Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Lord Cantford, please put the knife away. Mr. Jones needs those measurements to insure a proper fit for your pantaloons.”

  Ian turned his dark-eyed gaze on her. For a moment, he said nothing, and then a speculative glint came into his eyes. He sheathed the knife inside his sock and straightened. “If ye want me to wear pantaloons, my lady, ye’ll have to measure me yerself.”

  Jillian’s face flamed and the heat spread through her body, striking a strange vibration at her core. The man was impudent beyond belief. As if she would want to run her hand along that tanned, well-muscled thigh so unlike Rufus’s white, spindly ones. The tips of her fingers tingled and she clenched her hands into fists. What on earth had come over her? The man must be the devil’s own spawn to even let such a thought enter her head. She wanted no involvement with any man. Allowing one to get close meant surrendering control to him. She had her freedom and intended to keep it. Which, she reminded herself, was fulfilling her mission for Prinny.

  “I believe Mr. Jones has some ready-mades that you could try on, my lord. I’m sure he can take his measurements from the pair that fits best.”

  “Oh, yes,” the tailor nearly squeaked. “I can do that. Not a problem. Not at all.”

  Ian ignored the man and kept his gaze on Jillian. “I doona think any of them will fit, lass.” A corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “But if ye fear touchin’ me, I can wear my plaid instead.”

  The tailor gasped again and sat down abruptly, as though his legs would not support him. Jillian could almost sympathize, since her own knees were feeling wobbly. Clearly, this barbarian needed to be taught a lesson in deportment.

  “A gentleman does not make such suggestions to a lady, my lord.”

  His smile grew. “Aye. But I’m only learning to be a gentleman. Ye said so yerself.” Then he shrugged. “’Tis yer money ye’re about to lose if I doona become one.”

  Jillian worried her lip. Only a rogue would throw her words back at her like that. She needed that money and Prinny certainly wouldn’t pay her if she couldn’t even get the Highlander to wear proper English clothes. Ian was laughing at her. He didn’t think she’d have the courage to do it. She lifted her chin and held out her hand to the tailor.

  “Give me the tape.”

  The little man blanched. “Lady Newburn! This is most improper.”

  “I’m a widow, Mr. Jones, not an innocent maiden. Give me the tape.”

  Surprise flickered for an instant in Ian’s eyes and then he grinned. “How can I accommodate ye, lass?”

  “Just stand still.” Jillian stepped over to him and placed one end of the tape on the top of his plaid near where the inseam should be measured. As her hand held it there and she bent to lower the rest of it, she felt something thick and long nudge the side of her hand. She almost dropped the tape. Sakes! Was that his member? It felt as hard as a steel weapon. Rufus’s had never felt like that. Not once.

  “I think ye may not have the right spot, lass,” Ian said in a husky voice.

  It was too much. Jillian took the tin tip at the end of the tape and raked it down his shin. His wool sock would prevent any real injury, but she heard a small hiss, although he remained immobile. Satisfied, she marked the tape and moved away. Her face felt like it was on fire, but surely it was from the exertion of having knelt and so quickly stood. She handed the tape to the tailor.

  “If you’ll add one inch to that, I think he’ll be properly fitted.” She turned to Ian. “Perhaps next time, you’ll think twice before you challenge me, my lord.”

  His look was inscrutable. “The next time I challenge ye, lass, I’ll be ready.”

  The little minx had a wee bit of a temper beneath her cool, calm exterior, Ian thought as their carriage was brought around from the tailor’s. He wondered what it would take to get that fire lit to more pleasurable pursuits.

  It bode well for him that she didn’t yank her hand away when his tarse brushed her hand, even though her face had been the color of a Highland sunset when she stood. He caught himself beginning to grin.

  “Is something funny, my lord?” Jillian asked as she settled on the seat across from him in the carriage.

  “Nae. I was only thinking of ye telling the wee man in there that ye were no maiden.” He watched in fascination as her cheeks turned pink. The bane of such a fair skin, but it was also the doorway to his knowing when he had gotten beneath that icy exterior. Then he frowned. A woman as beautiful as she was no doubt had many offers. Did she accept them? Was there a man she was already taking willingly into her bed? The beastie inside of him gave a low growl. Or did she truly mourn her husband? He had to know.

