Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Why don’t you stay with me then, Darcy?”

  Darcy nodded, relief plain on her face. “I’ll go get my rail and be right back.”

  While Jillian waited for the maid to return, she wondered who the men were and why it was so important to meet that Wesley had missed a prominent social occasion.

  “I told you not to come here,” Wesley said furiously as he shut the door to the library. “This had better be good.” He looked at the Scotsman who Louis Tredeau had introduced as Broc Moffat. “Especially bringing him here.”

  Louis eyed him calmly while the Scotsman looked wary. “I think you’ll be interested in what Broc has to say.”

  Wesley turned to him. “Well?”

  The young man swallowed hard. “A lot of the French went back when Napoleon escaped,” he said, “but the families of Andre Picard and Henri Robillard remain on Macleod lands.”

  Wesley arched a brow. He knew both names. The men had, indeed, worked for Napoleon. That they chose to remain in Scotland could mean that they were actually gathering information for the emperor. He almost laughed at the irony. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to invent a lie for the Prince of Wales after all.

  “Were you able to talk to them?” he asked Louis.

  “Oui.” He shrugged. “They were close-mouthed.”

  “To be expected,” Wesley said. If they really were spying for Napoleon, they would be careful to give nothing away. “But you could have brought me that information, Louis, without bringing this man with you.”

  “He has an interesting story for you to consider, monsieur.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Not all the Macleods approved of the laird coming here,” Broc said. “They doona trust the English, if ye pardon me.”

  Wesley waved impatiently. “Go on.”

  “There’s an uncle, Duncan MacNair, who particular doona agree that the Macleod did right in coming here.”

  “Is this Duncan important?” Wesley asked.

  “Aye. He owns a good portion of nearby land. He wouldna mind owning what the Macleod has as well.”

  The dawning of comprehension hit Wesley. “This Duncan would be willing to start a civil war? Is he strong enough to win?”

  “Nae, not yet. The clan waits to see what happens here.”

  “It wouldn’t be hard to start a rumor or two that the Highlander is much taken with English ways,” Louis interjected. “That he strives to please Prince George…”

  Wesley narrowed his eyes, thinking. He planned to insinuate that Macleod harbored French spies when he spoke with the prince on Friday, but could he also manipulate trouble for the Highlander in his native land?

  “What would this Duncan do if he were told that Macleod intends to send an Englishman to oversee his holdings in Scotland while he stays here?”

  Broc’s eyes widened. “He wouldna do that.”

  “It doesn’t matter if he would or not,” Wesley snapped. “But if Duncan believed it, what would happen?”

  “The clan would rise,” he said and then added quickly, “not against England, ye understand, but against the Macleod for…for betraying them.”

  Personally, Wesley didn’t care if they did rebel against England itself. The Prince Regent could wipe them out entirely, which wasn’t a bad idea at all. More land to be parceled out at the prince’s inclination. If Wesley could convince the prince that Macleod was a traitor and his people rebels, he would be in good standing to receive that land. Even if it didn’t work, Macleod would return to Scotland to restore order there and that would leave Wesley with a clear path to obtaining both the Cantford land and Jillian.

  “Would this Duncan listen to you if you told him what Macleod’s plans were?”

  Broc looked down at the ground. “Aye. He would.”

  “And why would he?” Wesley asked.

  “Because…because I be his half-brother,” he mumbled.

  Wesley appraised him. “Bastard born?”

  The young man flushed. “Aye.”

  “I see,” Wesley answered and moved to stand in front of him. “So you stand to win something too. Perhaps some of Macleod’s lands would become yours?”

  Broc looked up. “’Twould be nice.”

  “It’s not the only reason though,” Louis said.

  “No?” Wesley asked thoughtfully. “What else then?”

  Broc’s face grew as red as his hair. “’Tis nothing.”

  Wesley looked at Louis. “What is it?”

  “Macleod’s sister, Fiona, turned down Broc’s proposal of marriage.”

