Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1

by Cynthia Breeding

  “She’ll keep ye fettered to England,” Duncan muttered.

  That remark caused more unrest and Ian clenched a fist. He would have enjoyed bruising his knuckles by knocking his uncle on his arse. If his own family turned on him, what would the chiefs do? Voices began to rise as the chiefs talked among themselves.

  Then, suddenly, a hush fell over the room. Ian turned to see what had all of the chiefs staring at the door. He inhaled sharply. The old Crone of the Hills stood there.

  Revered by some, feared by others, she was said to be part witch and part faerie. She lived in the forest and was rarely seen, but many a crofter had found a salve or potion on their doorstep to heal a young bairn. Stories of her had been told by fathers to sons for generations. Some even said she was the maker of the Faerie Flag that had been given to the Macleods hundreds of years ago. The legend of her was timeless.

  She moved her bent frame slowly inside, her long white hair flowing down her back. She raised a gnarled hand.

  “Ye will cease to doubt the Macleod,” she said. “This lass has suffered much and deserves the love that is between them. Good will come of this.”

  She turned her dark eyes to Jillian, and for a moment she transformed into a small girl with long brown hair and an impish smile. Before Ian could blink, the old woman stood in front of them again.

  “Keep the stone close to ye,” she said to Jillian and then she faded from sight.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The news that Delia was dead stunned Jillian, even more so than the news that Napoleon had been defeated at Waterloo. What a difference a month away made.

  Mari was bubbling over with all the news she wanted to give Jillian her first night back at Cantford. They had passed Newburn to come directly here.

  “They said Delia fell and hit her head because she was drinking spirits at that hour of the morning,” Mari said as they made their way to the parlor after dinner.

  “Ye should not be gossiping about the dead,” Jamie told her.

  Mari made a face at him. “I’m informing my sister about what happened.”

  So they were still arguing, Jillian thought and then paused. Mari’s retort had not been especially sharp and Jamie’s mouth had quirked up in a small smile.

  “Clever lass to put it that way.”

  “I thought so,” Mari replied pertly. “Now why don’t you tell your brother how you’ve managed to alienate most of the footmen?”

  The smile turned to a glower. “’Tis not right for men to be prancing about not knowing how to fight.”

  Mari turned to Ian. “You might have noticed some of them limping and not a few of them bruised. Your brother decided to try to make barbarian warriors out of the poor men.”

  “Ha! They’re a far cry from being warriors,” Jamie said. “One of them actually dropped the claymore.”

  “Because it weighs as much as a horse,” Mari retorted.

  Jamie suddenly grinned. “Aye. I’ll have to give ye that. Ye held onto it longer than the men did.”

  “Marissa Blakely! Don’t tell me you were attempting sword practice?” Jillian didn’t know whether to be shocked or to laugh. A look at her sister’s face told her it probably wasn’t funny.

  “He dared me.”

  “Only because ye were out there every day watching me practice with the men.”

  “I wasn’t watching you.”

  Jamie’s brow went up. “Nae? Surely ye dinna think any of those lads had great skills?”

  Mari blushed suddenly and Jillian wondered if there was more to that statement than was said. Ian was staring at his brother also. Jillian decided it was best to change the subject.

  “Have you been to Newburn? How are the horses?” she asked.

  Mari stilled. “Wesley went to London to give a report to the prince about Delia’s death, but before he left, he let Finley go.”

  Jillian’s heart plummeted to her stomach. Gunnar. Who would handle him? Would the new master of horse whip the stallion? “How long ago?”

  “About a week after you left,” she replied. “Finley stopped by here to tell us.”

  “Donna fash,” Ian said as though he had read her mind. “Gunnar is safe. I asked Sherrington to buy him for me. ’Twas to be a surprise for ye…and a wedding gift.”

  Jillian was tempted to throw her arms around Ian and kiss him right there, except that both Mari and Jamie were gaping at them. She’d make up for it later when they were in bed and she could do all sorts of delightful things to his body.

  “Wedding gift?” Mari squeaked.

  “Aye. We be hand-fasted,” Ian replied, “although I plan to make it official in England just as soon as the banns can be read.”

  “Ian—” Jillian started to protest, but was suddenly smothered in a brotherly hug from Jamie and another one from Mari. Ian laughed, watching her caught in the middle of Mari and Jamie both vying for hugging rights. “We don’t know that the prince will even agree,” she said when Mari and Jamie both suddenly let go.

  “’Tis not his decision who a mon marries,” Jamie said indignantly.

  “’Twas what I told her,” Ian said.

  Jillian’s heart hoped they were both right, but her mind told her it wouldn’t be as easy as that.

  “Doona fash,” Ian said again the next morning as he prepared to ride over to Sherrington’s and make arrangements for Gunnar and the mares to be brought back. “Ye’ll be seeing them soon.” He leaned down from the saddle to give Jillian a kiss. “I’ll be back tonight.”

  Jillian watched him ride out and then turned back to the stables. She wanted to make sure stalls were ready for the stallion and mares should Ian bring them back today. Robins, a cheerful Irish man, assured her they would.

