Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1
Page 13
As if he understood, Gunnar nodded his head and turned to canter off. Ian watched as the horse’s silver rump disappeared into the small shed that served as his shelter just as the first drops of rain began to spurt from the still threatening clouds.
He looked up at the sky.
“I’m not finished with Wesley Alton,” he said, raising a fist. “I’m not finished.”
By the time Ian reached the house, he was drenched.
“Where have you been?” Jillian asked as he came in through the kitchen door and shook himself like a spaniel, his long black hair spewing droplets of water. The rain had plastered his shirt to his chest, showing the contour of every well-developed muscle. His pants clung to his slender hips and corded thighs and Jillian averted her eyes, lest he catch her looking at that part of him. Lord knows, she was entertaining thoughts that had never before entered her head. “The housekeeper will not thank you for tracking in mud,” she said as she saw his boots.
“That might be true,” the jolly-faced cook said as she turned from scraping a large pan, “but this be my territory, and not even Mrs. Willows tells me what to do in my own kitchen.” She paused, her eyes crinkling in her lined face as she took in the sight of him. “The master is welcome here anytime.”
“He’s not the master,” Wesley said from the doorway. “I thought the introductions were quite clear yesterday. I am the earl here.”
The cook’s smile faded. “Yes, my lord. I was but having a bit o’ fun.” She managed a curtsy. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering what was keeping breakfast so long,” Wesley answered as his eyes swept over Ian’s wet form, “but I can see the Highlander has been entertaining you. In the future, that is if you have a future here, you will serve my breakfast on time.”
The cook’s cheeks flamed red and Jillian sent Wesley a sharp look. “Edna has been with the family for years. I think you’ll find her skills in the kitchen exemplary.”
“I hope so,” Wesley answered and extended his arm. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll join you in a moment,” Jillian said evenly, although she was furious with his treatment of poor Edna. “I’d like to discuss the day’s menu first, since the weather is going to keep us from going to Cantford.”
Wesley frowned, then turned on his heel and stomped out.
“He’s a charmer,” Edna muttered and then clapped her hand over her mouth. “Beg pardon, my lady. My lord. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s all right,” Jillian said, and to her surprise, Ian walked over and gave the plump cook a peck on her cheek which had her giggling like a young girl.
“I’m looking forward to enjoying yer cooking,” he said with a wink that started her giggling all over again. He looked over at Jillian. “I’ll get into some dry things and join you in the dining hall.”
Jillian nodded, grateful that she wouldn’t have to be alone with Wesley. She had managed to stay in her room last night, pleading ill effects from her swoon. She had no wish for the subject of the horses—or her marriage—to be brought up again.
She lingered in the kitchen as long as she could, going over menus for the day and making sure there were adequate stores. “You might consider replenishing your supplies, Edna,” she said after she closed the pantry door.
The cook looked surprised. “There’s plenty there, even if the new earl wants to stay for a week or two.”
“Oh, he won’t,” Jillian assured her. Wesley already looked bored and had made comments about missing his club. “It’s just…” She hesitated.
“Just what?” Edna asked, concern in her voice.
“Well, you might as well know. Rufus never expected Wesley to return, so there is no provision in his will for me once Wesley inherited the title—”
“Say it’s not true, my lady,” the cook interrupted, her usually rosy face going pale. “You’ve always been so kind to us. It’s not fair. It’s not.”
Jillian patted the woman’s hand. “I’ll be okay. The Prince of Wales has agreed to pay me enough money to buy back my father’s townhouse once I’ve taught the Earl of Cantford the etiquette for fitting into Society and choosing a proper wife.”
“I think his lordship has fine manners, if you’ll pardon me saying so.”
Jillian was inclined to agree. He certainly had more empathy for people than Wesley did. “I’m sure Lord Cantford will do quite well,” she said and pushed aside the thought of his wedding. “At the present, I’m more concerned for you.”
“Why?” the cook asked.
“For now, Lord Newburn is not concerned with counting foodstuffs. He’s much more interested in the profit that the estate can make. He’s…ah, suggested…that he may release some of the staff and remove the retainers as well.”
