She sank onto a stone bench and blinked heavily against the cool evening air. Those people would not squeeze one tear from her. After watching her mother cry herself into an early grave, Rooney had vowed never to allow wretched people to twist her emotions. For years she had locked herself away from the shame that followed, but tonight the rusty key had cracked open a portal to the rawness still buried inside.
She took a deep breath. Slowly, her heart resumed its rhythmic pace. If she had any hope of achieving what she came here to do, she’d have to go back inside. A few tears in the eyes and she could beg a handkerchief from one of the men. Many a gold watch had winked from the insides of their jackets. A simple enough lift. As for the women—she refused to call them ladies—it would take more finagling. Nobles required stroked egos, and a sobbing, repentant heart in need of advice would prove irresistible to them. The thought sickened her. Groveling at their skirts as if she truly desired their grace. In front of Deven. Her stomach churned. There had to be another way.
Surging to her feet, she paced the grass. Spill wine on their dresses for distraction? No, it would draw too much attention. Help them on with their coats? No, that was a servant’s task though it was clear they thought her low as one. A tour of the house? Aye, possibly. The tight staircases and halls were ideal for crowding close. The guests wouldn’t give much thought to Rooney jostling among them.
A twinkle caught her eye. She moved to the glass window. Sir Leslie’s prized diamond pendant which he claimed once adorned the white neck of Queen Elizabeth. Her buyer would sell his own mother to get his greedy hands on such a gem. It would be the finest she’d ever brought into his shop to exchange for silver and gold.
Sconces glowed on the walls, arching a halo over the pendant’s case like a shrine. Thousands of facets twinkled at her like rainbow stars. How easy it would be to take. She traced the teardrop shape on the glass. No one inside could catch her. Except Deven. She pulled her hand back as the memory of his touch warmed through her fingers. She didn’t want to lose that feeling nor did she want to evoke the absolute disappointment when he discovered her duplicity. If luck prevailed, her soul alone would carry the secret of the Night Fox to the grave.
“Beautiful, is it not?”
Rooney jumped, icicles slithering down her back. Sir Leslie stood next to her. Close, much too close. She tucked her arms against her sides. “I should be afraid to display it so without armed guards.”
“No one would dare to lay a finger on it. The dogs would be loosed before the culprit reached the end of the drive.”
Hounds must have been a recent acquisition for in all of Rooney’s nightly escapades she’d never encountered such beasts on her trail. “I find it a testament to the Fox’s canniness to slip by yer hounds time and time again.”
Sir Leslie stiffened. “They have closed in on him on more than one occasion. When he came for my silver, one of the dogs caught his ankle as he made out of the window. I told McLendon that we are now looking for a thief with a possible hobble.”
“Oh my.” How many rumors were there swirling about her?
“My dear, let us not speak of dogs or foxes. Not when there are so many other appealing topics. Such as how enchanting my pendant would look on a chain about your slender throat, the diamond glistening just there in the shallow hollow of white skin.” His eyes drifted to a spot barely above her cleavage. “The first of many jewels I will shower you with as Lady Milford.”
Rooney stepped back, eager to put as much space between her and his loathsome presence as possible. “Hear me, Sir Leslie. My obligations are to my sisters and repaying the debt owed ye for our home.”
“As my wife, your debt would be paid in full. Your sisters free to live there for all their years. Think of all we could be, Rooney. Think of all we could do.” His last words rolled on a purr of lust. He snatched her hand and pressed it to his dry lips.
“Nay.”
“Always saying one thing when I know you truly mean another.”
“Do not delude yerself on that account.”
His grasping arms came around her as his lips fell to her neck.
Rooney shoved against him. “I said nay.”
Chapter 7
DEVEN STUCK HIS HEAD into the front sitting room. “Rooney?” No answer save the crackle of a well-tended fire in the marbled hearth. She’d looked beautiful standing in this room hours before surrounded by candlelight and soft music. Her fiery hair had caught each spark of light and spun it to copper.
