“Your horse, sir,” the young groomsman said as he brought Ian’s gelding around.
Ian glowered and grabbed the reins. The boy jumped back, his eyes round. “Thank ye,” Ian managed to say. ’Tis not the lad’s fault he was angry.
“You are welcome, my lord,” he replied, but hurried away.
Ian reflected on the evening as he rode through the dark cobblestone streets. He dinna trust Wesley Newburn, but he had no proof that the mon was indeed a spy. Neither did he have someone he could send to Jamie to make inquiries about what their French neighbors really knew about Gerard Fountaine. Even when he finally got his country estate—when this abominable Season was finally over—he’d still have to decide whom he could trust with such a mission.
The Season. Only a few short weeks remained. What kind of people thought that a mon could choose his life’s mate during the course of one party and dance after another? So far, all he’d gleaned from any of these lasses was that they chattered endlessly about dresses and bonnets and such, tittered constantly and tended to swoon if he actually smiled at them. He couldn’t imagine introducing any one of them to his independent, high-spirited sisters.
Except Jillian. With a start, he brought his horse up short. Where had that thought come from? As if she would ever want to visit Scotland. Still, the thought penetrated his cloudy mind. She had the same inner strength as Bridget. After their mother had died, it had been his oldest sister who’d taken care of the rest, just like Jillian was doing for Mari. And he couldn’t recall a time when Jillian had even mentioned clothes, other than his own.
He had a sudden image of her riding one of her beloved white horses wildly across the heathered moors of Scotland, her faerie-colored hair loose and flying behind her, green eyes alight with laughter and teasing as he brought his horse alongside hers.
He would lift her from the saddle and then lay her down upon the sweet-smelling grass, his hands working her bodice even as he claimed her mouth…
Bloody hell. He shook himself out of reverie. Jillian was not someone he could have. That lout, Wesley, had spelled things out quite clearly. But Ian would be damned if he let Newburn marry Jillian against her will.
Which meant that Jillian would need the money that the Prince of Wales had offered for his training. That meant that Ian would have to choose a wife.
He was back to square one. And he’d have a hangover in the morning to boot. He muttered a Gaelic curse and spurred his horse on.
The animal leaped forward, eager for his stall and oats, and Ian felt the saddle begin to slip. In another moment, he hit the ground hard, scraping his hand and arm in the process. The saddle fell beside him as the horse stopped suddenly, snuffling anxiously at his master.
Ian rose slowly, running his hand down the horse’s neck, soothing the spooked animal. “’Twas not your fault, my lad,” he said and bent down to pick up the saddle. He fingered the girth, puzzled that none of it was frayed. And then he felt the smooth edges where it had separated.
The girth had been deliberately cut.
Chapter Eight
The dining hall was empty as Jillian entered the next morning to get some breakfast. That Wesley wasn’t here wasn’t unusual. He rarely came in before dawn and slept until the sun was high overhead. But Jillian had gotten used to Ian being present.
She was finishing her porridge and about to leave when he finally arrived. She stifled a gasp. He wore breeches and a rumpled linen shirt open at the throat and his raven hair was disheveled, as though it had not been combed. He hadn’t shaved and a day’s worth of stubble shaded his angular jaw, giving him a dark and dangerous look. His eyes were bloodshot.
“Did you have a good time at White’s last evening?” Jillian asked.
He growled an answer as he loaded his plate with eggs and thick slices of ham along with several pieces of toast. He sat down beside her and ate as though his last meal had been days ago.
Dobbs poured his tea and cleared his throat.
“Your elbows, my lord,” Jillian whispered before the servant would become haughty over his lack of manners or dress this morning, “do not belong on the table.”
He grunted, but removed them. “I’m nae of a mind to tend to what’s proper this morn, lass.”
Jillian raised an eyebrow. She had asked Wesley to take Ian with him to White’s so that he would be able to socialize with his male peers out of sight of females and parties and such. “Did something happen at White’s? Was Wesley rude?”