  Wesley felt just the slightest stirring of empathy for the young Scot. Jillian had, after all, not yet accepted his own proposal. Which was a really good reason to get Macleod out of his hair.

  Wesley smiled. “Perhaps she might answer differently if you owned her lands?”

  He watched as Broc took in the idea, narrowing his eyes as he considered the new possibility. His face broke into a grin.

  “Aye. It might change things, at that.”

  Wesley extended his hand. “I believe we understand each other then? You know what you have to do?”

  Broc didn’t hesitate in shaking the proffered hand. “Aye. I do.”

  Ian miscalculated a feint that Pierre made at the sword-practice session the next morning and swore under his breath.

  “Is something wrong, monsieur?” Pierre asked as he added a point to his side of the chart. “It is not like you to miss something so simple.”

  “Doona remind me,” Ian growled and then waved his hand in apology. “I’ve things on my mind this morn, ’tis all.”

  Only one thing was on his mind. A lass with faerie gold in her hair and bewitching green eyes. ’Twas almost as though the Sidhe were tormenting him with images of her, although he had done naught to earn their ire.

  He could feel the satin of her skin where his thumbs had grazed the swell of breasts above her neckline and how he had ached to slide the gown off her shoulder so that he could roll a soft nipple between his fingers until it budded for him with an invitation to suckle. The sweet scent of her hair still filled his nostrils when he had leaned close, wrapping wisps of silken tendrils around a finger.

  He had been a damn fool to hesitate over her question. In truth, he had not thought of the clan’s needs at all, that was how besotted his brain was with the lass. But did it really matter to him if his son or Jamie’s carried on?

  He had spent most of a sleepless night thinking on it, and in the end he realized it dinna matter at all. Only how he was going to convince Jillian of that, he dinna know.

  “Perhaps you’d like to reschedule?” Pierre asked.

  “What?” He realized that the fencing master had been waiting for him to assume a guard position. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wesley enter the room with Jean St. Croix, Pierre’s assistant.

  He wondered where Wesley had been last night. When Ian had finally escaped the clutches of the Ladies Tindale and Havisham and the line of young ladies they had managed to procure dances with for him, all had been quiet at the townhouse. He had softly tried Jillian’s door, satisfied that she kept it locked before going to his own chamber. He had heard no sound from Wesley’s chambers either, but he doubted that the man was home. Still, it was strange that he had not made an appearance at the dance.

  The sight of him now honed the fighting blood in Ian. He assumed the first guard position, with buckler pointed outwards, sword behind with its point down.

  “No need to reschedule,” he said.

  Pierre grinned and lunged, the clash of swords a welcoming sound as Ian parried and thrust and then did a quick riposte to counter the cut that Pierre attempted.

  A light sheen of sweat beaded his brow, but even as he side-stepped a blow and managed a double feint that caused Pierre to lose his balance, he kept an eye on Wesley’s maneuvers. As much as he hated to admit it, the man was good, although he fought with a brutality that was not necessary in a simple practice match. Ian wonde
red who had trained him and whether he owed his allegiance to France or England.

  Though he had trailed him on occasion and even hired a Bow Street runner, he had not been able to determine if Wesley was doing anything more than cuckolding the Earl of Sherrington. Alton spent the rest of his time at White’s or the newer Watier’s where Macao, a version of the French game of vingt et un, was played. The runner reported that a Frenchman named Louis Tredeau frequented the place, but Ian had not been able to find out any more about him.

  The fact that Alton actually thought to marry Jillian made Ian’s blood boil again.

  That Alton might lay a harsh hand on Jillian’s tender skin riled him. He had no doubt that the bastard was cruel. He had seen the brutish way he treated his horse on their return ride from the country estates. Jillian didn’t deserve such treatment. No woman did.

  By the Dagda, if he couldna get Jillian to understand that he loved her, the least he could do was protect her from that lout.

  And he would, even if it took his life’s blood.