Edna gasped, a hand going to her heart. “What will we do?”
“I’ll think of something,” Jillian said. “Loyalty, especially to my late husband, deserves to be rewarded. Meanwhile, I want to make sure every servant, whether able-bodied or old, will have enough food to last a few months. Purchase as much as you can and parcel it out before an inventory is taken. Will you see to it?”
The other woman nodded, her face grim. “That I will, my lady.”
“And don’t forget the ale,” Jillian said with a smile. “The men would never forgive you.”
“I’ll have my William take care of the barrels himself, my lady. You are kind and generous. Thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do,” Jillian said, wishing she could do more to assure the cook and the rest of the servants that they would continue to have a place here.
She heard Ian enter the dining hall and turned to leave.
“Just one thing, my lady,” the cook said.
“Yes?” she asked as she turned around.
“It’s not my place to say so, my lady, but…” Edna hesitated, then took a deep breath and plunged on, her face bright pink, “…the wife that the Scot needs is you.”
Jillian felt her own face grow warm and then heat seared through the rest of her body, leaving a deep, throbbing ache low in her belly where a baby would never grow.
“That cannot be,” she whispered and fled to the dining room.
Luckily, the weather cleared by late afternoon and they journeyed to Ian’s estate. Jillian had insisted on riding a horse, albeit side-saddle, rather than using the carriage because she wanted to see Ian’s face when he first laid sight on his property.
They followed a tree-lined road that curved, hiding the house from view until they were full upon it. Ian reined his horse in as they rounded the last bend and sat, silently taking the grounds in.
The house was a three-story, like Newburn, but its bricks were the mellow color of golden sandstone. A portico stretched the length of the house and wrapped around the corners to extend to the one-story wings that flanked the main house on either side. Instead of the typical Palladian window that most of these homes had, its original builder had put in a stained glass window depicting a cross inside a square inside a circle. With the slanting rays of the sun giving the whole structure a golden glow, the cross, square and circle seemed to be illuminated.
Ian’s eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed at it.
“It’s an unusual window, isn’t it?” Jillian asked. “I’m told your great-grandfather had it modeled on some chapel near Edinburgh.”
“Aye. ’Twould be Rosslyn.” He turned to her. “Ye are saying that my great- grandfather had this house built?”
“Yes,” Jillian answered. “Before the Jacobite uprising Cantford was a part of Newburn’s lands.”
Wesley bristled. “How did we come to lose this land then?”
Jillian sighed. Losing this valuable piece of land had always been a sore spot with Rufus too. “Your great-grandfather made the mistake of befriending King George’s son, Frederick,” she said.
“I would think that would help a mon, nae? Befriending a prince?” Ian asked, a quizzical look on his face.
“George II was probably as fou as the current king is,” Wesley sneered.
“It isn’t wise to criticize the king,” Jillian said mildly, and to her surprise Wesley kept silent. She turned back to Ian. “For your great-grandfather’s help in squelching the Young Pretender, the king parceled this land and created a new title. It’s all quite legally yours. What do you think of it?”
Ian’s eyes followed the huge expanse of lawn that sloped downwards to the river that flowed tranquilly behind the house and then he looked back up at the window. “I would say that my ancestor was well-rewarded for his…work. Shall we go inside?”
The groomsmen who had been waiting silently nearby came forward to take their horses, and before Wesley could reach her, Ian was by Jillian’s side. She felt his big, strong hands encircle her waist and lift her from the saddle as though she weighed no more than a bag of feathers. As she slid down, his hands slid up beneath her jacket, ever so lightly brushing the sides of her breasts before he stepped back, an inscrutable look on his face. Had he touched her on purpose? Her breasts tingled where his fingers had skimmed across the thin fabric of her blouse. She took a deep breath.
“I’m sure the servants have been waiting to meet you,” she said and marched toward the door.