  “Do ye get lonely?”

  Her head snapped around from the window and she glared at him. “That, my lord, is not a proper question.”

  “Nae? Let me resay it then. Do ye miss yer husband?”

  Anger flashed across her face so quickly that he almost missed it. Her voice, however, was calm when she answered him.

  “As I told you, my…husband was quite a bit older than myself. We had little in common. He loved Town. I preferred the country.”

  The beastie raised its head again. Was there a country squire tucked away somewhere? Someone closer to her in age? Someone she had lain naked beneath, with her legs spread, while he thrust himself into her hot, tight flesh? A wave of lust consumed Ian, but he managed to keep his voice steady.

  “What do ye do in the country? Are there rules to follow there too?”

  She gave him a strange look and he couldn’t quite believe himself that he was sounding like some green lad.

  “There are rules everywhere, my lord. Perhaps they are a little more relaxed in the country.”

  Not exactly the answer he wanted. Did that mean…? Abruptly, he stopped his train of thought. The woman was English. A Sassenach. Why did he care if there was man waiting at her estate? He would be returning to Scotland as soon as he could. All he was interested in was thawing that ice in her veins and having a pleasurable bedding experience.

  His thoughts were interrupted as he heard the clattering of numerous horse hooves on the cobblestone. Three yellow barouches hitched to bay horses sped past, the young men driving them shouting gleefully at each other. Jillian and Ian’s carriage rocked precariously as their driver fought for control and then they jerked to a stop. Jillian lurched forward, landing squarely in Ian’s lap.

  The softness of her breast crushed against his arm as he sought to keep her from sliding onto the floor. He wanted nothing more than to cup its fullness in his hand, but contented himself with allowing his other arm to circle her slender waist, pulling her more firmly to a sitting position across his thighs. Her bonnet was askew and the scent of roses wafted upwards from the loosened silken strands of her hair. He wanted to bury his nose in it and then breathe in the sweet smell of her skin just below her ear.

  For just the slightest moment, she pressed herself closer to him, her hand clutching him, and his breath caught, then her fingers loosened and he sighed.

  “Not that I mind holding ye, lass, but what devil’s spawn was that?”

  As if realizing that she still half-lay in his arms, Jillian pulled away and sat back down on her seat, attempting to straighten her ruched skirt with one hand and smooth her mussed hair with the other. Ian had to clench his hands to keep from leaning over and removing the rest of the hairpins.

  “That was part of the Four-Horse Club,” she finally said. “A group of young men who you’ll no doubt meet at one of the gentleman’s clubs.”

  “If I do, I’ll pound some sense into their wee brains,” Ian replied with a grimace. “Running horses like that on the street could lame one.”

  To his surprise, Jillian laughed.

  “What?” he asked.

  “It’s just… Well, you thought of the horses being hurt first. A Society gentleman would offer to bash their heads in—figuratively, of course—because they put a lady in danger.”

  Ian felt his ears grow warm.
“Ye are right, lass. ’Twas wrong of me not to say so—”

  “No.” She reached over and laid her gloved hand over his. “Don’t apologize. I’m obviously not hurt and the horses may very well have been.” She sat back and eyed him speculatively. “It’s going to be an interesting Season.”

  Ian opened his mouth to answer and then closed it. He wasn’t quite sure what she meant, but as the old Crone of the Hills would say, Faerie magic works in strange ways. If those fools hadna come rushing by, he wouldna have held Jillian in his arms and he wouldna have heard her laugh.

  A laugh as rich as smooth Scot whisky.

  Aye. It was going to be an interesting Season.

  He really did have fine, strong hands, Jillian thought as he sat to her right at lunch later that afternoon and she watched him break apart a biscuit. Thoughts of how those hands had caught her in the carriage and lifted her as though she weighed no more than a pillow flitted through her mind and caused bands of warmth to course through her body where his hands had been. Even her breasts felt heavy as she remembered how she’d been pressed against the firm muscles of his arm and chest. Sakes! What in the world has gotten into me?

