The Rogue of Islay Isle (Highland Isles)

by McCollum, Heather

  She needed to consider her future. Whether she remembered or not, she would never voluntarily return to France. Where, then, should she go? The thought of climbing aboard a ship made her stomach roll. Could she stay in the village at Dunyvaig, hiding the fact she was French, ignoring Cullen when he lived so close? Watching him hop from woman to woman as rogues were wont to do?

  Her stomach twisted painfully at the thought. Had she been stricken by the foolish emotion that Cullen had mentioned in the barn? “Love,” she murmured and snorted. She’d been warned about the weakness that came with it. That love was used only to control someone. That it was best to keep clear of it altogether. Certainly, she was angered only by the thought of Cullen with another woman because it would mean he lied. It had nothing to do with love.

  “Zut,” she cursed and stood up, turning to the door. She rested her ear against the solid wood. Nothing stirred. He must be asleep. “Good,” she whispered and turned to her own bed. She huffed, knowing her traitorous dreams would likely torture her.

  A door opened and shut farther down the hall, kicking her heart into a race as she spun around. Cullen? But no boots clipped toward her door. Rose hadn’t placed the bar yet, so it was easy to tug her door open. First an inch, and then six, until she could glance out and down toward Cullen’s room.

  In the dim light of a taper, a woman hurried toward the stairs, a woman in a white chemise and robe. Beatrice MacDonald.

  Chapter Nine

  Cullen stood before his hearth, a cup of ale in hand. He was tired. Not physically. After so much training for war, a day of lifting and beating tapestries couldn’t exhaust him. It was the mental games of chess he played daily with his uncles—proving to them that he was responsible—that wore on him, and, of course, dodging Bea. The woman was relentless.

  He heard his door open again and sighed heavily. “I said,” he started and turned. But it wasn’t Beatrice returning. “Rose?”

  She stood there in her robe, hair flowing down around her shoulders like a fallen angel. Her gaze dipped to his naked chest. She swallowed, raising her eyes back to his. “If you lie about something as simple as inviting Beatrice to your bed, your oath to me is as worthless as…as…as a lily to a starving peasant.” Her face pinched as if she weren’t happy with the metaphor she’d chosen, but then firmed her glare at him. She waved her hand in the air. “Or a fur coat to someone burning under the summer sun.” She closed her eyes, both her hands going to her forehead. “Or…something…” She huffed as if angry over her strange retorts.

  “Starving peasant?” he asked.

  She dropped her arms to her sides. “Never mind. And never mind your worthless vow to see me safe.” She turned on her heel, but he beat her to the door, shutting it with a soft whump.

  He turned and leaned against the escape. “Inviting Beatrice to my bed?”

  “Oui, Beatrice,” she said, a quiet disdain in her words. “Or do you have another tied up in here? One of her giggling friends?” She turned in a tight circle as if searching the dark corners.

  He stopped before her, and she straightened, hands fisted at her sides. Her lips were bent into a frown, but still looked so incredibly luscious that he had to breathe deeply to gain control. He’d never kissed a woman who didn’t want him to, and he was fairly certain, after she’d risked life and limb last night to escape the sled, that she didn’t want his kiss.

  “Would ye have some whisky?” he asked.

  “Absurd,” she muttered and glared at him.

  He tsked. “Such jealousy from a rumor.”

  “I just watched her leave your room in her chemise.”

  He snorted. “Of course ye did,” he said, his mouth tight with sarcasm. He stepped forward and encircled her fragile wrist with his hand. “Come here.”

  “Non.”

  As gently as he could, he dragged her along behind him across the room. “I’m not going to do anything but show ye something. After, ye can decide if I’m a lecherous pig. Or a flower seller to peasants.”

  Before the door to the secret steps, he let her snatch her hand away. Cullen handed her a taper from the mantel and lifted the bar across the door. “Have a look,” he said and ushered her toward the gaping maw.

  “Is this your dungeon?”

  He rubbed his chin. “That’s not a bad idea. I could put some bars at the top of the stairs.”