It swung open just as she reached the top step, and she could see the servants lined up on either side of the foyer with its checker-board pattern of black and white marble. Everything looked spotless, but she also sensed the tension in the butler’s face as he looked at Wesley standing behind her.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Smithers,” she said. “This is the new Earl of Newburn, Wesley Alton. And this—” she turned slightly as Ian stepped up on her other side, “—is the new Earl of Cantford, Ian Macleod.”
“’Tis honored I am to meet ye,” Ian said and held out his hand.
The butler’s eyes grew round at such informality, and behind him there was a rustle as the servants all turned slightly to look at their new lord.
Smithers frowned at them and they returned to their frozen positions, looking straight ahead. Jillian stifled a smile and hoped the very proper butler wouldn’t have an apoplexy getting used to Ian.
With a swish of skirts, a gray-haired woman stepped forward with a broad smile on her face. “I be the housekeeper, Mrs. Ferguson,” she said with a slight burr. “And it’s that happy I am to meet ye, my lord. ’Tis time we had a Scot in control around here.”
“You forget yourself, Mrs. Ferguson,” the butler said with a sniff.
“Nae, she doona,” Ian said with a smile. “I expect the place to be run efficiently, but I’ll nae have my people afraid to approach me. ’Tis clear?”
The footmen’s mouths gaped open while the maids twittered and cast sidelong glances at their new lord. Ian seemed not to notice.
“Perhaps we should talk, your lordship,” the butler said and lifted his nose higher.
Ian shrugged. “Aye. If ye wish, ye can join me for a glass of whisky. Ye do have some about, do ye nae?”
Smithers turned quite pale and grasped the edge of a small commode. “That wouldn’t be fitting, my lord.”
“Nae? Well, ye can watch and I’ll drink then.” He turned and winked at Mrs. Ferguson. “Surely there is a bottle of fine malt near?”
She beamed and ignored the gasping butler. “Aye, my lord, there is. Right this way, if ye please.”
Jillian watched them disappear down the hall and bit the inside of mouth to keep from laughing out loud. The servants were exchanging grins and poor Smithers looked as if he might swoon at any moment.
She had a feeling things were about to change.
Jillian was delighted the next morning to find that the maze beyond the gardens had been kept trimmed and well-preserved.
“What’s this?” Ian asked as they finished touring the gardens and came to the high hedge of the first wall.
“It’s a big puzzle,” she answered. “Once you enter, you have choices in which path to take, but the goal is to reach the center. As many times as I’ve gone through it, I still take a wrong turn sometimes.”
“Let’s try it then,” Ian said and held away the honeysuckle vine covering the entrance for her.
Jillian hesitated. Being alone with Ian in the cool, tunnel-like darkness was probably not a good idea, not when she could still recall his kiss so vividly.
“I wilna let ye get lost,” Ian said with a slow smile.
She looked into his eyes and wondered if she wasn’t already lost. Something had happened to her perspective over the past days. Ian ignited feelings in her she didn’t understand. When Rufus died, she had felt so free. Never would another man handle her again. Yet when Ian touched her, taking her arm or pressing his hand to the small of her back to guide her, she didn’t mind at all. She even looked forward to it.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Wesley appear on the terrace. She had managed to avoid him last night, pleading a slight headache and having dinner brought to her room. In another moment, he would see her. Quickly, she stepped past Ian and into the maze.
It smelled of damp earth and sweet nectar. The vines drooped into the narrow passageways and one caught at her sleeve, ripping it slightly before she had time to stop.
“Are ye sure ’tis worth the journey, lass?” he asked as he extracted the vine from the muslin.
Jillian tried not to think of the warmth of his fingers as he took care not to tear the garment further. “Yes, it is so peaceful at the center. You’ll see.”
He looked down at her gown, which already had several streaks of dirt on it from brushing up against dead-end hedges. “Ye are going to ruin your dress if we doona find it soon.”
