Rose glanced over her shoulder and saw him take Beatrice’s hand, although the woman’s eyes were narrowed on Rose. If she had been Cullen’s lover, his attention seemed to have moved on, making her even more dangerous to those she considered a rival. It hadn’t even been a week since she was in his bed. Rose must guard herself. Surely she was drawn to him only because he rescued her from the rocky beach.
Cullen led Rose down a narrow corridor out into the crisp winter air. They stepped down into a sunken garden where the tiny leaves of herbs had shriveled. Cullen leaned toward her ear. “Apologies for my uncles. They are trying, and obsessed with protecting the clan, so their intentions are good even if their tactics are infuriating.”
Trying to ignore how the feel of his breath on her ear teased her, she huffed, noticing the vibration in her throat. Could she speak? The last drink of Agnes’s brew had slid down without much pain. If she could have her voice back, she wouldn’t let anyone talk about her so. Even if she couldn’t remember who she was, she definitely knew who she wasn’t. She wasn’t a thief nor a harlot. A thief would covet the pearls Cullen had shown her, and a harlot would be calculating his seduction.
A blush prickled the skin of her exposed neckline, making her pull the shawl closed. Had she been thinking about seducing Cullen Duffie? Admiring a man’s rugged form and accepting his arm didn’t mean she was seducing him, despite the heated thoughts that kept popping into her mind. As long as she didn’t act on them, she was not a seductress. Although…acting on them was tempting.
But she had other issues with which to deal, namely figuring out who and what she was. It was difficult to know how to act without a base from which to start, a title or family name to act as a keel while traversing these tricky waters. Who was she without a past or title?
They walked down the narrow bricked pathway, while Errol led Beatrice to another part of the garden. “Here.” Cullen released Rose so she could sit on a stone bench. She ran her hand along the chiseled vines that bordered the seat and let the breeze cool her cheeks. Winter twigs showed evidence of a rich and vast array of herbs growing in bunches and patterns amongst the bricks.
Rose cleared her throat as he sat next to her. “Is your voice coming back?” he asked. She nodded and met his gaze. She watched the deep gold of his irises and had the overwhelming urge to talk with him, show him that she had thoughts and could be quite clever. You know now how to speak on a variety of subjects. Use your mind but remain entertaining.
Rose took a deep breath, her voice coming out soft, like a breeze through cattails. “Merci, monsieur. Vous avez été gentil.”
She watched his face for the surprise. Maybe a joyful shock. But instead of a smile, Cullen’s mouth froze. Like ice forming on the surface of a lake, his features hardened into a mix of open disturbance and something worse—abomination.
“My God,” he murmured. “Ye’re French.”
Chapter Five
“Cull.” Broc jogged into the gardens, and Cullen stood, turning away from Rose. He had to think, and looking at her tangled his mind.
French? She was bloody French, not English, not someone who might turn King Henry’s gaze from Islay. Quite the contrary. Bloody hell, he was harboring a Frenchwoman.
Broc stopped before Cullen, his usual grin missing. “Captain Taylor and Captain Thompson are here.”
The English captains from Oban. “Damnation.” Cullen volleyed a look between Broc and Rose, struggling against the insane urge to stuff her under the bench. One word before the English captains and Islay might be invaded, the people he’d sworn to protect, fighting for their lives and freedom. Power surged through Cullen’s limbs as if he waited for the battle charge.
“It’s only the two of them with three men. They landed and asked to inspect Dunyvaig for suspicious activity.” He rolled his eyes at the ludicrous notion.
“Bloody hell.” Cullen cupped his chin, rubbing a hand down his throat as he pushed the brutal scenes from his mind.
Rose sat, her brows pinched. Did she know what trouble her presence could bring to Dunyvaig? All Farlan’s and William’s paranoid predictions wormed into his mind. War on Islay. Because of Cullen and his oath to protect Rose. He’d be judged more rash than his father. His uncles would be justified in calling for a new chief.
Errol and Beatrice strode over. “What has Cull cursing?” Errol asked.
“English captain’s here to inspect,” Broc answered, but he watched Cullen closely. “Or is there something more?” He glanced to Rose.
God’s ballocks. “I will meet the captains in the great hall, not here. I don’t want them to see Rose.”