  Rose brandished the taper before her and peeked around the doorway, all the while keeping Cullen in her periphery. Damnation but Rose was gorgeous. Her robe and gown flowed loosely around her, showing and then hiding the lush form underneath. Och, but to see and touch her. He sipped at his ale and tried to think of something to cool his blood. Rotten teeth. Spoiled cabbages. His dead grandmother’s toenails.

  She stepped inside the small room and backed out quickly. “It’s a staircase,” she said.

  “It’s a bloody annoyance,” Cullen answered. “Beatrice sneaks up them almost every night, or one of the others hoping to be the next Lady MacDonald of Islay.”

  Rose set the taper back on the mantel. “This proves nothing except that you have a secret way to sneak women up to your bedchamber. What a convenience for a rogue.”

  He cursed. “It was a hidden passageway for the chief to use, and I inherited the room. And it surely isn’t a secret.”

  Rose looked back and forth between the black chasm of the stairway and Cullen. “The morning you found me, Beatrice was coming out of your room. I remember seeing her.”

  “Aye, she’d snuck up here, got drunk on Duffie whisky,” he said, setting his ale cup down near the decanter. “I left her here to sleep it off, while I stayed in the room I put ye in next door.”

  Rose studied him, and he met her gaze without looking away. Slices of flame light and shadow cut against her high cheekbones and slender nose. Could she read the truth in his words?

  “Hmmm,” she said in the back of her throat and walked over to the decanter where he stood. She leaned over and sniffed. “Duffie whisky?”

  “Aye, my father’s sister distills it.” He poured some into his empty cup and held it out to her with a nod. “A peace offering.”

  Rose stared at the cup, her hand rising slowly to take it. Scrunching her nose, she moved it over the top and inhaled the oaky fumes.

  “’Tis very smooth,” he said with a nod. She touched the cup to her full lips and tipped it. Cullen watched her throat as she swallowed, his mouth going dry. Och, he’d tent out the front of his kilt before long if he kept watching her. He walked away, squatting before the fire to stir up the embers and add more peat.

  “Oui. Smooth,” she said behind him. He adjusted his growing erection before he stood and turned back to her.

  She took a second taste of the cup and set it down near the decanter. “So, you really are not bedding Beatrice,” she said. Her beautiful eyes reflected the flames, making them shine.

  “Nay, no matter how much she insinuates that I am.” He shook his head. “She grew up acting like an annoying sister, and I certainly wouldn’t take a sister to my bed.”

  “And the others?” she asked. “Do they climb your secret stairs?”

  Cullen leaned against the mantel, watching her. She was like a doe, ready to flee at the hint of danger or the suggestion of a lie. The fire was hot on the bare skin of his back, and he breathed in the cool air in the room. “I’m not a liar, Rose. If ye want to know about my past conquests, I will tell ye. I was not chaste, but since I’ve become chief, I know that the consequences to bedding a lass could be dire. Therefore, I do not take the act lightly. And I do not invite lasses to visit me, up those stairs or through my door. At least not for months now.” He crossed his arms, making sure to meet her gaze.

  “Before that, aye.” He tipped his chin forward, a slight tilt to his head. “I hadn’t grown into my years.” He shrugged. “Rogue probably was an accurate name for me. We all have things in our past we’d rather not flaunt before people whom we want to impress.”

  Ro
se moved closer to the fire, on the other side of the mantel from him. She reached her hands out toward the flames. “You shouldn’t have kissed me last night.”

  “I was showing ye that I don’t despise ye for being French, since ye believe actions, not words.”

  She nodded slowly. “Oui. Words are like the clothes we cover ourselves with. Actions show what is inside a person, what is in their heart.” She looked at him and crossed her arms, which only propped her breasts higher. He raised his gaze to her eyes. “Then you don’t despise the French,” she said, her voice breathy, like deep velvet.

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t know the French. I know only a lass who washed up on my shores who has a face of an angel and a voice like a purring wildcat.”

  The hint of a smile tugged at her mouth. “You haven’t heard me purr, monsieur.”