That was before the insults and cutting looks. She had born them with pride and grace, but there was only so much assault one’s armor could hold defense against. Why had he not shielded her better? Why had he allowed her to withstand the offense in the first place?
He snagged a servant passing in the hall. “Has Miss Corsen left for the evening?”
“Nay, my lord. Or if she has, she’s left her cloak.”
Deven stalked away and peered into more rooms, stopping last in Sir Leslie’s study where that horrid pendant shone on its display. An altar for the greedy man to bow before. Shadows moved outside the window. Rooney? His heart skipped. And Sir Leslie. Standing too close. Cursing under his breath, Deven threw open the door and charged outside.
“I said nay.”
Deven grabbed Sir Leslie by the collar and yanked him off of Rooney. “Mac an muice!”
Sir Leslie reeled, stumbled, and toppled to the grass. Disbelief slackened his sallow face. “McLendon? How dare you call me such a thing?”
“’Tis a name ye deserve with no morals. Attacking a lady in the middle of the night.” Rage burned through Deven’s curled fists.
Bright red splotches marred Rooney’s pale cheeks. “It comes as no shock to me.”
Sir Leslie scrambled to his feet, brushing off his coat. “Is it improper for a man to steal a moment with his intended?”
“Intended?” Rooney moved toward Sir Leslie with hand raised. “There is only one thing I intend to do.”
Deven caught her hand as it swung through the air. “Dinna give him the privilege of yer touch again.” He stared at Sir Leslie. “If ye ever lay a finger on her again, be assured that I’ll use more than the flat of my hand on ye.”
“This is none of your affair,” Sir Leslie hissed.
“I’m making it my affair.”
“’Tis perfectly acceptable for a gentleman to steal a few alone moments with the lady he is wooing.”
“I came here to be alone,” Rooney said through clenched teeth.
“Ah, yes. And so, we were alone. Very much so. Long enough for the guests inside to wonder at your absence without a chaperone. One might even suggest you lured me out here for that very purpose.” His threat coiled in the air.
“If ye think to utter one word about my compromised reputation, I’ll tell everyone how ye threw yerself on me while I screamed nay. Yer lords and ladies willna socialize themselves with a lecher.”
“Do you really think they’d believe you over me?”
Deven stepped in front of Rooney, blocking her from the man’s evil stare. “Nay, but ye’ll look the fool when I say it never happened. I’ve been here the entire time. D’ye wish to find out what they’ll think then?”
Sir Leslie’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a lie.”
“Aye, but only one to cease yer mischief. The next time I’ll use more forceful means to ensure yer silence. Back inside with ye.”
Rooney sidestepped Deven, hands on her hips and glared at Sir Leslie. “Since ye find yerself in need of something to get handsy with, try the pearl hairpins ye keep locked in the wardrobe. Might be as close to a woman as any would allow ye.”
Sir Leslie’s eyebrows shot up. “How did you—” His lips pressed into a white line. “Very well. If that is how it is to be.” He spun and stalked into the house.
Deven slowly uncurled his fists, willing the haze of red to recede from his vision. Once more in control, he looked at Rooney. “Are ye all right?”
S
wiping the front of her skirt with an agitated huff, she raised one delicate eyebrow. “Did ye really call him a son of a pig?”
“I apologize. I shouldna have spoken so in front of ye.”
“He deserves much worse.”
“Mayhap he does, but to recall a more explicit name would require me to think on him. A task I’d rather avoid.”
“Thank ye for coming to my aid.” She smiled, and the righteous burn of anger in his chest diffused. How did such a small woman hold sway over his reactions? His reins had been tightly in control for most of his life, but she made him forget direction as he eagerly awaited her next move. A thrilling and terrifying adventure.
“I’m here should ye ever need me, Rooney.”
Her smile faded as she knotted her fingers together. “My lord—”
“Deven.”
“Deven, there’s something ye should—” Wind ruffled through the trees, splaying chill bumps across her skin. She shivered and rubbed her hands over her bare arms.
“Ye’re cold. Let’s go inside.”
“Nay, I’d rather not.”
“Then I’ll fetch yer cloak.”
