Ian sobered, his eyes narrowing. “’Tis mine by decree.”
“Yes,” Jillian said again, “and still another reason you don’t want to upset the prince. He can be your greatest ally or your worst foe.”
“I will tread carefully then,” Ian answered. “How is it ye know so much about him?”
Jillian shrugged and turned the mare off the path onto a much smaller trail. “The prince has a group of friends referred to as his set. Rufus ingratiated himself with them.” She didn’t add that on more than one occasion he had compromised what little integrity he had to acquiesce to the prince’s wishes. “Lady Jersey took a liking to me, so I spent time at both Carlton House and Brighton Pavilion.”
“Lady Jersey?” Ian queried. “Is she not the one ye mentioned in concern with yer sister’s invitations for next year?”
Jillian was surprised and pleased that he had remembered that. “The same one.” she said and when he looked puzzled, she added, “She is…um, quite influential with the prince. I mean… That is…”
His eyes crinkled in amusement. “I think I understand, lass. When will I meet yer regent?”
Jillian gave him a studied look. “He’s your regent too. He’ll issue a summons when he’s ready. He may even attend a late Season party. One never knows.”
More and more, she was dreading that day. Even though she longed to be paid and to have the assurance of her freedom and independence, it would also be the day the prince would ask if Ian had chosen a girl to be betrothed. And if he didn’t? Or worse, if he did? Of course, he was supposed to do just that. Her thinking was getting addled.
They rode in silence for a while, enjoying the peaceful quiet of the countryside, broken only with a bird’s song now and then. As the path circled around and the stables came back into sight, Jillian reined in her mare beside a fence.
“I want to show you something,” she said and dismounted before Ian could help.
He threw a leg over his saddle and slid down to join her. “What would that be?”
“Please stand over there,” she said and indicated a spot near an oak tree. “And be very silent.” Lifting her head, she called, “Gunnar!”
The earth rumbled as a stallion crested the top of a small hill and thundered toward her, his powerful neck arched and his tail held high. The sun shimmered off his snowy coat, giving the illusion of a horse in silver armor. He slid to a stop and reared before stomping his forehooves on the ground and snorting. He stretched his neck and accepted the apple that had appeared from Jillian’s pocket.
“Don’t come any closer,” Jillian warned as Ian started forward. “He doesn’t like most people.”
Ian stopped. “He’s beautiful, lass.”
She nodded. “He’s the best stu— Er, stock that we have. His foals drop healthy and strong.” She reached up to pat his glistening coat. “His sire’s painting hangs in the entryway of the hall.”
Ian took a tentative step toward them. “Why is he out here in the back where he canna be seen?”
“Steady,” Jillian crooned as the horse turned his head toward Ian, his great, liquid eyes wary. At least his ears weren’t flat. “His name means warrior,” she said as she continued to stroke the animal’s neck, “and it is fitting. No man has ever been able to stay on his back, so it’s better that we point to him at a distance when a prospective client wants to breed him.”
Ian advanced another step and Gunnar snorted, but he stood still. “Have ye ridden him, lass?” Ian asked.
Jillian shook her head. “Our master of horse would quit if a woman were to ride this horse when men can’t. I do come out here and comb Gunnar though, out of eyesight of any of the grooms.” She turned toward the horse to feed him the last bite of apple.
“I’d like to try my hand with him,” Ian said from behind her.
Jillian managed to keep herself from jumping, knowing it would spook Gunnar. When had Ian come so close? She could feel his body heat against her back. And most surprisingly, Gunnar had neither bared his teeth or folded his ears back.
Ian stepped out beside her, keeping his eye on the horse but making no move to reach out to him. Instead, he spoke in a language that Jillian didn’t understand, but his cadence was low and chanting and soothing. Gunnar’s ears pricked forward.
“I’ve never seen him do that with a stranger,” she breathed.
“Aye, well, I doona intend to be a stranger long to this fine horse,” Ian replied and then slowly extended his hand.