He gave her a look she couldn’t decipher and reached for the marmalade, only to wince and draw back to rub his left shoulder.
It was then that she saw the scrapes on his hand and forearm. “You’ve been hurt,” she said and reached over to touch his hand. “What happened?”
“’Tis naught. I fell off my horse.”
“You? I find that hard to believe, my lord, even if you were…ah…a bit foxed.”
“I was drunk, lass.”
“Well, let me have a look at your arm then,” she said and turned to the servant. “Dobbs. Please get the salve from the medicine bag.” As he left, she rolled Ian’s sleeve up further, her mouth pursing in disproval as she saw a gash on his thick biceps that traveled upwards beneath the sleeve. “How far does this cut go?” she asked.
“Across my shoulder.” His dark eyes studied her while a corner of his mouth quirked up. “Do ye want to see?”
Jillian felt herself blushing. After the conversation he’d overheard with Mari, the man probably thought she wanted him to take off his shirt. Still, if the gash hadn’t been cleaned properly…
Dobbs returned with the salve, a small basin of water and a clean cloth. “Your maid said you’d be needing this,” he said rather stiffly. “Do you wish me to assist?”
The poor man was squeamish about blood, having fainted once when one of the serving maids had cut herself. The one time Rufus hadn’t been careful and a bruise had actually been seen on her own arm caused the servant to avoid looking at the mottled colors. He had excused himself as quickly as he could.
“I’ll take care of it, Dobbs. You may take the dishes.”
He looked relieved and hurried away with the stack. Jillian turned back to Ian. “I don’t suppose you cleaned the lacerations last night?”
“I dinna even ken I had them until this morn.”
She sighed. “I’ll need to see your shoulder then.”
Ian smiled and began to unbutton his shirt, his eyes not leaving hers.
“You…you just need to remove your arm from the sleeve, my lord,” she said as he finished undoing the buttons.
He grinned, removed the shirt and threw it on the floor. “I want to be sure I doona have any other scrapes I may have missed.”
Jillian’s mouth suddenly went dry. He looked even more virile than she remembered. The width of his shoulders, the dusting of black hair around flat, brown male nipples—nipples that beaded into hard tips as she looked at them—had they done that last time? She suddenly wanted to know what they felt like and also became aware that he was watching her with an amused expression on his face. She felt her face flame. What in heaven’s name was she thinking?
“’Tis my arm that’s scratched, lass, but if ye want to look at the rest of me, I doona mind.” His mouth curved wickedly as he reached for the laces of his trews. “Now that I think on it, there might be a scrape on my leg as well…”
“Enough with you, my lord,” Jillian said, sure that her face was a red as a tomato.
“I’ll just make sure there’s no dirt lodged in the scratches.” She set to work, not looking at him again, concentrating on cleansing the wound and applying the salve, even though she could not deny how hard and powerful his arm and shoulder felt. She handed him his shirt.
“You can put that back on now.”
“In a minute,” Ian said cupping her face with his hands. “I’d like to say thank ye properly.” Before she could protest, one of his hands slid to the back of her head, cradling it,
while the other hand slipped over her shoulder, drawing her onto his lap.
He slanted his mouth over hers, his lips gliding with gentle pressure. He tugged at her lower lip, sucking it between his, and then let his tongue slide along the crease of her mouth. Jillian made a soft sound low in her throat and parted her lips. Ian slipped his tongue inside, tasting her slowly, letting her get used to the feel of him in her mouth as his hand moved down her back pressing her against his chest. She felt her own nipples pebble as they strained against the cloth of her thin muslin dress. The friction set her body on fire, kindling flames in places she didn’t even know existed. Jillian wound her fingers in Ian’s hair and he deepened the kiss, exploring her mouth thoroughly even as his hands grazed the sides of her breasts. Heat seared through them and she wanted nothing more than to have Ian touching them, doing…well, she didn’t know what, but they ached for something more…
She heard footsteps in the hall and realized where she was. The effect was as if she had fallen into the trough of cold water kept for the horses outside. She pushed away from Ian and slipped back into her own chair as Wesley entered the room.