  “Am I ne’r holding the right fork?” Ian asked.

  Startled, she looked up at him. “What?”

  “Ye are staring at my hands.”

  “I didn’t realize…”

  A glimmer of amusement came into his eyes as though he could read her thoughts and she tried to squelch the blush she hoped wouldn’t happen. Drat having such a pale skin. And when had she taken to blushing anyway? The Highlander definitely addled her brains and that could be dangerous. Better that she concentrate on her job.

  “You’re doing splendidly, my lord.” In truth, she had been pleasantly surprised at how quickly he had picked up the skill of using the utensils from the outside in last night at dinner. Of course, he had immediately groused that a grown man didn’t need three forks and two spoons along with a small knife for butter and a larger one for meat. It was enough silver, he’d said, to provide a crofter with food for a month.

  Ian put down the fork and raised the crystal goblet to his lips. Like a moth drawn to a flame, her eyes followed the way his generous mouth curved around the rim of the glass and how his lips parted to swallow the wine. Dear Lord. Why was she attracted to his mouth too?

  He arched a brow as he set down the glass and part of that fascinating mouth turned upward in a smile. “Ye are looking at me, lass, like a woman who is hungry for something other than food.”

  Jillian tore her gaze away from his lips. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Lord Cantford.”

  “I’m sure ye do.” His own gaze traveled from her eyes to her mouth, where it lingered as he slowly proceeded to her shoulders and then her breasts before he looked back into her eyes again.

  Mercy. The bodice of her gown suddenly felt much too tight as her nipples strained against the soft muslin. Her body was reacting in ways she’d never experienced before, and from his satisfied smile, Ian knew exactly what effect he was having on her. She just wished she did.

  “Are you laughing at me, my lord?”

  His eyes smoldered. “Absolutely not, lass. I told ye yesterday, I wished to please ye. If ye’ll let me.”

  “If I’ll let you?”

  “Aye. This was a verra fine lunch. Let me be yer dessert.”

  “My des… Oh!” Jillian’s hands flew to her face and she wished she had cold water from the well to douse the flames.

  Ian smiled again. “Ye canna say ye didna enjoy being in my arms earlier, can ye? Not when ye clung to me—”

  “Stop! Please. I reacted in a moment of panic. I was most grateful to you, my lord, for breaking my fall. That was all.”

  “If ye say so.” He looked amused and then resumed eating. “I will be your bodyguard then, until ye see the need for my…services…in another way.”

  Jillian stared at him. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

  “Aye. Ye do. Those ruffians today could have done damage to yer carriage, and then what would ye have done? Alone in the street?”

  “My driver would have taken care of me.”

  “Like I could?” Ian reached for his glass and took another slow sip of his wine.

  Jillian forced herself not to watch him. His mouth was wicked. His words were wicked. He was making her think wicked thoughts. Thoughts that she had buried when she became betrothed to Rufus. She was too old to be thinking like a young debutante. This was a man who had her maids wanting to lift their skirts for him. Doubtless, he would use his abundant charm on anything female.

  The butler entered the dining room. “Are you ready for dessert, madam?”

  Ian chuckled and Jillian hoped her voice wouldn’t squeak. “I won’t be having dessert,” she said.

  “Very well, my lady.” Givens turned to Ian. “And you, my lord?”

  Ian’s dark glance swept over Jillian. “I’ll pass on dessert too.”

  Givens gave them a small bow and departed.

  Ian stood and put his napkin on his plate and then leaned forward, close enough for Jillian to feel his body heat.

  “I’ll pass,” he said with a glitter in his eyes, “for today.”

  Chapter Three

  “What manner of torture is this?” Ian muttered as he held up the long, stiffly starched piece of linen.

  “It’s called a cravat, my lord,” Jones, the man-servant that Jillian had sent up to him, said patiently. “Allow me to show you how it’s tied.”

  Ian scowled at him. “I nae need a mon to dress me.”