Gunnar lowered his head to sniff and then blew softly through his nose.
“He…likes you,” Jillian stammered, hardly able to believe her eyes.
Ian shrugged. “’Tis said at home that I have a way with horses.”
She looked at his big, strong hand now slowly stroking the stallion’s neck and remembered how gentle those fingers had been with her.
She wondered if ’twas said that he had a way with women too.
Wesley glowered at them when they returned from the stable. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said to Jillian, totally ignoring Ian.
“Why is that?” Jillian asked as she took off her riding gloves and laid them on the foyer table.
“I’ve been going over the ledgers. I want to be sure I haven’t missed anything. This place doesn’t seem to be making much of a profit, although I will most certainly change that. You’ve got too much staff and the pensioners will have to go.”
“Charitable, aren’t ye?” Ian asked.
“This doesn’t concern you, Cantford,” Wesley answered, “although you probably have a slew of them on your property as well.”
Jillian felt sick to her stomach. Some of those people had endured years of harsh labor from Rufus. As soon as he was buried, she had made certain they were able to retire and live the rest of their lives secure. “You can’t just turn them out, Wesley. Where would they go?”
“Not my problem.” He opened the ledger he held in his hand. “These expenses need to be cut.”
Beside her, she felt Ian tense as an animal does before it’s ready to spring. Quickly, she took the account book from Wesley. “I’m sure we can find other areas to save money.”
“Yes,” he replied, “we could sell the horses. I understand this was the breed that Napoleon captured in Spain. I’m sure the Spanish would love to have another herd.”
Her stomach felt like she had swallowed hot coals. Her father-in-law’s will had ensured that Rufus could not sell the Andalusians, but her husband had claimed no heir in his will, thus terminating the entailment. Wesley was inheriting a clear title through English law.
“I think that would be a mistake,” she said, surprised that her voice sounded so calm. “If you’ll check the receipts you’ll find that that the foals bring good prices as does the stu—the fee for the stallion.”
Ian shot her a quick look and she knew what he was thinking. Gunnar would seal his own fate if he sank his teeth into Wesley. But she had no intention of showing Gunnar off just now. There was another stud in the stable. “Why don’t you have a look at them, Wesley? I’m sure you’ll see the potential for making money.”
“I’ll look,” he said.
“Then let’s go now,” she said and turned toward the door, Ian on her heels.
“You don’t have to accompany us, Highlander,” Wesley said.
Ian grinned affably. “’Tis nothing better I have to do.”
Much as she hated to admit it, Jillian was grateful for Ian’s presence while she was in Wesley’s company. While she had no desire to see them come to fisticuffs and would even be grateful if they could just get along, she felt safe with Ian’s powerful, muscular body beside hers. Even now, his arm managed to brush hers as they walked toward the stables.
She had Finely, the master of horse, lead the mares out one-by-one, stopping him to point out the lean, rectangular heads with slightly convex profiles and broad foreheads with well-placed ears on each animal. She ran her hand over well-defined withers and along t
he short back, broad, strong quarters and rounded croup. The light grey stallion that Finely led out had an elegant, well-crested neck and thick mane and she also showed Wesley the fillies and colt in the paddock. Throughout all of it, he listened with a somewhat glazed look on his face and she wondered if he didn’t understand conformation or if, like his father, he didn’t care anything about these beautiful horses. He actually stifled a yawn when she finished.
“We could let half the stablemen go if we kept just carriage horses and a saddle horse or two,” he said. “Their feed and care are expenses we do not need.”
Jillian felt herself begin to tremble. He hadn’t heeded a word she said. Then she felt Ian’s hand on her back, his fingers moving in slow, comforting circles.
“What would ye be asking for them?” Ian asked.
She sucked in a breath and for a moment considered throwing propriety out the barn door. She wanted to turn around and cling to Ian. He was willing to buy her horses.
In the next breath, her hopes were dashed.