His eyes narrowed as he looked at Ian’s shirtless state and then at Jillian who was busily brushing crumbs from the table.
“I know you’re a barbarian, Cantford, but one should at least expect you to be dressed when you come to the table.”
A look of anger flashed in Ian’s eyes, but before he could make things worse—the Lord only knew what he would say—Jillian interceded. “Lord Cantford acquired some scratches and scrapes last night. He needed to have salve applied.”
“I thought I was paying Jones to attend to such matters.”
Jillian took note of that reference. In the past, it had been she who saw to the servants’ pay, but she was no longer in charge here.
“Jones is out this morning,” Ian said as he pulled on his shirt and fastened one button. “You’d know that if you ever got up before the sun was high.”
Wesley ignored the remark and rang for the servant to bring him fresh, hot food, then he leaned back in his chair. “So, what happened to you? Did you manage to get into a brawl after I left?”
“His horse threw him,” Jillian said.
“Nae, lass. My horse dinna throw me,” Ian replied, his eyes on Wesley. “The saddle slipped.”
“Indeed? Perhaps one of our grooms could teach you to saddle a horse properly,” Wesley said with a smirk.
Ian kept his voice even. “’Twas not the problem.”
“Foxed, were you?”
“Aye. I was. ’Twas not the problem either,” Ian answered.
Jillian furrowed her brows. “What then, my lord?”
“Mayhap ye should ask your stepson.”
She turned to Wesley. “What does he mean?”
“I’m sure I have no idea. I left before he did.”
“Aye. And did ye manage to cut my saddle girth when ye went?”
“What?” Jillian exclaimed in dismay.
Wesley took a bite of toast that the servant had brought. “If the girth was frayed, I’ll speak to the head groom.”
“It werena frayed.”
Jillian looked at him with troubled eyes. “Are you certain, my lord?”
“Aye.’Twas a clean cut except for the middle. Just enough to hold the saddle in place while I mounted.”
“And you think I had something to do with it?” Wesley asked as he speared a sausage and chewed on it.
Ian remained silent, while Jillian looked from one to the other. “Wesley?”
He swallowed and took a sip of tea before he looked at Ian. “If you think there was a deliberate attempt to injure you, I would look to the gentlemen whose ladies you are attempting to ruin.”
Jillian saw the muscle clench in Ian’s jaw, but surprisingly his voice was calm. “I doona plan to ruin any maiden.”
“No? Then you plan to marry one of them? Pray tell, which one?” Wesley asked.
Jillian found herself holding her breath. This was, after all, what Prinny wanted—and what needed to happen—but if Ian had already chosen a lady, then their kiss had been very, very wrong. She was no better than a light skirt for reacting like she did with a man who clearly needed to find a wife who would bear him children.
“I’ve chosen no one.”
“I’ll wager you don’t plan to either, Highlander. Well, if you insist on leading on one lady after another, you can expect this kind of thing to happen.” Wesley reached across the table and patted Jillian’s hand. “Don’t you worry, my lady. I plan to take care of you.”
Jillian withdrew her hand as nicely as she could. Something about Wesley’s touch made her skin crawl. “I appreciate your hospitality, Wesley. In just a few weeks, I’ll not need to be a burden to you.”
He laughed. “You’re no burden, Jillian. Didn’t Cantford tell you? I plan to marry you.”
Jillian felt the blood drain from her face. “You what?” she managed to ask.
“Ah, yes. We discussed it last night,” Wesley said matter-of-factly. “Your payment from the prince depends on whether or not Cantford takes an English wife, does it not? And you’ve just heard him. He’s chosen no one.”
If Prinny didn’t pay her… Mari wouldn’t have a Season… She wouldn’t have a home. What would they do? She was penniless…and dependent on Wesley, just as he said. Jillian struggled to breathe. And then righteous anger took over. They had been discussing her in a semi-public place—as though she were no more than a material possession.