  “Very well, my lord.”

  He made several attempts to wrap the thing around his neck, but ended up with the ends hanging down. Finally, he threw it across his bed chamber in disgust. “I’ll not wear it.”

  “It is a requirement at the soiree that you’ll be attending this evening, my lord.”

  Ian cursed under his breath. The morning had actually gone well. After what Jillian called breakfast—which any reasonable mon would say was nigh mid-day—she had given him directions to the fencing salon called Le Rapier Tranchant. He had been pleasantly surprised that the owner, a slight man by the name of Pierre Grenier, had been both agile and quick, giving Ian a satisfying sweat when it was over. He had asked if there were a place where a mon might have a good workout with his fists as well and the Frenchman had referred him to Gentleman Jack’s pugilism rooms. He was looking forward to a fine fight on the next day, only when he’d arrived back at the townhouse, Jillian had informed him that his first invitation had arrived.

  A soiree. Just an evening social gathering, the lass had said, where he’d meet some of the ton Society that he was supposed to learn to like. He dinna think he’d have much use for the lot of them if they got all trussed up like this.

  Jones picked up the strip of linen. “Perhaps you will permit me to show you how I would tie it on myself?”

  Ian glowered at him. After the episode with the tailor, Ian had made sure he pulled on his own breeches, but the mon had actually wanted to help him with his boots and to button his waistcoat. Like he was a bairn being dressed by his maither. “I told ye, I’ll not be wearing it.”

  “Surely, my lord, you have no wish to embarrass Lady Newburn?”

  Ian frowned. “How can what I wear do that?”

  Jones gave a small sigh. “She will be presenting you, my lord. It simply would be quite improper for you to be only partially dressed.”

  Partially dressed? By the auld gods, he had more clothes on him than he wore on a winter’s night in Glenfinnan. A shirt with a high, stiff collar, a double-breasted waistcoat with its own collar and a frock coat over that with a third collar in velvet, no less. And gloves. What kind of a mon wore gloves? Still, he dinna want to make the lass feel bad.

  He almost grinned. She had taken care to sit across the table from him at lunch today and a servant had stayed in the dining room at all times. Which meant that his offer to be her dessert yesterday
had bothered her more than she wanted to admit. Aye, this was a game of cat-n-mouse he verra much enjoyed playing. Mayhap when he finally had her naked, he could dribble a wee bit of honey across her breasts and lick it off verra slowly…

  “My lord?” Jones was holding up the wretched cravat.

  Ian sighed. “Verra well. Show me then.”

  “This is a rather simple tie called the triangular,” Jones said as he laid the cloth along the back of his neck. “It has three creases. One down on either side of your ears until they reach the bow of your neck cloth and a third crossing horizontally like so.” The servant demonstrated and then adjusted at the top of it. “You can raise or lower its height accordingly to what you are comfortable with.”

  “A mon would be more comfortable nae wearing it,” Ian growled, but took a fresh strip of linen that the man handed him. After three tries, he had something that he thought looked like what Jones was wearing. He tugged it down and the servant frowned. “What now?” he asked.

  “It is not supposed to be wrinkled, my lord.”

  “I willna tuck it up under my chin. A mon canna turn his head.”

  Jones seemed to be holding a mental debate with himself as to whether to say something, but his good sense won out. “Very well, my lord.” He looked at Ian’s hair. “We’ve not had time to get you a proper cut, my lord. For tonight a simple plait will have to do.”

  “Ye want to…braid…my hair?” Ian asked incredulously.

  “Only for tonight. I’ll have the barber come around tomorrow.”

  “I wilna cut it.”

  “But, my lord, wearing it that long and loose is simply barbarian.”

  Ian raised an eyebrow. “But I am a barbarian, am I nae?”

  Jones looked flustered. “I…am…not sure what you mean by that.”

  Ian picked up his sgian dubh and flicked it into the air, catching it cleanly. Jones’ face paled. Ian flashed the knife again.

  “Do ye have a wish to find out if I am a barbarian?”

  “N-no, my lord,” the man said and fled the room.