“They aren’t for sale to you, Cantford.” Then he shrugged. “At any rate, you could hardly afford what the Spanish would be willing to pay. I saw what havoc the French troops did.”
“Well, nothing has to be decided today, Wesley,” Jillian said, hoping to buy some time to think things through.
He gave her a thoughtful look. “You are right, my lady. And I suppose there is one way you can ensure that the horses remain here, since you seem so fond of them.”
“What is that?” Jillian asked.
“Marry me,” Wesley answered. “They will be my wedding gift to you.”
Jillian felt the blood drain from her face and heard a buzzing noise in her ears. The sound grew louder as though a swarm of angry bees was attacking her. She could even see them in front of her eyes…little black spots that became increasingly louder and denser…the air was turning dark with them…and then she felt herself falling.
Jillian awoke some time later to find she was in her bed, an anxious Darcy hovering over her.
“What happened?” she asked as she sat up.
“You swooned, mum,” Darcy said, handing her a glass of water.
“I never swoon.”
“Well, you did this time. Lord Cantford carried you up the stairs himself.” Darcy sighed dramatically and gave herself a little hug. “He’s a powerful built man, my lady. I would gladly have traded places with you.”
“Darcy. Stop talking like that. You know the Prince of Wales has other plans for him.” Then, remembering what had caused her to faint, she sank back into the pillows again. “Oh, Darcy. What am I going to do? Wesley is going to sell the horses if I don’t marry him.”
Her maid’s eyes rounded. “Is that what his lordship was so angry about?”
Jillian frowned. “Wesley was angry?”
Darcy shook her head. “No, mum. Lord Cantford. He came in here all afire, looking something fierce, like one of them warriors in the paintings. I was just grateful, I was, that he didn’t have that huge sword he carried on his back when he first came here.”
A purely feminine satisfaction swept through Jillian that Ian would react like that on her behalf, but in the next moment she hoped he’d managed to hold his rage in. The last thing she needed was for Ian to rile Wesley’s temper past the breaking point.
“Did he say anything?”
The maid giggled. “Not that I could understand, but he was muttering up a black storm cloud. I expected to see lightning strike, I did.”
“Where is he now?” Jillian asked as she struggled to sit again.
Darcy pushed her back. “No need for you to worry, mum. Lord Cantford went out to see that stallion you keep hidden.”
“But it’s nearly dark…and how do you know this?”
“Evan told me.”
“Evan? Is that the young groom?”
Darcy blushed. “Yes, my lady. I… That is, he… Well…”
Jillian held up a hand. “I don’t think I want to know, Darcy. Just be careful.”
“Yes, mum. I know what times are safe for me to lift my skirts.”
“Darcy!” Jillian tried to sound harsh, but ended up smiling, glad that her maid had never endured the brutal finish to that activity. She couldn’t recall a time in her entire life when she would have willingly allowed a man to get beneath her skirts.
A potent image of Ian interjected itself into her mind. What if the hand that had so sensually spiraled across her back earlier had slipped a little lower? She could almost feel the warmth of his touch on her buttocks. What if he had cupped them and inched her skirt up to run those big hands along her bare thighs? What if he had pressed his male length up against her so that she could feel that hardness wedging into her? Would she really object to that? Heat flooded her body, making every nerve ending tingle.
The man must have some of that faerie blood himself, to make her think like this.
And then she remembered the all too real possibility of another man wanting to get beneath her skirts. Her blood chilled as easily as it had heated.
There was no way she would ever let Wesley Alton touch her intimately.
But could she bear to see her horses gone?
She put her face in her hands and began to weep. Darcy pulled her into a comforting hug. “What am I going to do, Darcy? What am I going to do?”
Chapter Ten
Dawn came late the next morning, the dull, leaden skies blocking the sun, the air tinged with static that made Ian’s hair stand on end, much as it did when the kenning came upon him. He hoped it wasn’t an omen.
He sat up from his makeshift bed in the tall grass of the pasture that Gunnar was secluded in. Ian had left the house last night, too angry to look at Wesley without bashing in the mon’s face.