She stood. “I would remind you gentlemen that certain topics have no place being discussed in front of others.” She gave Ian a baleful look. “Have you learned nothing from my lessons?”
He opened his mouth to protest, but she had already moved to the door. She paused and turned around.
“Just so everyone understands, I have no intention of ever getting married again.” She lifted her chin and strode from the room with as much dignity as she could muster.
She heard Wesley laugh. “She’ll come around,” he said.
Tears stung her eyes. She would not—would not—enter another loveless marriage. She would not endure another beating ever. Ever. Ian Macleod was going to have to choose a bride. That was all there was to it.
But as she hurried to her bedchamber, she had the feeling she was going to lose either way.
Ian picked up an ice from the tray of a circulating waiter and watched Jillian on the porch of the Sherrington’s residence. She had left the townhouse yesterday afternoon to visit her sister and remained gone through dinner. This morning she had not been in the breakfast room and he hadn’t had a chance to talk to her since Newburn’s blethering announcement. But Newburn hadn’t gotten close to her either.
The lawn party this afternoon was a different sort of affair and one that Ian would have enjoyed if he hadn’t been caught up in his own dilemma. There had been an archery contest among the men earlier and he had enjoyed besting the English dandies, especially the young upstarts from the Four-Horse Club. He’d gone a few extra shoots with Wesley before he defeated him and the lout had all but accused him of cheating. The only mon Ian hadn’t bested was the Earl of Sherrington, who had a steady eye and a strong arm. More and more, Ian found himself liking the older mon. Too bad his wife was no better than a trollop.
He heard a giggle from behind him. “Lord Cantford! We’re about to begin…”
He turned and forced a smile at Amelia Tansworth. The girl had turned up earlier to congratulate him, holding his arm possessively and chattering on.
“I absolutely know nothing about shooting,” she said with a bat of her lashes and another giggle. “I was hoping you would show me.”
The ladies were about to attempt to loose arrows at targets that had been moved much closer. Ian glanced again at the porch to find Jillian watching him. She was expecting him to pay attention to these lasses. He sighed. He was as determined as she was that he wouldna marry for convenience, but if word got back
to the prince that Ian was acting like a recluse, it would hardly help Jillian get her coin.
“Of course,” he said and escorted a beaming Amelia to where the ladies were fussing over which bow to choose. Yancy Newell glared at him, but he ignored it.
Ian chose a fairly lightweight bow made of willow and notched the string. “You’ll need the brace and tab,” he said as he handed them to her.
She gave him a doubtful look. “Would you assist me, my lord? I’m not sure how these work.”
He bit back a retort that even his youngest sister could slide a brace onto her arm and fastened the device. “You slip your fingers into these tabs,” he said, “like so.”
Picking up three beech arrows, he examined the fletching and then walked with her to where several other ladies had taken their places. “All you have to do is hold your bow arm steady, and keep your draw slow and even,” he said as he demonstrated. Then he handed the bow to her. “Try it.”
“Oh, I’m afraid I’m not strong enough,” she cooed and slipped in front of him. “Would you help me?”
He found himself with one arm halfway around her. Placing her hand on the handle, he steadied the bow and positioned her fingers on the string. He used his own to ease the string back. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Jillian had edged closer and was still watching him. Instantly, he formed an image of how Jillian would feel with his arms around her. How he would press her back against him and inhale the sweet fragrance of her hair and the softness of the swell of her breast against his bow arm. He would have a most uncomfortable arousal from that contact, he knew. Yet, strangely, the girl who was standing in his embrace did nothing to excite him at all. He drew the string taut, released the arrow and stepped back.
“Could we try another?” Amelia asked.
He shook his head and smiled. “You won’t win points if you don’t shoot the bow yourself, Miss Tansworth.”
“It hardly seems fair for you to have the advantage, Amelia,” Violetta said as she came up to them. “I too would like to have Lord Cantford instruct me.” She tilted her head and gave him a slanted look.
Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1 Page 10