  Her words flowed like clear, strong whisky straight into his rushing blood. No amount of putrid thoughts could hide the desire growing in him. “Ah now, lass,” he replied, giving a slow shake of his head. “I would surely love to hear ye purr.”

  She lowered her arms, and he saw the faint tips of her nipples brush against her smock where her robe fell open. “And how exactly would you make me purr?” she asked.

  He stood straight, the muscles in his arms contracting as his hands clenched into fists. He barely dared to breathe. Was this really happening? Surely, she couldn’t be intoxicated by two sips of whisky. “I would kiss ye, Rose, from each of your beautiful eyes to the underside of each of your naked feet.”

  Rose glanced down to where her toes clenched on top of each other on the warm tiles before the hearth. “A wildcat doesn’t tame easily,” she volleyed back. “Kissing my feet would not elicit a purr.”

  Cullen stepped closer so that they faced each other. His heart pounded with the effort to control his movements. “Ye will purr, lass, when I kiss ye here.” As slow as fog wafting in around the islands, he slid his hand up around her neck, his thumb resting lightly on the throbbing of her pulse. It beat hard, and she swallowed. He leaned in with painstaking control, and touched a slow kiss under her ear. He trailed lower along the underside of her jaw and the column of her throat, just the whisper of a kiss. His fingers warmed under the weight of her unbound hair.

  Absolutely, intoxicatingly beautiful. Her eyes were closed, lips open like she was already begging for him. Long lashes blinked as she focused on his face. “No purring yet,” she whispered.

  If she knew what her gentle words were doing to him, how they strung him so tight he might fly apart and grab her to him… He set a kiss upon her collarbone, the flesh exposed above the lace-edged dip of fabric. Her skin was fragrant and smooth. “How about here?” With each kiss, he trailed his fingers over the spots, reveling in the silkiness of her flesh. Chill bumps rose along her, making her nipples jut forward.

  He inhaled low on her neckline. “Lass, ye smell delicious.”

  Her fingers touched the back of his head, holding him to her chest, so he could nuzzle the warmth between her breasts. She wound fingers in his hair, and he let a groan escape.

  “Do fierce Highland chiefs purr?” she asked, and he felt his control waver with the intoxicating flow of her accent.

  He lifted his gaze to hers and grinned. “Nay, we growl.”

  He looked down at her peaks straining against the white fabric of her smock, and pushed the heavy robe from her shoulders. It dropped to pool around her bare feet. Slowly Cullen lowered his face. When she didn’t move away, he opened his lips and kissed her nipple through the fabric. She gasped softly, and he sucked inward, tugging on the sensitive peak to flick it with his tongue. He bent over her, and she arched her back, lifting her breasts to him. He growled low in his throat as she reached forward to pinch one of his nipples. The sensation shot right down to his groin.

  Rose’s breath came faster, and she pressed her body in to him, accepting his mouth and hands fully. Reaching behind, he cupped her luscious arse, molding her to his massive erection. Och, she was round and soft in every womanly place possible. When she rubbed herself against him, the floodgates he’d held so tightly opened on a groan. He nearly lifted her from the floor, wrapping her in his arms, and loved her with his mouth. Rose clung to his shoulders as he sucked and kissed. She rubbed her pelvis against him, spurring him to shore up the back of her smock, exposing her naked legs and arse.

  “Mon Dieu,” she whispered.

  He stilled his hands on the soft globes of her backside. “Was that a purr, wildcat?” His breath came hard.

  She shook her head. “Not a purr,” she whispered. “A humble prayer for my legs not to buckle.”

  He gave her a wicked grin. “I’ll catch ye if they do.” He lowered his mouth back to hers, tasting her deeply, meeting her tongue as they breathed and strained against each other. She tasted of honey, whisky, and raw passion. He could feast on her forever.

  Rose clung to his shoulders as she pressed back into his plundering kiss. His hands explored the smooth skin of her bare backside. When her legs relaxed, his fingers dove lower between them, touching her hot, wet core from behind. She gasped, arching back against his hand, parting her legs to give him better access to her heat. He moved his hand in front to find her most sensitive spot, rubbing until she whimpered softly.