“I think I should like to go home. Nothing good can come from staying here.”
“I’ll take ye. Wait here.” Slipping inside, Deven rounded up their cloaks and hurried back outside where Rooney had taken shelter under a drooping ash tree. He wrapped her cloak over her slender shoulders.
A silky curl brushed his knuckles as she looked at him. The hesitancy in her expression from moments before disappeared into a coy grin. “Did ye say good night to Miss Logan? She’ll wonder where ye’ve gone.”
“Would ye like me to usher ye inside to find out?”
“Nay.” Rooney laughed and took his arm in the most natural way. One minute smiling, the next fearful, and the next teasing. Like masks she slipped on at appropriate intervals. Who was she truly beneath all of it? And why was he impatient to tear through them all to discover it for himself?
Rounding to the front of the house, Deven requested his horse which was brought from the stables in a matter of minutes. Without waiting for permission, he fitted his hands about Rooney’s waist and lifted her into the saddle. He swung up behind her and tapped his heels against the horse’s flanks. Rooney’s shoulder snuggled against his chest, her hair caressing his jaw. It took every ounce of willpower to not bury his face in its fragrant softness.
She tugged at the edges of her cloak.
“Still cold?” Deven’s own skin and bared knees were impervious to the weather, no matter the season. Scottish stubbornness, his father had called it. Highlanders were born with it, and if they weren’t, they perished soon enough as a matter of survival.
“Velvet is well enough to look at, but it doesna stave off the wind.”
With a quick flick of his fingers, Deven undid the brooch at his shoulder. He pulled his plaid around him and Rooney, cocooning them in its woolen folds. Rooney stiffened, but as their warmth built, she settled against him. He took a shaky breath, certain she could feel his heart pounding at the nearness and her sweet scent filling the air.
All too soon they arrived at her cottage. She didn’t move. Neither did he.
“He’ll be angry.” Rooney’s fingers twisted the edges of his plaid.
Deven stiffened, all musings of calming warmth gone. “If he comes to ye again, send for me at once.”
“That’s not what I’m afraid of.” She shuddered as she looked at the small cottage. Yellow light slipped through the crack at the bottom of the door. “He’ll come for this next. That’s what he does. He brings people to the end of their rope before lopping it off. Falling into the abyss of despair and ruin, the person will stretch out their hand and grasp Sir Leslie’s offer of help. Too late do they realize they’ve grasped a snake.”
He tightened his arms about her. “Ye needna fear such a thing for I willna allow it to happen. Ye and yer sisters are under my protection now.”
“Ye lied tonight. In the garden.” Her voice was low, like the whispers of wind over a deep loch that rippled into Deven’s soul.
“Reputations are worth preserving.”
“More so than yer word of honor?”
Deven’s honor meant more to him than life. To not uphold it would mean death for him, the death of everything he believed in. Such a code was decidedly simpler to live by with an unbending line of right and wrong. Mangled emotions held no sway nor cast doubt. Until tonight when he’d bent his own rules. Because the truth would have destroyed an innocent’s integrity. It would have destroyed Rooney. “My honor is bound in truth. I may not have been present in the garden, but that fact is overshadowed by the lies Sir Leslie would have spread.”
“Ye lied to tell the truth. For me.”
Yes. He had lied for her. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Deven McLendon, there are perhaps more shades to ye than black and white.” She lifted her face to his. The wide, amber eyes reflected his features like swirls in a dram of whisky. “If I look closely, will I detect a faint pink?”
His pulse quickened. He smoothed her hair, the silky springs catching between his fingers. “All I see is red.”
Her breath caught, the small hitch igniting his blood. She was nothing he’d ever wanted, and she’d become everything he needed. He lowered his mouth to cover hers.
The front door banged open. Deven and Rooney jumped apart. Rose and Ruby stood in the doorway, peering into the darkness.
“Rooney, is that ye?”
“I told ye she was back. How was it? What did ye eat?”
“What were the ladies wearing?”
