The Rogue of Islay Isle (Highland Isles)

by McCollum, Heather

  William opened his mouth, but Cullen pointed his sword at him. “I will not act rashly, so shut your bloody gob.”

  William’s face turned crimson, and he pivoted, storming out of the hall.

  “Ruin of us,” Farlan grumbled and followed his brother. Cullen waited the space of several heartbeats, but Errol stayed by his side.

  Cullen turned to him and then Tor. “Find out where de Fleur landed and make sure the family that spoke with them is uninjured. See if they saw where the ship sailed if it is not right offshore. And find out if Captain Taylor and Captain Thompson are still on Islay, riding the shoreline.”

  “I’d wager they’ve returned to Oban for Christmas,” Errol said.

  “Avoid them,” Cullen said. “But don’t say a word about de Fleur if ye run into them.”

  “So ye will let de Fleur go?” Tor asked.

  Cullen gripped the hilt of his sword, a vision of de Fleur, wrapping the rope around Rose’s neck, his nasty tongue sliding along her skin, fresh in his mind. “He will have to win his freedom. He can return to his ship…” He watched the blood-red stone catch the firelight as he twisted his blade in the air. “If he can make it past me without his throat slit.”

  …

  “After a shock, I find the clean, warm water of an indoor bath to be strengthening,” Charlotte called on her way out of the bedroom, the door clicking shut behind her. Rose submerged farther into the soothing water of a wooden tub set before the fire.

  Charlotte didn’t seem to mind that Rose was naked in her son’s room. He’d carried her up to his bed instead of the one she shared with Mairi. Would Charlotte tell him to sleep elsewhere? Did she realize how much safer Rose felt in Cullen’s room? She’d have asked but didn’t want to risk being moved. The truth was, she longed for Cullen’s return. She needed his answer.

  Make me less valuable. Without her maidenhead, the king would stop hunting for her. Wouldn’t he? She’d been raised as the king’s virgin courtesan, a young woman still intact but with all the information to make her the perfect, tantalizing lover. Her mother had been whispering in King Francis’s ear about her daughter’s erotic education and beauty. From the way he’d brutally pounded into her mother, while calling her Madeleine, the night Rose had escaped the court, the most powerful man in France seemed obsessed with her. No wonder he’d sent her likeness around the continent. No wonder Henri had risked walking into Dunyvaig to demand her back. The king would reward him greatly.

  Oui, the only way to make her less interesting to Francis was to ruin the one thing that made her different from the other courtesans. Her virginity. And giving in to the heat that she felt leap within her every time she was alone with Cullen would be something to cherish forever.

  Rose ran the fragrant soap along her arms, dipping them under the water. She leaned back, letting her full breasts bob to the surface, her nipples contracting at the chill. She touched them and instantly felt longing ache through her body. Sliding her palms down her stomach, she breathed deeply. Was she truly wanton, a woman born of courtesan blood, raised to sleep with the highest bidder? For who could outbid a king? Merely the thought of the richly bedecked man cooled her blood.

  She now remembered other men at court, most of them handsome, exceedingly wealthy, and obviously infatuated with her. But none of them knew her. They thought of her only as Madeleine, untouchable and utterly desirable. Even if they offered her gold and palaces and comfort, she didn’t want them, didn’t ache for any of them, didn’t desire to make any of them happy.

  Rose blew against the soap-film surface. Non. There was only one man who woke desire in her cold body, only one man whom she trusted enough not to hurt her, to whom she wished to bring joy. Cullen Duffie.

  Make me less valuable. Would he come to her? She leaned her head against the tub and rinsed away the soap, but she still didn’t feel clean. The memories of her past and the embarrassment of this evening lay deeper than skin. She was valuable to the king, but would the people of Dunyvaig find her worthy? By now Beatrice would have spread what Henri had said about her to everyone in the village. Through her entire life, Madeleine’s worth had been tied to her beauty, flirtatious cleverness, and erotic education. At the French court, these qualities had brought her fame and acceptance. Here on Islay, they brought shame.