  With small steps, he guided her before the fire, pressing her down into the cushioned chair. Her eyes fell to his kilt, which jutted out proudly. Cullen lowered to his knees and grabbed one of her feet, rubbing the arch. “Relax back, lass,” he said. “And prepare to purr.”

  He kissed the bottom of her small foot and set it down, grabbing the second one for a rub and small kiss. He looked expectantly at her, his brows raised.

  A whispered chuckle came from her. “No purring.”

  It was a tease, a flirtatious challenge. And he was certainly more than ready to take it on. “Yet.”

  Dark lashes fluttered against her rosy skin, watching him gather the edge of her smock. She breathed smoothly, in and out. He rolled the hem slowly upward, and his gaze dipped to her wet breasts, pebbled behind the now-transparent white material. Full and pert, he ached to cup them.

  When he looked back to her heart-shaped face, she wet her bottom lip. Her slender fingers reached up and plucked apart the ribbon tying the neckline of her smock. He stopped breathing, stopped moving at all, and watched.

  With a dip of each shoulder and tug, she lowered the neckline until it rested under her full breasts, exposing the beautiful globes to his view. The firelight played across her skin. “Och… Rose, ye are lovely.”

  Slowly Rose scooped under her breasts, pinching her own nipples, her gaze trained on him. He groaned loudly and slid the white material up her legs until the roll sat at the bend of her hips, all the while watching her pull and plump her breasts.

  She wiggled slightly in the seat. “You like?” she asked, her voice a velvety whisper.

  “Aye, bloody hell, aye, lass,” he answered. He inhaled, searching deep for control, and slid up her chemise until the dark V of her legs was exposed.

  Rose’s lips parted as he stroked her silky inner thighs, brushing her sensitive folds. Circling until she surged forward into his hand, he pressed a finger inside her wet channel and stopped. She moaned, moving against him. Everything about her invited him in, but… He hesitated.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, her breath coming in quiet pants.

  Cullen shook his head. “Ye are perfect.” He worked another finger inside until her head rolled back against the chair. “Aye, an angel dropped to earth.” Lowering, he kissed her open thighs, the creamy flesh begging him to feast. He licked and teased higher until he covered her heat with his mouth.

  She cried out above him as he loved her, delving in and out with fingers and tongue, working her most sensitive flesh. The rhythm, forged between them, grew faster. He glanced up at the wonder of her, straddled open in the chair, head thrown back, pale breasts raised and swollen, her white gown bunched around her n
arrow waist to expose the beauty of her most intimate parts.

  Rose gripped the arms of the chair as he played her deftly, bringing her higher with each thrust of his finger and each lick of his tongue. She pressed upward, following his mouth, and he dug farther into her, nibbling and teasing until the pressure was too much. With an upward thrust, Rose moaned loudly. Cullen continued to kiss her intimately as wave after wave washed through her.

  Sliding up her body, he kissed her breasts, rising and falling with her heavy breaths. He lifted their weight in his palms. “Brèagha, beautiful.” He flicked his thumbs gently against the still-hard nipples.

  “Mon Dieu,” she whispered, her breath whooshing out of her.

  The weight of desire roughened his voice. “I believe ye purred.”

  Rose’s lips turned up seductively. “I believe I growled.”

  She was a passionate lass. He chuckled and stood, knowing she’d instantly see that he could do so much more to her. Instead, though, he lifted her smock back onto her shoulders to cover what he’d rather feast upon all night. But he shouldn’t. No, he couldn’t.

  He helped her stand and hugged her close, his aching member between them. He kissed her sweet mouth. When she slid her hand down to his kilt, his inhale caught. “Rose,” he said in warning as she lifted the edge and wrapped her hand around his length.

  “I would do the same for you,” she said. She stroked him, picking a steady rhythm, and his eyes shut for a moment. He swallowed hard as the pounding in his blood overtook his reason.

  “Nay, Rose,” he managed to say, his words slipping past clenched teeth.

  She rubbed harder. “I think he is arguing, oui.”

  Cullen’s groan came up through his gut, breaching his lips loudly. He stilled her hand with his. “I would not have ye on your knees before me.”