The Rogue of Islay Isle (Highland Isles)

by McCollum, Heather

  Such passion, raw and honest. They’d touched each other everywhere, learned the contours of each other’s bodies. She’d memorized every one of his scars, nicks, and jagged lines showing past battles. He was exquisite, full of strength from his rock-hard calves to his mounding biceps and broad shoulders. And the things he had done to her…that she had done to him… The thought made a flutter thrill through her belly. Mon Dieu.

  Rose dropped her face gingerly into her hands, resting. Never be needy for a male’s attention. Always leave them wanting more yet totally enraptured with what you have given.

  The words clipped through her mind like familiar recitations. Somehow, she knew these things, yet her heart wanted to throw them all away in front of Cullen. Such physical power and obvious discipline and control made her tremble. He’d brought her to fulfillment over and over, and yet…he hadn’t joined with her last night despite her openness and desire. Was it because she couldn’t remember her past? Was he worried she was married or worse, a loose woman?

  Rose shot up off the dainty bench, the thought too much to bear sitting down. She paced across the room on her borrowed slippers, wearing the borrowed day dress, in the temporary bedroom. Nothing was hers, except for her body. And what if she’d used that body before, given it away?

  She wrapped her arms around herself, glad she’d left her hair down to warm her neck. Was she unaccustomed to the cold? Kept and pampered in a palace with printed walls? She’d arrived richly dressed, with a lady’s unmarred hands, and a necklace of rare pearls. She would guess that she was a young aristocrat waiting to marry, stolen away from her life of innocent leisure, yet the things she’d done with Cullen… They suggested something much more scandalous. Rose ran her hands down her curvy body. Mon Dieu. Maybe it was shame that wouldn’t allow her to remember her past life. Who was she?

  Knock. Knock. Rose pivoted, hand to her chest. “Are ye coming down to breakfast?” It was Charlotte. With a soft exhale that she could feel nearly to her tingling toes, Rose crossed to the door, opening it.

  “Oui,” she said. “I am up. Even had time to make my bed.”

  Charlotte looped her arm through hers, and they chatted about Agnes and her gathering mistletoe as they walked down to the great hall. The vaulted room smelled of freshly baked bread and roast pig that steamed from a platter on the center of the table. Fire danced cheerfully in the hearth, chasing off the morning cold. The thumped tapestries had been rehung, their colors more vivacious and the details sharp. Extra candles lined the mantel in varying heights. But what drew Rose’s immediate attention stood beside the mantel, tall and broad, dripping with sensual appeal. He practically made her mouth water, thinking how delicious he smelled when she nibbled around his neck.

  “I know,” Charlotte said beside her. “’Tis a stunning sight.”

  “Excusez?” Rose asked and felt the blush creep upward past her lace-edged neckline.

  “The holly and candles. It makes the mantel look so fresh.”

  “Oui.” She nodded vigorously. “Yes. The room has a lovely appeal now, inviting.”

  Charlotte let go, her brow creasing at Broc, who stomped his boots just inside the great hall, speckling the polished wood with bits of mud. “Trying to maintain a home with men about is as maddening as sweeping a dirt floor,” she mumbled and strode across the room, leaving Rose alone.

  Stand straight and tall, gaze level and always assessing. Walk with purpose even if you have none other than looking grand. Speak to someone close to your target, but do not approach the man you desire straight on.

  More words tumbled through Rose’s mind, advice, buoys in a turbulent sea of fog and unease. She began to follow Charlotte, but when Agnes walked in and pulled her into the alcove, Rose veered toward the only other person close by. William MacDonald. Mon Dieu.

  With the weight of Cullen’s eyes on her, she took the empty seat opposite William at the chess table. It was set for a new game. “Good morning,” she said in her best English and moved a pawn forward from its starting position.

  He looked up at her, his eyes narrowed, but said nothing.

  “Do you play?” she asked. When he refused to answer, she sighed. “Fear of losing to a woman.” She nodded, pretending to understand why he wouldn’t move a piece. “And a French woman at that.”