  Chapter Twelve

  So far, the prince had not put in an appearance at the Sherrington’s rout. Jillian tried to calm her nerves by accepting a second glass of ratafia. She was going to have to see him sometime, but would he pay her if Ian were not betrothed?

  Violetta seemed strangely occupied this evening, but whether that was because Nevin had hovered at her side since she’d arrived, Jillian didn’t know. Amelia had shot her a triumphant look, tossing her red hair back, when Ian had spent a few minutes talking with her earlier.

  “Why are you staring at the Highlander?” Wesley asked in irritation as he joined her near the buffet table.

  She moved slightly away from him. “I’m not staring. I’m simply watching to see that he remembers his manners.” Part of that was true. If the prince did arrive, Ian’s manners must be impeccable. Her coin—and getting away from Wesley—depended on it. She tried to hide her own irritation. “Why don’t you go out and mingle, Wesley? I’m sure the prince would want a good match for you as well.”

  The leer he gave her made her skin crawl. “I don’t need to look. I’ve already found my wife.”

  Jillian bit the inside of her lip to keep from screaming at him and making a public scene. “If you’re talking about me, you’re grossly mistaken,” she replied, trying not to snarl at him. “I told you…I’ll not marry again.”

  He shrugged. “I have time to change your mind, my dear.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Would you prefer Jillian?”

  “No. Lady Newburn is the proper term.”

  Wesley laughed. “Well, it is appropriate, isn’t it? That’s what you’ll be called when we’re wed.”

  “Stop it.” Jillian glanced around, hoping no one had overheard this conversation. She saw Delia talking to Ian, tilting her head and slanting a sideways gaze at him through downswept lashes. That she was blatantly flirting was obvious although Lord Sherrington was too much of a gentleman to acknowledge it.

  “Have you greeted the hostess yet?” Jillian asked innocently.

  Wesley’s gaze followed hers and his eyes narrowed when he saw Delia put her hand on Ian’s arm and attempt to coax him onto the dance floor. Jillian hid a smile behind her fan. Wesley and Delia had not been within speaking distance all evening, no doubt to throw off any suspicion that people might have. Only Jillian had noticed to covert looks that Delia had sent Wesley’s way.

  “No, I haven’t,” he said. “Perhaps I should correct that mistake.”

  “Perhaps you should,” Jillian agreed and was relieved to watch him leave. The sooner she could make arrangements to move out of the house, the better. Which brought her back to her original dilemma.

  She looked around the room. Besides Amelia and Violetta, there were several other debutantes who were equally besotted with Ian. Even Abigail, Sherrington’s shy, bookish daughter blushed as Ian leaned down to say something to her.

  An unfamiliar pain flashed through Jillian. Abigail might not be as attractive as the other girls, but she was the one who could possibly make Ian happy. She was a caring, gentle girl, sensitive to other’s needs. And she would be a faithful wife, unlike the temperamental Amelia or the flighty Violetta. Ian respected Lord Sherrington, Jillian knew. Of course, having Delia for a mother-in-law might be a problem. Still, there were others. Lord Havisham had a pretty, blonde niece who was of age, and Lord Tindale had a daughter as well. They were young, but any one of them would quickly learn to respond to the warm firmness of Ian’s mouth as he slanted it across hers, urging her lips apart to explore her with his tongue, his hands sliding lower to bring pleasure to breasts that would fill with the need to be touched. Jillian closed her eyes. Dear Lord, why couldn’t she forget what happened in the maze?

  The familiar royal horn sounded just then and Jillian groaned. With a flourish, the butler announced that the Prince of Wales had arrived.

  Prinny glided in, surprisingly light on his feet for one so heavy. His entourage swarmed in after him as footmen scurried to take hats and gloves. Lord Sherrington met them with a bow while Delia curtsied and managed a smile that didn’t look all that proper. The prince grinned.

  “This way, Your Royal Highness,” she said and made a graceful gesture toward some gilded chairs. “I’ll see refreshments brought.”

  Jillian melted into the shadows near the terrace door and prayed Ian would remember how to behave. She watched the prince’s eyes scan the room and then rest on Ian, who was talking with Lady Tindale.