  Rose breathed deeply and raked the soap through her tresses, freeing the bubbles and dirt. When the water began to cool, she rose, squeezing the thick, wet mass. Stepping out of the tub, she wrapped herself in a linen and hurried to the fire, throwing another square of dried peat on it to burn hotter. The flames cast light and shadows, its heat luring Rose to sit down, cross-legged, and pull her hair to the side, spreading it with her fingers to dry. Over and over, she combed through it, the curls returning as the warmth dried them.

  A tap sounded on the chamber door, and it opened. Rose clutched the bathing sheet over her breasts.

  “Are ye dressed?” Cullen asked from the crack.

  Rose steadied her breath. “I am covered, not dressed.”

  He hesitated. “Does that mean I can come in or not?”

  His question, offered with the hint of humor, turned her lips up into a grin. After all, he’d loved every inch of her the other night. “You may come in.”

  Cullen stepped into his room, shutting the door behind him. “It’s late. I thought ye might be—” His gaze had started at the bed and turned to see her at the hearth. “Asleep,” he finished. “I can return later, or if ye’d like to return to your room, I—”

  “I am comfortable here, unless you wish me to go,” she said. She didn’t like how her voice faded. She’d been schooled against being timid like an easily ignored mouse, but right now, with all the memories and Henri’s crassness, her strength had faded. Rose didn’t want to be anything that she was taught. She desired only to be her authentic self, whoever that was.

  “I wish ye to be comfortable,” he answered. “Are ye cold?”

  The fire burned hot at her back, and she shook her head. “Not here.”

  He crossed to the bed where he sat to brace his toe to heel, ridding himself of his boots and tall socks. He still wore his dress kilt and white linen shirt. “I have things I need to say to ye. ’Tis why I asked my mother to keep ye here in my room. It seems every time I try to speak with ye, someone interrupts.”

  She nodded. After Henri’s revelations, leaving her alone in Cullen’s room couldn’t cause any more scandal. “I am sorry that tonight’s festivities were ruined,” she said and squared her hips back toward the fire. “Christmas Eve should be full of joy. Your guests must be shocked.”

  She could hear him pad closer. “Well, Mairi is demanding that we cut de Fleur’s ballocks off, and Grace has been spouting the most obscene curses that I’ve ever heard from a lady, while Ava whispers excuses for her.”

  Rose turned to look at him. Cullen wore a calm smile. He shrugged. “And we are all still reeling from what my mother called de Fleur in Gaelic. So tonight has been full of shock.” He bent to his knees next to her and sat, leaning back on his hands to stretch long legs before him as if they sat at a casual summer picnic. “But none of it warrants your apology.” He met her gaze, his face growing serious. “None of this is your fault, Rose.”

  After a long moment, Rose turned back to the fire. Guilt still weighed heavily in her middle.

  “Do ye think all of your memories have come back?” he asked.

  “I think,” she whispered. “When I saw Henri de Fleur…I remembered the ship, his cabin…the rope about my neck.” She took a full breath. “And the fear. He desires fear in a woman. Many men do.”

  “Och, Rose,” Cullen said behind her, and she looked to him. He sat upright. “It should never be like that. Those men abuse their power instead of using it to protect.”

  Rose felt the press of tears on the back of her eyelids and blinked. “You are a rare and honorable man, Cullen Duffie.”

  He reached forward slowly, touching one of her loose w
aves of hair. “And ye are a rare and fascinating woman, Rose.”

  Rose turned her face in to his hand, kissing his palm. “Love me, Cullen,” she whispered. “Take me tonight.” Her heart beat frantically as she braved his answer. One by one, Rose opened her fingers so that the edges of the sheet fell to pool around her waist, exposing her full breasts to his view.

  She watched his chest fill with air, making his shoulders broaden. He pulled her onto his lap with slow care, one of her legs on either side of his hips, straddling him. The bathing sheet bunched between them and under her seat, but she could still feel his hardness through his kilt pressing against her sex.

  Groaning softly, he slid his hands over her skin and bent forward to capture her mouth with a kiss. Hot and powerful. She wanted to surrender all to Cullen and slanted her face, opening her lips for a thorough taste. She shifted on his lap to rub against him. He stroked the outsides of her breasts and waist, down to her spread hips. Inching the sheet lower, he lifted her to cup the sides of her nude derriere. Rough palms stroked against her smooth skin, licking fire through her body. Rose wrapped her arms around Cullen’s head and shoulders, rubbing the tips of her breasts across his shirt.