“Why not?” Beatrice asked, curiosity evident in the V of her brows.
“I think he doesn’t wish me to speak,” Rose answered, her thick French accent obvious.
“Ye can talk,” Broc said, but Beatrice’s gasp overrode his words.
“Good God, she’s French,” Errol ground out. “We are harboring a Fr—”
“I bloody know that,” Cullen cut him off, his words full of grit. He looked at Rose and realized that she was staring at him, her face closed, emotionless. But right now he couldn’t jeopardize his clan by worrying about the woman’s feelings.
Slowly Rose stood, her slender frame seeming to grow with the strength of her look. “So what the bloody hell do you want me to do?” she asked, his favorite curse sounding absurd in her French accent.
“Disappear,” Beatrice spit out.
Rose’s voice was still soft. Did the effort hurt her throat? “I am French, mademoiselle. Not a witch.”
“At the moment, we’d rather ye be a witch,” Beatrice said. “Good Lord.” She gasped, turning toward the door of the keep.
“I believe The MacDonald is out here,” William’s voice called as he stepped into the garden, Captains Taylor and Thompson filing behind him with their armed men. Why the hell hadn’t the man sent for him instead?
“As ye can see,” William said. “The MacDonald is enjoying a walk in the gardens with the ladies, not planning an attack on England with a French battalion.” He gestured for the captains to continue on the path, while he turned to stride purposely back into the keep. Captain Taylor’s glance at the man’s rapid departure clearly said he thought that William was running inside to hide the French battalion he mentioned. He turned toward their small group.
Cullen leveled his gaze on Rose. “Whatever happens, don’t say a word.”
“Or a sound,” Broc added softly. He tapped his nose. “French make a French noise through their nose, even when they grunt.” His cousin turned too quickly to see the daggers in Rose’s gaze.
Errol rubbed a hand down his face. “How would ye even know what a French grunt sounds like?”
“Cease,” Cullen ordered under his breath and stepped forward, hoping to stop the English advancement in his kitchen gardens. Otherwise Cook may need to wash blood off her blasted rosemary and tansy.
“Captain Taylor,” Cullen said about halfway up the brick pathway. “Captain Thompson.” They stopped and nodded in greeting, but Captain Taylor’s gaze surveyed the rest of the group.
“Having a little gathering in your herb gardens?” he asked.
“Ladies like to walk the paths. We can return to the great hall to discuss this unexpected visit.”
“There was a sighting of a French ship off the coast,” Captain Taylor said, even though his gaze remained on Rose. “Has anyone come ashore on Islay?” Finally, he tore his eyes from her.
“Nay,” Cullen said. “We patrol the vast shoreline continuously and have seen no evidence of a landing. I doubt a Frenchman would desire anything on Islay unless he’s looking to thieve our fine whisky.” He gave a wry grin.
“Or to find a welcoming place for his sovereign to house troops off the coast of Britain,” the other captain, Thompson, offered and scrunched up his lips in a beak-like grimace.
“Ye may ride the isle with us to look,” Cullen said.
Captain Thomp
son nodded. “After we inspect your keep.”
Cullen fought against his growing fury. Until swords were drawn, he would do his part to keep the peace. “Aye,” he said slowly. He extended his arm. “Here is the herb garden. Shall we view the kitchens next, to search the ovens for French patriots?”
“You haven’t introduced us to these fine ladies,” Captain Taylor said and sidestepped around Cullen.
Blast! How could Cullen keep the English from advancing on Islay if he couldn’t even halt their advancement in his bloody herb garden? He followed Captain Taylor, with Thompson bringing up the rear. Cullen’s glance met Rose’s serene expression, her beautiful greenish eyes hard with a slight sheen. Och. How quickly this day had become a disaster.
As Captain Taylor approached, Rose sank into a becoming curtsy. Not too low as one would bow to royalty and not a quick bob like a country lass. She floated down and up with grace. Beatrice mimicked Rose, bowing her head much deeper.
“This is Beatrice MacDonald and Rose…Maclean,” Cullen said, stepping closer. He didn’t like the way Captain Taylor’s gaze rested on Rose’s breasts.
