“Pirates,” he interjected.
“Smugglers,” she corrected. “We never attack ships or people; we offer our logistics services to people in need of them. We move goods without ever laying a hand on innocent people.”
She might be a slightly immoral hellion but she’d never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. The Rees considered themselves noble villains, angels with crooked halos, scoundrels with hearts of gold.
“And you remember nothing of the shipwreck?”
She shook her head. “I remember most of what happened just before. It was calm and then it wasn’t, and the sea battered the ship, and my father…” Her throat closed up against the words. At night, in the dark and silence, the dreams would come. The memories that wove with the nightmare, the nightmare that stole her slumber, drove her to numb her fear in whiskey and mindless sex with strangers… She’d lost her innocence at thirteen to a man more than twice her age. He’d been gentle and yet forceful, taking his pleasure. It had been unlike anything she’d expected; there’d been pain and shame and some enjoyment, but it was what she realized afterward that had made her return for that same encounter over and over again, with different men in different ports for thirteen years. For a short time during the experience, she hadn’t felt misplaced, like she didn’t belong.
That need for belonging had festered within her for as long as she could remember. Aye, she’d been adopted into the Rees, but she knew she wasn’t one. She knew she had a family elsewhere, that she was missing a part of herself, and that the family she didn’t know about was maybe missing her, too.
But she could tell no one, they would think her weak, vulnerable, unworthy of their trust on matters as vital as gathering information for the family. Aye, Saban, her eldest cousin, would understand; he knew what it was like to live with so much responsibility on his shoulders, but Rose didn’t want to add to that, to become a burden when she only ever wanted to be…found.
Lost. So lost in thought…
Reaching out, Thorn placed his large hand over hers, grasping it gently.
“Do you…remember me?” Did he remember her? From the looks of him, he couldn’t be more than thirty-five, and at her age of six and twenty, she couldn’t have been much older than a mewling babe when they were betrothed to one another. Did a lad remember the little girl he was promised to marry? And if he did, what did he remember about her?
A slowly growing desire to know all the answers to all the questions bloomed in her mind.
After all these years of feeling adrift in her own life, could it be as simple as speaking with the man before her?
Blinking the haze from her eyes, Rose noticed the change in him, how his shoulders tensed, his eyes becoming hooded, as though he were hiding his vulnerable parts from her.
“Do you remember me, Rose? We were betrothed just after you were born, but we had four years together after that. You might remember some of that,” he coaxed, this time his voice carrying a note of restraint. Rose could sense he was holding himself back, probably containing his urge to shake the truth from her. But she didn’t know all the truths—she was seeking her own.
Did it really matter to him that much, that she remember him? Did she remember him?
If she were really the Rosette MacDeargh he thought she was, wouldn’t she have remembered him? At least by name? Rose bit the inside of her cheek, using the sharp pain to focus her mind.
She tried to imagine what Thorn might look like as a young lad, dark-haired, perhaps gangly and pale, but still with those striking jet-colored eyes.
Nothing.
Shifting in her seat, she sighed. “Nay. Sorry, I cannot remember you,” she admitted.
Unexpectedly, Thorn didn’t look all that disappointed, or even surprised.
“You were young, ’tis understandable that you wouldn’t remember me,” he admitted. His upper lip curled up just slightly, and Rose was fascinated by the movement. He had such lovely lips for a man. ’Twas almost a crime that God had given him such perfect lips, which meant some poor woman was wearing lips that looked like two boards sliding together when she smiled.
“It isn’t just you,” she added. “I do not remember my own mother, either.”
Again, there wasn’t a speck of surprise in his expression.
“’Tis a shame, that. You remind me of her; fiery red hair, eyes the color of autumn leaves, and a face men would go to war for.”
An unwelcomed blush heated her cheeks, shocking her. She’d been offered words of flattery before but, for some damnable reason, the words felt warmer, truer coming from Thorn’s lips.
Her chest constricted at this new sensation.
“What was her name? Who was she?” The questions tumbled from her lips.
He chuckled softly, the sound caressing her ears like soft fingers.
“Mary Christine MacDeargh,” Thorn supplied, his gaze turning inward. Rose watched his face as a ghost of a smile softened his expression. “She was born a fierce and loyal Fraser, which meant none were surprised when she fiercely and loyally battled for your chance to marry whomever you wanted. She did not like the idea that you would be married off like a prize.”
Overcome with the urge to hug the mother she couldn’t remember, Rose smirked. “That explains it,” she surmised.
“What?”
“My fierce desire to not get married. To anyone,” she answered defiantly.
Thorn frowned, his pretty lips turning down. So, he didn’t like her refusal. She shrugged; he didn’t have to like it. She hadn’t come to find her family just to be leg-shackled to a complete stranger—no matter how attractive he was.
More than attractive; it wasn’t just his muscular body, deep voice, and handsome face, there was something about him that drew her.
“You must be tired,” he said, pushing up from his seat to tower over her, his eyes dark and unreadable.
“Aye, I could sleep,” she remarked, standing as well, not once looking away.
“I will have Briar come to your chamber in the morning, to look in on you.” As he spoke, his expression darkened.