Wesley had actually had the gall to laugh when Jillian had fainted and made a crude remark about his ability to make the lass pass out whilst he had her in his bed. If Ian hadn’t already been holding Jillian, Wesley would be sporting a broken nose if not more. The thought of Jillian naked in bed with any mon other than himself ripped a hole through his chest as painful as any sword wound.
Jillian had made it clear that she had no wish to marry Wesley, and Ian was determined to protect her at all costs from that fate. Unfortunately, her road to freedom depended on the coin that the Prince of Wales would pay her once Ian had chosen an English lass to wed.
In his clan, marriage was a sacred oath to be honored for life. Could he resign himself to be tied to one of these witless, giggling lasses who had thoughts only of which party invitation to accept and what dress to wear? Why, these English girls wouldna even lift their faces to the sun, but kept themselves covered with huge bonnets and gloves and shawls lest their skin turn pink. How could one of them ere enjoy the deep blue of a Highland sky or lie in purple heather near a clear running burn listening to the songbirds?
He wanted a woman who would share his love of the outdoors away from the soot and grime of the city. A woman who would love to ride the span of his lands meeting his people, one who’d appreciate the simple gift of homemade jam or freshly baked bread from the wife of a crofter. Would one of these English lasses even know what an honor it would be to be given the Macleod tartan to wear? He couldn’t picture it.
Except for Jillian. Jillian who had made it plain that she never wished to re-marry. Ian wondered again at what kind of pain had caused her not to want to be loved. He wished he could make it better for her. He punched the fist of one hand into the palm of the other in frustration. He had seen the sparkle in her eyes and the flush of exhilaration in her cheeks as they rode yesterday. She loved the country as he did and she loved these horses.
That bastard was thinking of using them to coerce her into marriage.
Gunnar nickered from nearby and Ian forced himself to push that thought aside. Slowly, he stood and advanced toward the stallion.
“Steady there,” he said. “We’re going to be friends.”
The hors
e’s ears pricked forward, his large, liquid eyes alert, but he remained still.
Ian began to talk to him in Gaelic, using the rhythm of the language to placate and soothe the horse. “There ye go,” he said as he ran his hand along the horse’s neck and withers. “’Tis not all men who are so bad.”
Gunnar nuzzled him, looking for an apple.
Ian laughed, his mood lightening even as the sun broke through with a weak ray that pierced the clouds. He had deliberately slept as close to the stallion as the horse would let him, letting the animal get used to his presence and scent.
“Do ye think ye might take me for a wee ride?” he asked as he pulled the apple he had remembered to take from the kitchen last night.
Gunnar’s soft muzzle scraped his calloused palm as the horse took the offering and crunched it noisily. Ian bent and picked up the bridle he had brought with him and held it out to Gunnar.
“’Tis not so bad if a mon has a light touch with ye,” he murmured as he eased the bit past the strong, white teeth. The stallion tossed his head and stamped his hooves, but Ian continued to talk to him, his hands stroking the animal’s flanks until the horse finally stood quietly.
“That’s it, lad,” Ian said and vaulted onto his back. “Now let’s see what we can do together. Ye and I.”
He turned the horse, felt its haunches begin to tighten and reined in, keeping the horse’s head up. “No need to buck now.” He made no effort to force Gunnar forward until he was ready. Finally, he felt the tension ease out of the stallion and praised him. “Now let’s see what ye can do,” he said and touched his heels to the flanks lightly. Gunnar sprang forward, but Ian held him to a rocking canter that was wonderfully smooth. Gunnar crested his neck, tucking his jaw, his tail flying high behind him as they sped across the pasture.
Half an hour later, Ian slipped off his back and removed the bridle. “’Tis a good introduction we’ve had, lad,” he said. “I wish I could take ye to the stable where a pretty mare would welcome ye, but I’ve a thought that Jillian wants to keep ye hid for a reason. So, for now, we’ll keep us a secret, lad.”
Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1 Page 12