  He muttered something in Gaelic and moved his pawn. She lifted another, the tactics suddenly clear in her mind. Rose knew this game, knew it well. How to move the bishop, the rook. How to protect the queen and use her to guard the king. Strategies ghosted across the squares, but unlike the tiny memories that popped inside only to blink away like distant stars on a cloudy night, the game seemed etched in her mind. She’d been taught how to challenge an opponent.

  They played in silence, each one moving their pieces quickly. “You are skilled,” she said to William as he stole her knight. She’d seen the vulnerability several moves back, but thought to give it to him. Let the man win, no matter how clever you are. The words filled her head until she wanted to plug her ears. Ignoring them, she moved decisively, offensively, until she had William cornered. Her stomach flipped as she placed her queen where the king could take her, kill or be killed. But William also saw the small pawn waiting behind the queen on the diagonal.

  Rose watched William stare, his eyes wide. “Checkmate,” she said, her voice low. “Thank you for the game.” He hadn’t said a word the entire time.

  “Could Dale see if the ship was French or English?” Cullen’s voice carried across the room. He strode toward them, his gaze on her as he spoke.

  Broc walked beside him. “Possibly French, but it’s remaining far off, near Colonsay Isle.”

  “Hunting our shoreline,” William said, standing. Rose followed.

  “Send word for the beacon to be lit if the ship or crew come close to land,” Cullen said.

  Land? Would the monster who tied the rope about her neck risk landing to hunt her? A scattering of chill bumps prickled over her head and down her back.

  “Ye are to stay here at Dunyvaig,” Cullen said, his gaze fastened to her. Where else did he think she could go? She nodded anyway.

  “They could be coming to take her back,” Agnes said, having reentered the great hall with Charlotte.

  Farlan added something in Gaelic that made Cullen’s frown darken. “She stays here,” Cullen said, his words as stony as the walls surrounding them.

  “For the love of God, Farlan,” Charlotte chimed in. “The lass had a rope tied about her neck.”

  Cullen rounded on his uncles, taking in both with a stare. “And if your bloody love for God isn’t as strong as your fear of the English, I hope ye have a love for your own lives.” He let the rest of his threat seep into the silence of the hushed room. Even Charlotte had saucer-like eyes. Cullen was choosing Rose over kin, maybe even over clan. Rose fought to control her flush, but the more she tried, the hotter her skin felt. What if she wasn’t worthy of Cullen’s choice?

  Chapter Eleven

  Their horses clipped over the hard-packed dirt of the main road up to the gates. Broc, Errol, and Cullen had spent the morning hunting for the upcoming feasts. With the Macleans attending, more venison and a roasted boar would be added to the menu. But even with the concentration required for a straight and power-filled arrow shot, Cullen hadn’t been able to drag his mind from Rose. She’d floated across the floor this morning, as graceful as when she’d walked naked before the fire last night, smiling softly when he’d finally caught her gaze.

  Broc rode beside him and nodded to several villagers who peeked out of their doorways. “Ye’ve been quiet all morning,” he said to Cullen. “Thinking about the one who nibbled at your neck?”

  “Too bad ye haven’t a lass to keep your mind busy and tongue still,” Cullen said, his frown in place, as they clopped through the gates.

  “She seems to have thieved your good cheer,” Broc said while Errol studied Cullen. The two were as prying as his mother. They’d thrown out the names of
other lasses in the village, trying to bait Cullen into revealing the nibbling lass, but he’d remained quiet.

  After tossing reins to stableboys and instructing some older lads to gut the deer and boar, Cullen jogged up the steps to the keep, Broc and Errol behind him. Damn but his heart began to pound when he spotted Rose. Head bowed, she worked with the housemaid, Ellen, stringing clusters of holly at the table. Rose’s simple day dress of deep green molded beautifully to her soft curves. Even bent, her back remained straight, her arms working fluidly.

  Cullen picked up one of the cups on the sideboard and took a drink of the cool ale. Rose looked up from her work, a small grin on her red lips. Oh, those lips. Looking at them, knowing where they’d been, made him harden beneath his kilt. “Bonjour,” she said, nodding to Cullen and his cousins. Unlike other lasses, who giggled and preened after an evening of sport, she met his gaze directly, bold and beautiful. All other lasses faded from Cullen’s mind. There was no comparison.

  “I see my mother still has ye working,” he said.