Taylor held out his hand to Rose, and she touched her fingertips to his palm. “Have we met, Mistress Maclean? Perhaps on Mull?”
Rose shook her head.
“Speak up now,” Captain Thompson said next to Taylor.
“She cannot speak,” Cullen answered for her. “And no, she is visiting from a northern branch of the Maclean clan.”
“Cannot speak?” Captain Thompson said. “How so?”
“An injury,” Cullen said and felt very much like he was digging a bigger hole with each utterance. But there was no going back. He only hoped his explanations came across as genuine.
Captain Thompson stepped closer, his gaze narrowing in on Rose’s neck where the shawl slipped to reveal the scabs. “God’s teeth, Duffie, what have you done to the girl?”
Rose’s hand went immediately to the shawl, tucking it higher around her throat. Beatrice stood completely still beside Errol. He and Broc both wore frowns and rested their hands on the hilts of their swords.
“Mistress?” Captain Taylor said, his hand tugging on her shawl until it slipped away, showing the dark ring around her neck. “You were being hanged?”
Broc made a noise through his teeth. “Of course not. We don’t hang Scot visitors.” He left the rest of the boast, about hanging English visitors, unsaid.
“An accident,” Errol said.
During the exchange Rose kept a calm expression, her head held high, as she rearranged the shawl around her abused neck. Was she really as brave as she looked or could he add actor to his uncles’ lists of Rose’s possible sins?
Captain Thompson looked between Errol and Rose. “What type of accident leaves that sort of mark about a woman’s neck?”
The whole exchange was twisting out of control. He needed to cut the conversation and guide the captains out of the garden. “’Tis of a personal nature,” Cullen said. “Now, if you would like that tour, we can start in the kitchens.” He held out his arm to indicate the pathway.
Captain Taylor refused to take his scrutiny from Rose. Even though she cast her eyes to the bricks, she stood firm, transforming to stone like a maiden in Medusa’s garden. “I am not leaving this spot until you or Mistress Maclean tells me how she came by the rope burn around her neck,” Captain Taylor said.
“Aye, what is this personal injury?” Captain Thompson asked, thick lips jutted out.
Cullen exhaled and glanced at Rose. “Forgive me.” She did not move. Did she think he’d give her away, throw her to the English captains? The thought made his fists clench. He looked to Captain Taylor, who’d finally pulled his gaze from her to Cullen, demanding the truth with his stare. “The rope burn was obtained in my bedchamber,” Cullen said.
Broc choked and began to cough into his fist. Beatrice held her fingers pressed to her lips while Errol’s eyes went wide.
“Aye. We were but playing, and the rope caught around her neck,” Cullen finished.
“Playing?” Captain Thompson said, the idiot not catching on. Did he require a sketch drawn?
“In a carnal fashion,” Cullen explained for his benefit.
“He likes to tie the lasses up,” Broc added. “It’s something we don’t tell his mother.”
Cullen cut a glare toward his cousin. The look on his face was a mix of uproarious mirth and an ardent wish to help.
“Good God,” Captain Thompson breathed, his paunchy face flushing red.
How was Rose faring? She stood exactly how she had before, but her gaze had risen from the bricks. Despite a light blush to her cheeks, giving them a lovely glow, her mouth pursed and one eyebrow rose, challenging the captains to ask for more detail. Nay. Rose was no fainting flower. Silent and weakened by her ordeal, but as strong as steel in spirit.
“Now if ye will follow me, we can check the ovens,” Cullen said. “Errol, see that Rose returns to my mother for some more of her salve.”
“We should have one of our surgeons look at the injury in Oban,” Captain Taylor said, but followed Cullen’s prompt to turn. He looked back over his shoulder at Rose and wiped the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. “I will care for her personally. She can return with us today.”
“Don’t ye think that would be best?” Beatrice said from her spot near Errol.
“Nay,” Cullen responded quickly.
“If she has no family here, it would seem the civil thing to do,” Captain Taylor pressed.
Cullen turned, ready to grab the man by the throat. Rose would hardly be safe in the captain’s hands. He was English, to begin with, and the idea of her being tied up while tupping had piqued the captain’s interest, even if he sought to hide it. “She is a Scot, and she has her family here.”