She wanted to throw her head back and laugh; in that moment, she realized that he realized he was in a bind. He’d just claimed Rose as his long-lost betrothed, yet he already had a betrothed, one that smelled of dead rose petals.
“Aye,” she chirped. “Briar.”
Thorn grunted, his black brows turned down as lines etched into grooves beside his eyes.
Without another word, Thorn moved to the wall where a rope hung and he pulled it.
Moments later, the man named Garrick arrived.
“Escort our guest to the room Marbeth prepared,” Thorn ordered. He turned back to Rose as Garrick stopped just outside the door, offering them another moment of privacy. “We will discuss this in greater detail tomorrow. I have many more questions for you, and I know you will have questions for me.” He stopped, running his hand through his hair, which mussed it terribly. “You have come home, Rose. For now, we will set aside talk of our betrothal, but do not mistake me, we will come back to it, and you will give me a chance to fulfil my father’s desire to tie our families together.”
Their families?
She had no family. And now, more than ever before, she felt the loss of them.
Chapter Ten
Lord, if he never saw another tome of clan history again, it would be too soon.
After watching Rose depart the study the night before, Thorn had thrown himself into his father’s collection of family records, looking for any information he could find about the MacDearghs. Finding the MacPherson connection to the MacDearghs was easy, but finding any details about what happened to the MacDearghs after Angus died was difficult. It was almost as if his father had lost all interest in continuing to archive anything to do with the MacDearghs.
From his own memories, he knew the MacDearghs were a clan farther in the north, in the harsher wilderness, but they were a good, hardworking, and peaceful people. Unfortunatel
y, they were reclusive, seeking to remain apart from the other clans, especially after their one attempt to form an alliance with a southern clan had turned tragic.
It wasn’t until the first morning light had turned the sky from black to gray that he ventured to his bedchamber to get a few hours of sleep.
Throwing his legs over the edge of his bed, Thorn rubbed the sleepless grit from his eyes, moaning. He stretched, rolling his shoulders to rid them of the stiffness that his restlessness had wrought.
With so much about Rose left to uncover; what she’d been doing for twenty-one years, what she’d been doing for the smuggling Rees, and where she laid her loyalties, he knew it was best to keep the truth of her identity hidden.
At first, he’d been wary about leaving Rose to Briar’s ministrations that morning, but he realized that, as against the idea of their betrothal as she was, Rose wouldn’t say a word about it. And he was thankful. He couldn’t imagine what Briar would do if she discovered that he was preparing to call off their wedding.
And damn, he felt like an arse for forgetting about their upcoming wedding during his time with Rose. He’d been so shocked when he’d realized who she was that all other thoughts had fled his mind. He’d focused on Rose, who she was, and what it meant now that she had returned.
Once he’d remembered that he had promised to marry Briar just the week before, an invisible boulder plummeted into his belly.
Groaning, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, welcoming the pain. His elbows dug into the top of his knees as he held the weight of his own head. His own thoughts.
Before his failed attempts to rest the night before, he’d told Garrick about what he’d learned. Understandably, Garrick was both shocked and wary. He reminded Thorn that many of the schemers that had come before had seemed credible, and Thorn agreed with him, but then he revealed the one piece of evidence that none of the other women even knew about. The birthmark on the left arse cheek. He’d only known about it because he’d caught Little Rose swimming without a stitch on when she was no more than four years old. He’d laughed at her about it then tattled on her. After that, she’d refused to even look at him, she was so enraged.
Aye…that was the Little Rose he remembered, a scorching temper that matched her hair.
But that was so long ago, and Rose had grown into a woman who did a much better job keeping her temper in check; he’d barely seen a hint of it the night before, though he could readily sense that there was more to her, buried deep beneath the smirks and unbanked desire in her eyes.
Once Thorn had told Garrick about the mark on Rose’s arse and how he was convinced that she was his true betrothed, Garrick snickered and then groaned. “I dinnae envy ye, I cannae believe that Briar will take it happily…” he’d said, shuddering.
Was it wise to tell anyone about Rose? He knew Rose was skittish and had rejected the idea of their engagement, but…what if he could convince her? What if he could get her to stay, to marry him, to grace his bed with her beautiful, lush body? It would take some doing, certainly, and he knew that if everyone else knew the truth of her identity, she would run for the hills. She came to Kinloch Rannoch to learn about her history, her family, and he could give that to her, but it would be difficult to go about showing her both a reason to stay and her reason for coming in the first place if they were inundated by the curious, the well-wishers, and the doubters.
Then again, if he didn’t tell Briar, she would continue planning their wedding, a wedding he was now, more than ever, convinced was a bad idea. He never should have settled for someone simply to put an end to his self-made problems. It wasn’t fair to Briar. Or himself.
Nay, Briar wasn’t who he wanted.
Rose…
A vision of red hair held tightly in his fist as he pounded his shaft in between two pale, plump arse cheeks made his manhood harden. He was naked, preferred to sleep that way, and so his erect flesh was there, begging for his hand to offer a release.
But it would be short-lived and unfulfilling.