  Charlotte walked in from the back. “One can never have too much holly at Christmastide.”

  Ellen yelped and stuck a pricked finger in her mouth. “Treacherous work,” she said. “Mistress Rose has nimble fingers.” Ellen rubbed her abused fingertip on her apron. “I’m the one who keeps getting jabbed.”

  “Oh, I’ve been poked over and over,” Rose said with a light voice.

  Broc spit his ale back into his cup, coughing, his face blotching as he choked, and Errol whapped his back. Rose looked curiously at the pair. Cullen picked up the crown he’d retrieved earlier to draw her attention. “For the Abbot of Unreason.”

  “Abbot of Unreason?” she asked, stepping from the table. “Is that like the Prince des Sots? A fool to rule over the twelve days of Christmas?”

  “Aye. This will be my first year to elect.”

  Rose glanced at Broc, who had finally stopped coughing. “I think there are a number of fools about from whom to choose.”

  “Ye have no idea.”

  Her lips lifted at the corners, and she swallowed, her cheeks turning pink, maybe recalling something wicked.

  He leaned forward. “So ye do blush.”

  She blinked several times, her mouth tight as if she held in her laughter. “I actually blush quite a lot. You don’t notice in the shadows,” she whispered.

  From behind him Broc chuckled, making Cullen turn. There was a look of innocence across his features, his brows rising high on his forehead, as he watched the two of them. He elbowed Errol, who stood next to him. “What was that ye said about blushes and smiles?”

  …

  Before Rose could ask or even wonder what Broc was jesting at, a boy ran into the keep. “The Macleans have come. They’re riding across the moor.”

  The great hall broke into chaos with Charlotte sweeping up the half-strung holly to deposit in a basket. “Ellen, tell Jillian that we will need more of that fish cooked for the evening meal. Rose, take off your apron. Broc, stir up that fire. The air in here is chilled.”

  Cullen leaned in to Rose’s ear. “I must greet my friend.”

  She nodded. There was no time for words before he turned. Her gaze followed his powerful stride as he walked away, the muscles of his calves flexing over his boots. How could Cullen make so alluring the simple act of walking?

  Rose shucked her apron and straightened her skirts. Should she retreat to the hearth, blending into the stone wall? Never blend in. Always stand out in a room. She tucked a few curls back into her modest bun and placed a mask of mild interest across her features. Charlotte flew along the table to straighten the tankards and peeked into the ale jug before wagging a finger at her brothers. “Be cordial and welcoming.”

  Farlan grunted. “I haven’t seen Torquil Maclean since he was a lad, practicing with a wooden sword.”

  “And now he’s chief of the Macleans,” William added. “Ye heard about his first wife dying.”

  “Oh no, ye are not to talk of that,” Charlotte exploded and thumped William on the chest. “Cordial and welcoming doesn’t include reminding guests of terrible pasts.”

  They stood in silence, all turned toward the doors, waiting. Charlotte sighed, her hands clasped before her. “They will be here any minute.”

  Time stretched, and in the lengthening silence Farlan farted, prompting Charlotte to frown at him. “Keep your wind to yourself.”

  “Better before they walk in,” he responded.

  “Oh, my word,” Charlotte swore, her eyes raised high. She fanned the air to disperse her brother’s odors. Rose pressed a hand to her lips to hide her smile.

  The doors opened in the entryway, prompting Farlan and William to stand up straight and Charlotte to touch her pinned hair once more. A weave of ladies’ voices and deep chuckles broke the silence as the group filled the archway and stepped into the great hall.

  “Joan Maclean,” Charlotte called, striding up to her friend. “It’s been too long. Welcome to Dunyvaig.” Charlotte hugged the shorter, comely lady with gray-streaked hair coiled about her head.

  “It was a long journey,” Joan said. “Two full days with all our trunks.”

  “Come warm yourself by the hearth,” Charlotte said and turned to the tall man escorting a lovely young woman who glanced about the keep. “Welcome, Tor. Ye’ve certainly grown into your da’s brawn.”

  “Thank ye for letting us intrude on your Christmastide,” Tor responded. “There’ve been some mishaps at Aros. I’ll tell ye over a cup of the Duffie’s famous honey whisky.”