It really wasn’t like her to make so many mistaken turns. She just needed to concentrate and not let Ian distract her. She sighed. His mere presence was a distraction. “It’s really close. I think just around this next turn…”
He gave her a little bow and she could see he was trying to hide a smile. He didn’t think she knew what she was doing. “Follow me,” she said and moved forward. A particularly long vine tripped her and she would have gone sprawling, except that he caught and steadied her.
He did grin then. “Perhaps I should carry ye the rest of the way?”
Furious with herself, she pushed away from him. When had she gotten so clumsy? “It’s quite unnecessary, my lord,” she said, her voice a bit shaky. From the near fall, she was sure. “This way.”
She almost held her breath, praying that she was right. She exhaled in relief when the narrow passageway opened onto a grassy circle with a small gazebo and bench at its center. Jillian waved her hand triumphantly. “There.”
The center was quiet and serene save for the droning of a few bees intent on savoring the bright orange blossoms. Ian looked up at the brilliant blue sky that seemed to form a dome over the leafy green walls.
“We have a place somewhat like this at my home,” Ian said, “but ’tis nae such a puzzle. There is only one path, but it be circular, giving a mon a chance to think as he walks it. ’Tis called a labyrinth.”
“Does it have a center,” Jillian asked, “such as this?”
He nodded. “’Tis a place for faerie magic.”
“There are no faeries here.”
He glanced down at her. “’Tis because ye doona believe in them.”
“And you do?” She smiled, having a hard time reconciling the big, strapping warrior who carried a claymore with a person who believed in children’s stories.
“Och, ye laugh, lass. Perhaps they doona come so far south as this.”
Her smile widened. “Have you actually seen one?”
Ian shrugged. “The Crone of the Hills is said to be fae.”
“Who?”
“The wise woman who councils our people,” Ian replied. “She has the kenning, ye see.�
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“Kenning?”
“The knowing.” His brows knit in thought. “’Tis like when ye get a…feeling about something that makes no sense, but ye know it be true.”
“I’m afraid I’ve always been too practical for such things,” Jillian said.
“Aye, lass, ye are. And prim and proper too.” His eyes darkened and his hands slid round her waist. “’Tis time ye learned to have some fun.”
She splayed her hands across his massive chest to push him away, but he merely pulled her closer.
“Doona be afraid of me, lass.”
“I’m not—” she started to say and then his mouth captured hers.
Ian’s lips were smooth and warm as he pressed slow, easy, teasing kisses against hers. His hands caressed her back in long strokes until she relaxed against him, her hands winding around his neck. Jillian made a sound of contentment and he deepened the kiss, his tongue seeking entrance. She parted her lips, savoring the feel of his warm, velvety tongue invading her, exploring her mouth leisurely as though he had all the time in the world. Tentatively, she moved her own tongue over his and heard him growl. One hand pressed against her back, crushing her soft breasts against the hardness of his chest, while the other lowered to her buttocks and he brought her against the length of him, his shaft a thick, hard ridge against her belly.
The friction was unbelievable. A strange throbbing began between her legs and she felt herself grow wet. Her breasts felt heavy and achy with need. She rubbed against him, her nipples hardening and straining against the confines of her thin dress.
Ian groaned as his hands slid upward to cup and knead her breasts. He wedged his thigh between her legs as if he knew that she ached for him there too and began thrusting against her, inflaming the sensitive little nub that suddenly sprang to life. She gasped and twined her fingers through his hair, wanting more.
His thumbs flicked across her the taut peaks of her nipples through the thin fabric of her dress, sending shivers of heat spiraling directly to the pulsating center that his leg was torturing. She suddenly felt cool air fan her fiery skin and realized that Ian had slipped the torn sleeve of her gown over her shoulder, exposing her breast to him. Before she could even think to protest, he dipped his head and traced his tongue in wet circles around her areola, causing her knees to grow weak. He grasped her more firmly until she was actually riding his thigh. Merciful heavens. The sensation of what he was doing to her breast and to that throbbing bud she didn’t even know she had was causing something to build inside of her. Deep inside her belly, muscles began to contract and her breathing became harsh and shallow. Her body was dong strange things… She wanted to scream at Ian to stop and never to stop.