  Wesley approached Prinny and bowed, then said something that caused the prince to frown slightly. He waved his hand, dismissing the men who surrounded him and gestured for Wesley to sit. She could practically see Wesley’s smirk from where she stood, but then her own brow furrowed as she saw the prince’s frown deepen as he looked back to Ian. She had seen Ian do nothing wrong. What was Wesley telling him?

  Jillian moved toward the door that opened on to the terrace and then froze as one of Prinny’s set tapped her shoulder.

  “The prince would like a word with you, Lady Newburn.”

  So she wasn’t going to get her reprieve after all. At least Ian was acting like a gentleman, now giving Abigail a big smile as he offered his arm for a dance. The poor girl practically swooned and that unfamiliar pain cut through Jillian again.

  She took a deep breath and followed Lord Yarmouth back to the improvised dais where Prinny sat. “Your Royal Highness,” she said and dipped a curtsy.

  “Sit, my dear,” the prince said and waved at the chair that Wesley had vacated. “We wish to discuss Lord Cantford.”

  Jillian clasped her hands in her lap and tried not to fidget. “He’s doing rather well, I think. He’s been a most apt student.”

  Prinny studied her. “And has he indicated which of the lovely young ladies he wishes to wed?”

  She hoped her face wasn’t blazing like a sunset. “No, Your Royal Highness. He has been with us but a few weeks. I… He probably wishes to make the best match possible and thus takes his time with that decision.”

  The prince nodded. “Of course. We would wish for him to have a successful marriage.”

  Jillian hid her surprise. The prince rarely acknowledged the fact that his own marriage to his cousin, Caroline, had been disastrous. Would he be willing to give Ian more time? Then his next words shattered that hope.

  “Still, We would wish him wed unless you know of any reason he should not be?”

  This time she knew her face flamed. How could he possibly know that Ian had said he wanted to wed her? No. It couldn’t be that. At any rate, Ian had hesitated when she mentioned his clan’s heir, so that only proved he had spoken in haste.

  “I know of no reason.”

  “Hmmm. Has Lord Cantford mentioned the French who live on his Scottish lands?” the prince asked.

  Puzzled, she replied, “He’s said nothing, but aren’t there French exiles living all over Scotland?”
r />   “There are still some. Many went back to France when Napoleon returned. We would wish to know if Lord Cantford is, indeed, harboring any Frenchmen loyal to the Revolution. We would not want a new English earl befriending them.”

  Jillian had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. The prince loved to speak in riddles and she was sure this was one of them. But what was he alluding to? She couldn’t very well ask unless she had permission to speak.

  Prinny smiled benevolently and patted her hand. “We do not wish to worry you, my lady. You may go.”

  As she took her leave, she realized the prince had made no mention of paying her.

  She headed for the terrace, definitely in need of some fresh air. She moved out of the stream of light stretching across the beamed floor and into the shadows where she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of nearby rose bushes.

  Ian found her there a short time later.

  “Ye disappeared. I thought ye’d left again,” he said.

  She opened her eyes and gazed up at him. He stood close enough for her to feel the heat from his massive body. She smiled wanly. “It’s not wise to leave while the Prince Regent is here.”

  “Ah. I met him.”

  Her stomach felt like it had a lump of coal in it. “Did the meeting go well?”

  “I suppose,” Ian replied and leaned against the wall beside her. “I doona think I made any mistakes.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply… Actually, your manners have been quite good. I’ve been meaning to tell you that.”

  Ian smiled, his dark eyes gleaming in the dim light. “I’ve had a good teacher.”

  “You’ve been a willing pupil.” Then, before he could reply to that, she added, “Did he…did he ask if you’ve decided on a wife?”

  “Aye.”

  Several more lumps of coal joined the one already burning in her stomach. “”What…what did you say?”

  “I said that with so many lovely lasses, it was hard to choose.”

  “Why, my lord, that sounds almost poetic. And very English.”