  Rose watched the three young ladies. Would they be wasps and serpents like Beatrice and her friends? Charlotte had schooled Rose on their names and stations. The lovely brunette on Tor’s arm met Rose’s gaze and smiled. Her thick middle and high-waist gown confirmed that Tor’s new wife was indeed pregnant. The woman bowed her head to Charlotte with several pleasantries and patted her husband’s arm, leaving his side to stride toward Rose. The lady with the lighter hair and merry eyes followed.

  “Welcome,” Rose said when they stopped before her. She curtsied, bowing her head in greeting.

  The woman reached out and squeezed her hand warmly. “Bonjour,” she said. She continued in English with a refined accent. “I am Ava. And this is my sister, Grace or Lady Grace.”

  “Grace, please,” the other woman said.

  “Cullen told us about your plight as we walked through the village,” Ava said.

  Grace’s smile ebbed. “And the farmer who lent us his wagon when we landed last night told us about the mysterious woman who’d washed ashore. What a horrible experience.”

  Mon Dieu. She was the talk of the island. How had the English not heard of her yet?

  “Thank you,” Rose answered and relaxed a little. They seemed to accept that she was French, and even though their gazes had dipped briefly to the jagged line encircling her neck, they hadn’t gasped or asked about it. “We should find you refreshment.”

  She led them toward the long table when Agnes and Beatrice strode in with baskets on their arms. They stopped to speak with Charlotte and Tor’s mother. Behind them came Broc and Errol.

  “We are thankful that you were able to take us in,” Ava said as she sat, her hand going to her back where she rubbed.

  “Oh yes,” Grace continued. “It was dreadful at Aros.”

  Rose poured watered-down wine from a pitcher. “Dreadful?”

  Grace leaned closer to her. “That troublesome old warrior, Duky, accidentally set fire to the hall in the keep. Banked the hearth too full and left it to roll out enough to catch the closest tapestry, which spread to the rest, scorching the walls and leaping to the table and chairs.”

  “How terrible,” Rose said. “I wondered at you risking travel in your condition,” she said, looking to Ava.

  The woman nodded, a tired expression on her pale face. “With the burned vapors permeating the keep, I’ve been living with Grace in her sweet cottage, but Tor won’t stay in it,”
Ava said.

  “It’s where his first wife was found dead,” Grace whispered. “But we’ve since had a resurrection.” Grace’s eyes widened. “The cottage, not the wife, of course.” She gave a nervous half grin.

  “And I told Tor I couldn’t celebrate our first Christmastide apart, so he wrote to Cullen.” Ava squeezed Rose’s arm. “Thank you for letting us intrude.”

  Rose smiled. “You and your family are most welcome at Dunyvaig, although I am not the one to thank. I am also a guest of their generosity.”

  “Of course.” Ava twisted, looking for her husband. With the movement, she gasped, both hands going to her middle.

  “What is it?” Grace asked, standing.

  “A pain,” Ava said.

  “Joan,” Grace called. “Ava’s feeling a pain.”

  Charlotte’s friend scooted around Agnes and Beatrice and grabbed her leather satchel, heading toward them. “I will brew a medicine.”

  Brew a medicine? The words caught at Rose’s memory. She knew about brewing medicines. Her gaze shifted to Ava’s hand resting on her stomach, and a dreadful feeling sank into her.

  “What type of medicine?” Rose asked, looking to Ava. “Some are abortive and very powerful.”

  “Good Lord,” Joan said, pulling a clay jar from her bag. “I wouldn’t give her anything like that.”

  “Joan and Ava are both skilled healers,” Grace said, her face still tense.

  Ava tipped her head back to look into the frowning face of her looming husband. “I’m sure it is just from the travel.” He kissed her forehead gingerly. There was a light in his face, soft and concerned.

  “Did you feel ill this morning after that pennyroyal brew?” Grace asked, pulling Rose’s attention back from the affectionate display.

  Pennyroyal? To create an abortive tonic, combine pennyroyal and tansy, but beware giving too much or the woman will die as well. “Pennyroyal kills le bébé, especially mixed with tansy, but they can kill the mother, too,” Rose said, rising.