  “You have too many clothes on,” she said against his mouth and teased him with her tongue.

  “There’s my wildcat.” His hand retreated to untie the knot at his neck. Breaking the kiss to lean back, Rose sat spread upon him as he worked the shirt up over his head, his massive arms flexing as he peeled it off, leaving his chest and stomach bare. From leaning back, ridges of muscle showed from his taut stomach up his torso and chest, making Rose’s breath catch. Magnífique.

  She dragged a fingernail up the center, from his navel to the hollow of his neck, watching chill bumps rise at her touch. Rose wanted to make him groan, make him feel the wonderful things he roused in her. Bending forward, she kissed his nipple and circled it with her tongue. Cullen answered with a primal growl and spread his hands across her back, pressing her forward. She lifted her head and arched upward, her pelvis pressing down onto him. His lips found her nipple and sucked it into his hot mouth. The sensation shot through Rose, making her restless.

  She moaned and rubbed rhythmically against him, holding herself to his mouth. He switched breasts, palming the first. The sound of his mouth working against her flesh fed the growing ache inside her. She yanked at the bath sheet until her hands could reach his belt holding his kilt in place. After tugging without budging it, she huffed, pulling his face up to hers for a kiss.

  “Why is it so hard to get you naked?” she asked.

  He chuckled, but his gaze was still molten as he stared at her, lifting one of her breasts and the other for a kiss. “I definitely have the advantage with ye being in a sheet.” Still seated, he yanked the strap of his belt to release the tongue, and it slid to the floor, the buckle knocking heavily against the wood. With a power-filled lurch, he pushed them both upright, catching her to him as he stood.

  Rose gasped softly and heard the heavy woven kilt thump the floor with her sheet. The fire gave off its heat, prickling the one side of her bare skin, while Cullen’s body warmed her front. He kissed her reverently, his face bent to hers and his hands cupping her cheeks. Cherished. Oui. She felt cherished.

  She slanted against him as the kiss turned wild. Wet and hot, they breathed against each other as their mouths tasted and seduced. Rose pressed her soft curves against Cullen’s hard frame, rising onto her toes to nestle him in the V of her legs. His penis, massive and stone-hard, rested hot and heavy against her belly. Knowing what he would do with it made her ache.

  Her hands gripped him, sliding the smooth skin up and down, reveling in the groan she won from him. His fingers curved into her derriere, seeking. She spread her legs, arching herself to give him access, and he found her wet center.

  “Och, lass, ye are drenched,” he rasped against her ear where he kissed her neck.

  She squirmed, rocking against his hand, grabbing his shoulders. “Take me, Cullen. Kill Madeleine Renald, the king’s virgin,” she breathed as he pressed two fingers into her. “Free me.”

  Thickly accented words in Gaelic came from his mouth, the passion and heart in them sending another wave of primal need through Rose, and she moaned. Withdrawing his fingers, Cullen lifted Rose. She seemed to float through the air as he carried her to the bed. Cool sheets enveloped her, but Cullen followed, bringing the warmth his large, muscled frame exuded like a bonfire. Her legs shifted restlessly against the sheets as she reached for him, stroking.

  “Cullen, now,” she said, spreading herself, but still he caressed her with his fingers until she felt the heavy ache build inside. Diving in and out with two fingers, his thumb brushed her most sensitive spot, back and forth.

  “Aye, lass,” he breathed in her ear as he moved over her. “Give in to the fire, wildcat.”

  Rose pressed higher into his grasp, her hands fisting the sheets on either side of her. She reached up to grab his shoulders, her nails digging into his flesh. All reason left her. Only sensation existed, the smell of their combined heat, the feel of Cullen’s touch. Only his skin sliding against her and his weight upon her mattered. Higher and higher she flew until she shattered.

  “Cullen,” she yelled as the first waves crashed. And in that instant, Cullen removed his fingers, his knee spreading her farther apart. With a rapid surge he buried himself within her channel. She gasped, and he groaned, holding himself over her, fully embedded.