“Wheesht ye wee rattens and back inside.” Rooney turned to Deven with an apologetic smile. “We willna gain a moment’s peace with those two, so I’ll bid ye goodnight. And thank ye.”
Before Deven could respond or offer his hand, she slid off the horse in a whisper of satin. Raising her hood over her head, she dashed to her cottage door. She stopped briefly in an eerily familiar silhouette.
The light footsteps quickly covering the ground like a shadow, the petite height, for a moment he saw the hooded figure crouched in his window, the ruby glow of his brooch in the gloved hand.
He blinked hard as Rooney disappeared inside. A long night indeed when he began to see a charming lass lurking about as an infamous thief.
Chapter 8
“GOOD MORN, MISTRESS KERRY. Yer beets look particularly red amidst the morning dew.” Not even the sour-faced woman on market day could diminish Rooney’s cheerfulness. She plucked a lock of hair from her braid and wound it around her finger. It looked redder today. Not orange or copper, but a bright titian that sparked like light glinting from garnets. She’d never appreciated the unruly mess before, considered by all an unlucky omen.
That was before Deven had run his fingers through it with the reverence of a man touching the Stone of Destiny. When he had almost kissed her.
“Rooney!”
Rooney’s smile flattened at Rose’s shriek. “No need to raise a skelloch for all the village to hear. I’m here.” Her sister pushed through the market crowd and stopped in front of their baskets. Dirt caked her face and dress. “Where have ye been, and what pigsty have ye been rolling in?”
“Behind the tanner’s shop. We wanted to find the piglet with the curliest tail.” Rose thumbed her chest. “I won.”
“There’s consolation in that, I suppose. We canna have muddy and losing.” Rooney narrowed her eyes. “Who is ‘we?’”
“Me and Hamish. I told him to come join me for a game of obblyonkers, but he needed to get the midday meal for his mam.” She swiped her forehead, smearing more mud. “I think he was afraid to lose again.”
Why was Hamish fetching food in the middle of the day? Rooney had brought him and his mother food not a week before. Surely supplies hadn’t run out already. “Stay here.”
Rooney hurried to the baker’s shop where the enticing scent of warm bread beckoned her inside. It was empt
y save the baker who stood at a table kneading dough.
He glanced up from his task. “Can I be helpin ye at all, miss?”
“I was looking for someone, but I must have been mistaken.” Then a grimy hand reached from under a table and grabbed a roll.
“Ye!” The baker pointed a flour-encrusted finger as Hamish scrambled out the back door. “Thief! Stop there, ye wee clatty imp!”
Rooney raced after Hamish. A tall figure stepped out from around the corner. The man grabbed Hamish’s shirt front, lifting him to his toes as the lad tottered backward.
Rooney skittered to a halt. “D—Lord Glèidh.”
Deven’s brow lifted in surprise. “D’ye ken the lad, or are ye about a stretch of the legs?” He glanced down to the roll in Hamish’s grimy hand. “In a bit of trouble, are ye lad?”
Hamish struggled in Deven’s unrelenting grip. “Let me go, ye black-hearted worm!”
“There’s no need for name calling, Hamish.” Rooney stepped forward. “Nor for stealing.”
Deven’s gaze cut back to Hamish. “There’s a penalty for thievery.”
“Not the pillory.” Hamish sagged as tears spilled down his gaunt cheeks. “Please, my laird. The pain is too great for me to bear again.” His left earlobe was torn in two from having been nailed to the pillory a year ago. It had taken him nearly three days to work up the courage to tear himself free.
“There’s been a misunderstanding. One quickly rectified.” Rooney reached into the coin pouch tied at her belt and extracted a silver bawbee. She walked back inside and handed the payment to the baker and returned outside.
Deven’s frown didn’t flinch. “It may be paid for, but the boy has committed a crime.”
“Because he is desperate.”
“That doesna change the facts.”
“Nay, the facts dinna change, but perhaps how ye see them can. Come with me.” When Deven didn’t release Hamish, Rooney sighed and placed a light hand on his forearm. “Please.”
The Highlanders: A Smitten Historical Romance Collection Page 6