Groaning, Thorn left the bed, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone floor as he made his way to the wash stand. He made short work of his morning toilet and then dressed in his tartan with his leather breeches beneath. He was sliding his boots on when there came a knock on his door.
Sighing, not ready to make conversation with whoever was at the door, he hesitated. When the knock came again, he straightened, damned if he would allow himself to shirk his responsibilities, no matter how tiresome or vexing they were.
“Come,” he called, standing and drawing his shoulders back.
The door latch clicked and the door swung open, and the last person he thought to see stuck her head in, spying him across the room and nearly knocking him on his arse with a smile so blinding he swore he saw stars.
“Rose,” he grumbled, finally finding his voice. “What brings you to my bedchamber?”
Without answering him, she slid into the room, quickly shutting the door behind her.
She stopped just before him and he couldn’t quite fathom what he was seeing.
There, in front of him, Rose was wearing…a dress. But not just any dress, one made using the MacPherson tartan. The red‚ deep blue‚ black with gold and white pinstripes were well known to him, having seen them all his life. But never had they looked as stunning as they did in that moment, draped over Rose Rees. Nay! Rose MacDeargh.
The woman he would marry—if fate would ever give him a chance at happiness.
How can you be so willing to marry now after all the schemers that made your blood run cold? When the woman who bested five of his men and strode into his life had set his blood on fire with a single glance.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” she interrupted his troubled and yet eye-opening thoughts.
“You are wearing the MacPherson tartan,” he replied, moving to the side board beside the window to pour himself a much needed dram of whiskey.
From behind him, she huffed. “Are you going to share? I would not mind a little fortification after what I have already faced this day.”
“Problems?” he inquired, curious about everything to do with her.
She grunted adorably. “Aye. Your betrothed sought to attend me during my ablutions, all the while stabbing me to death with her eyes.”
Turning, Thorn handed her the tumbler he’d poured for himself. She threw the burning liquid back and groaned, her eyes closed and her face flushed.
Suddenly, that image combined with another, of her poised over him, her naked breasts swaying as she ground her hips against his, riding him to their mutual ecstasy.
Her eyes popped open and she pinned him with eyes the color of mead, swirling with heat and hunger. Had she somehow heard his thoughts, seeing what he envisioned? Did she feel what he felt whenever they were together? Hell, even when they were apart, he’d thought of her, and it had only been the one night since they’d met. What sort of agony would he feel enduring more nights like that? He’d have bollocks as hard and aching as if they’d been frozen and then slowly thawed. Aye, agony.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “What else do you believe you’ll encounter today that has you drinking my whiskey?”
She handed him the tumbler and he poured two fingers for himself, sipping it as she waited for her answer.
“The woman, Marbeth, who gave me these clothes—” she began scratching at the material gathered around her hips—“told me that there are some people in the village who could tell me more about the MacDearghs.”
He had thought about that possibility the night before; then again, with the MacDearghs’ self-imposed isolation from other clans, he wasn’t too sure there were any left in Kinloch Rannoch who could tell her anything.
They would try, though.
Tensing, Thorn inquired, making sure to keep his voice even, “What did you tell Marbeth, exactly?”
A red brow curled up, and he recognized that as her tell. She was curious about his curios
ity.
“If you are worried that I would inform her about the betrothal rubbish you told me last night, worry not. I would not tell a soul, even if they tortured it from me, pulling out my fingernails, removing my teeth, peeling the skin from my bel—”
“I get it—hell, woman.” He tugged his fingers through his hair, before finishing his whiskey. “I only asked because I think it would be easier for you to inquire about your family if you weren’t fending off droves of well-wishers and gawkers coming to see the long-lost MacDeargh with their own eyes.”
She snorted, again scratching at the material.
“What bothers you?” he asked, pointing to where she was practically tearing into the material.
Grunting, she answered, “I am not accustomed to having so much…wool this close to my skin. ’Tis like wearing a briar bush on my hips.” Again, she scratched then threw her hands into the air and growled. “I would much rather wear my breeches, but I figured that since I am here to learn about my family, ’tis best for me to not draw unwanted attention to myself.”
He nodded, understanding her reasoning, and agreeing with it wholeheartedly.
“And what about your sword?” He could feel his eyes crinkling at the sides as he fought the grin that tugged at his cheeks. “Will you hide it beneath the skirts?”
Unamused, she flayed his face with burning eyes. “Do I need my sword, my lord?”
Oh, the menace rising from her, thrumming in that single question. He had never seen Rose wield a sword, but he would wager his left arm that she was dangerous. Hell, five of his men had come home bloody and bruised, and she looked as fresh as if she’d just strolled through a garden in the spring.
“Nay. You are safe here, Rose,” he intoned, infusing his voice with a threat of his own…against any who dared to harm her.
She planted her hands on her hips, eyeing him warily before nodding curtly.
“If I am to remain here, who shall we tell others I am? I am still unconvinced that I am this Rosette MacDeargh, though I am willing to speak to the villagers. If I am to know the truth without doubt, I must uncover it myself.”
The Rebellious Red Page 6