone, David and Hugh loved little as much as a good story, unless ‘twas one told at a friend’s expense.

  They arrived as Ram goaded his first-in-command like a beserker. Despite the torrent of insults to all his wives, his mother and his dog–or perhaps because of them–Ram’s first, Conall, stood with his hands on his hips and a small smile on his face.

  As David and Hugh approached, Conall shook his head and said, “Laird, ye’ll nae draw me in. The clan will have need of one experienced warrior to lead all the pups. Else, if we’re attacked, we’re apt to be done in by our own men.”

  In reply, Ram snarled, “Is mac bhàdhair fhuileach thu!”

  Hugh and David walked up on either side of Ram, laughing and placing a hand on their friend’s shoulder. .

  “Ram, you’re first isn’t a cow’s bloody afterbirth,” Hugh said.

  “He’s nae even a fucking son of a bitch,” David said. “Had he been, you’d never have made him your first.”

  Ram opened his mouth to growl a reply but shut it again when Hugh said, “Take a deep breath first.”