“I thought she was from the Maclean clan,” Captain Thompson said, his embarrassment fading to suspicion. The two were itching to uncover lies on Islay.
Cullen held Captain Taylor’s gaze and looked back at Rose where she stood alone, stripped of her pride but still strong and determined. “She is my betrothed. We will be her family as soon as the banns run three weeks.”
Chapter Six
Rose watched the Englishmen, Broc and Cullen, walk away, a sick twisting in her stomach. She kept her gaze on Cullen’s back. His betrothed? Had he sought to give her back a petite parcel of her honor? Tie her up in bed? Mon Dieu.
Beatrice and Errol stared at her. “Quelle?” she whispered. “You know Cullen lied.”
“Of course,” Errol said.
“Not the being French part,” Beatrice blurted out.
“God’s teeth, Bea,” Errol whispered. “Keep quiet. Do ye want to bring Captain Taylor’s regiment down on Islay?”
“I wouldn’t be the one responsible,” she said, looking down her nose at Rose.
They watched as the Englishmen followed Cullen out of the kitchen toward the keep. Captain Taylor stared Rose’s way, his guarded leer making her skin crawl. Apparently this unsought attraction was nothing new to her. She had evaded lustful, powerful men before, bulging members pressed to her skirts. She rubbed at a sudden throbbing at the back of her neck. Mon Dieu. Who was she?
“Rather telling how we feel about the French,” Beatrice whispered. “That Cullen would rather say ye’re a fornicating strumpet who likes to be tied up.”
Rose turned her gaze on her enemy. “A Frenchwoman to whom he said he was betrothed.”
Beatrice’s mouth pinched tight as her eyes narrowed. “Ye know that was part of the lie, or are ye a French idiot?”
“Bea,” Errol warned. “Shouldn’t we go inside?” He shifted, his gaze flipping warily between them.
“I am not the Scottish idiot who pants after him like a bitch begging for his bone,” Rose said softly, letting her French accent lay thick along the words.
Beatrice gasped and raised her arm to strike. Rose gripped her hands before her, fingers intertwined. Slap.
Errol grabbe
d Beatrice, nearly picking the wild woman off the ground as he wrestled her away from Rose. Rose let a smug smile touch her lips. Her cheek stung, bringing moisture to her eyes, but she wouldn’t let tears fall. She never had before.
I’ve been slapped. Numerous times. The realization made her turn away from the scene of Errol hissing for Beatrice to calm down. Only when they couldn’t see her face did she let her mouth pinch with worry. From what horrible life was she running?
Rose walked evenly away from the lunatic shrew, who still hissed and spit like a demon as Errol tried to contain her. Beatrice MacDonald wouldn’t last a day at court. Rose paused, her feet suddenly rooted to the bricks where green moss outlined the pattern of rectangles. At court? Oui. She’d been at court, the French court. A vision of papered walls, golden urns, large portraits, daintily curved couches… She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to press into more memories, but any other images looked faded like inked parchment in a puddle. Zut.
The potent tang of rosemary, growing beside the path, revived her, and she continued to the back door, swinging it inward. She stepped into the dark corridor and halted. Cullen, his large frame taking up the space from floor to low ceiling, strode toward her. The scene from the gardens fanned her anger and hurt. Not what he had said, but how he looked when he realized that she was French. He made it clear that he despised the core of who she was. Was he coming to retrieve her for the captains? No matter what, she wouldn’t beg, wouldn’t cower.
He stopped in front of her. “Och, Rose,” he started and dipped his head with a small shake of it. “I’m sorry about the…rope explanation. And Broc sought only to help.”
“He would help the French?” she whispered.
“Aye,” Cullen said and shot fingers through his hair, raking them out to cup the back of his head. “Nay, not the French, but aye, a lass we found battered and in need of healing and maybe sanctuary.” He lowered his arms. “Do ye remember anything else?”
She stared hard at him. Should she tell him of the court memories, the knowledge that she’d been slapped often and suffered the unwanted attention from lechers like Captain Taylor? How would he look at her then? Rose’s heart thumped behind her borrowed lace bodice. She shook her head, the lie coming easily. “No.”
The Rogue of Islay Isle (Highland Isles) Page 5