  The sting of his entering was barely noticed as the waves of Rose’s pleasure continued to flood her. Rooted to the bed, she pushed upward against him.

  “Och, lass,” he rasped. “If ye do that, I’ll move.”

  “Oui. Move,” she demanded, her need far more powerful than the sting.

  Slowly he withdrew. She watched his eyes close and knew it was the pleasure that tortured him. Reaching between them, she grasped him, rubbing until he disappeared back inside her. Pressing against her own sensitive spot, she felt another ache begin to build, her past lessons for self-pleasuring being quite helpful.

  He breathed through his teeth as he began to increase his thrusts, and Rose raised her legs to wrap them around his back, hugging him to her as he drove into her. With each deep thrust she panted, feeling him all the way up inside, pressing against her very womb. “Oui, Cullen. Fill me,” she spoke in French, repeating it in English to drive him mad.

  She raked her nails down his back and clung to him, surging into each of his thrusts, wild and completely given over to joie de vivre. She knew only heat and pleasure and Cullen. Stroke after stroke, their mouths melded as they kissed, Cullen marking her both inside and out. She felt him all around her, his scent filling her nose, his arms capturing her to him. She felt him moving within her, his taste on her tongue and his hardness plowing up inside her. He was renewing her, bringing her back into life. If love could be touched and seen, it would feel and look like this. This was no longer just passion. This was more.

  Rose opened her mouth to scream as the wave of sensation caught her, thrumming through her with such might, stars sparked behind her eyelids. She strained upward, riding the waves, pressing into them as molten fire spread. Still moving, she opened to see Cullen staring into her eyes as his whole body tensed.

  “I am yours. Buin mo chridhe dhuit.” She felt his words like thunder, shuddering through her as if they were an oath. He growled fiercely and released, the heat of their bodies combining. Exquisite, his warrior’s face tense with passion, powerful and strong, and completely hers.

  As he collapsed, he rolled her to the side, their bodies still joined, legs tangled. He cradled her into his chest. They clutched each other as their breathing slowed. Cullen kissed her gently and stroked the side of her face. “Tha gaol agam ort,” he said. “Buin mo chridhe dhuit.” He repeated the same words from before. Deep brown eyes stared into her own, eyes that mirrored her awe. She touched the side of his face, too. His words, although spoken in his own language
, revealed the love she saw. Could she return them? Did she even know what love was after all the betrayal she’d seen? Never before had she witnessed real love.

  Rose lowered her face to rest on his chest, feeling the thudding of his powerful heart under her cheek, and held on to him with languid arms. Exhaustion, from her emotions whipping her from despair to satiated bliss, pulled her toward sleep. In his tumbling language, she was nearly certain he’d spoken words of love, but she wasn’t sure. Her fear of the answer stopped her from asking. All she knew right now was that she was safe, and for the moment, cherished in Cullen’s arms. Rose breathed softly, her lips parted and her eyes closing. “Cullen Duffie,” she whispered.

  “Aye?” The one word grumbled up through his chest under her cheek.

  “Merci.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Merci? Thank you? Cullen buckled his belt around his waist. He watched Rose shift within the nest of rumpled sheets. Like a fallen angel, her hair tangled out from her heart-shaped face, long lashes fanned down above smooth cheeks. Had she understood that he’d said that he loved her last night before she fell asleep? That he’d given her his heart, using the same vows couples spoke at their weddings? Perhaps not. She knew nothing of their language. He hadn’t translated his words, realizing the feeling that crowded into him was something completely new. Never had he felt such strength, such power in the knowledge that he loved. Aye, he loved Rose.

  A smile crept over his mouth, and he rubbed it, shaking his head in silence. He had a French bastard in his dungeon, a letter calling the MacDonalds of Islay traitors, two uncles who were probably trying to rally a mutiny, and a regiment of English poised to attack at the weakest of reasons. Yet somehow, looking down on Rose, safe and utterly satisfied, all seemed right with the world.

  Throwing the sash of his kilt over one shoulder, he grabbed his scabbard to belt in place. Somehow, he marveled, this passion-filled, courageous woman was giving him strength, even as she slept. He felt like he could take on a horde of English, single-handedly, and win.