  As she walked back to the house, the sound of clanging metal drew her attention. She turned toward the paddock where an area had been cleared nearby. Jamie was training with one of the footmen and a circle had formed around them. She noticed that his large claymore lay by the fence and Jamie had switched to the lighter saber to work with the footman. He was also shirtless.

  The morning sun gleamed off the light sheen of sweat on his bronzed body. He was as powerfully built as Ian, a fact that seemed to intimidate the young man, who kept backing away.

  “Nae! Ye never give your opponent the edge,” Jamie said as he lunged and struck the other’s sword. “Have I not taught ye to stand your ground and parry?”

  “Bossy man,” Mari said with a sniff as she joined Jillian.

  Jillian looked at her sister, but Mari’s eyes were on Jamie. She smiled. “The staff seems to like him. Mrs. Ferguson dotes on him.”

  “That’s because he compliments her. I actually saw her blush when he brought her a bonnet that he’d sent away for. And the cook giggles when he asks for seconds. No, make that thirds,” Mari replied and then frowned. “And those giddy maids over there, staring at him, don’t have enough work to do.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “Don’t be silly. He’s insufferable. Arrogant. He thinks he can charm anything female with that easy smile of his.”

  “So that’s why you’re staring at him?” Jillian asked with a smile.

  “I’m not staring,” Mari said, but her cheeks turned pink. “I just came out to see why there were no maids to answer my ring. Now I know. Jamie is showing off again.”

  Mari flounced off toward the bevy of girls and sent them scurrying back to the house. She glanced over her shoulder and Jamie grinned, giving her a little salute with his sword before he turned back to training the boy.

  Jillian shook her head as she walked back to the house. If she were to wager a guess her sassy little sister was more interested in Jamie Macleod than she was willing to let on.

  Mrs. Ferguson met her in the hall, and for the rest of the morning she worked on menus that would include Ian’s favorite foods. By lunch, she was starving.

  The afternoon loomed ahead of her. She was anxious for Ian to come back, hoping he’d be bring
ing Gunnar. But the trip to Sherrington’s took nearly four hours. Ian wouldn’t be back before nightfall.

  Restless, she unpacked the few items she’d brought back from Scotland. She picked up the beautiful piece of embroidery and laid it over the back of a stuffed chair in their bedchamber. She slipped the faerie stone into her pocket. There had been no threat of danger on the journey and things were certainly safe at Cantford. She wasn’t a superstitious type of person, but the illusion of the old crone transforming into the small girl who had given her the stone and then back had shaken her.

  Restless, she wandered downstairs. Mari was practicing at the pianoforte with Jamie beside her, offering what were probably unwelcome comments. She decided not to disturb them.

  It was a beautiful day outside. Clouds of white cotton billowed across a clear blue sky and a slight breeze kept the sun from being too warm. A perfect day for a ride.

  Jillian asked for a horse to be saddled. She’d make the short trip to Newburn to pick up some of her clothes and a few other items she’d left behind on that frantic escape she’d made. It should be safe. Delia was no longer a threat and Wesley was in London. She’d be able to visit the rest of the Andalusians that she was leaving behind one last time. And she wanted to meet the master of horse to assure herself the animals would be in good hands.

  A stable hand she didn’t recognize came out to take her horse when she arrived. She had hoped to see Evan’s friendly face. She walked up the steps and pulled the bell. The man who answered the door wasn’t Adams.

  “Mr. Adams is no longer employed here,” the butler said when she inquired and he let her in. “I’m Mr. Carter. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Jillian turned startled eyes on him. “Why would you?”

  A look of confusion crossed Carter’s face. “Why, this is your home. Lord Newburn left specific instructions that you were the lady of the house.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. If Wesley had left instructions, at least he wasn’t here. She’d get her things and visit with the housekeeper a bit, see the horses and leave. “Please tell Mrs. Willows I’m here then.”

  “Mrs. Willows is no longer employed here either. Mrs. Jones has taken her place. At the moment, she’s addressing the new maids.”

  Jillian’s heart sank. Was the entire staff replaced? Wesley had said he wanted to make cuts, but everyone that she knew seemed to be gone. She only hoped that Mrs. Willows had enough time to gather the goods as they had discussed before.

  She decided to visit the horses first and received her second shock of the day. Gunnar stood in the paddock beside the stables. Why wasn’t he safely at Sherrington’s as Ian thought? The horse nickered at her, extending his neck over the fence and she walked over to him and patted the soft velvet muzzle.

  “Careful, lady!” a harsh voice called out. “That one’s crazed.”

  She turned to find a short, squat man with the burly arms of a blacksmith. Even as he approached, Gunnar flattened his ears and bared his teeth.

  “You best get away from him,” the man said. “The devil himself couldn’t ride him. Even a whip doesn’t help.”

  Jillian cringed inwardly, her hand tightening in Gunnar’s silky mane. “Are you the new master of horse?”

  He nodded. “Name’s Drake. And you are?”

  She didn’t like his brazen attitude, and for some unknown reason she decided to use her maiden name. “Lady Jillian Blakely.” She looked at Gunnar and then back to Drake. “If the horse is so much trouble, why doesn’t Lord Newburn sell him?”

  The man snorted. “Someone did try to buy him, but Lord Newburn says the horse is a present for his betrothed.” He shook his head. “It’s said the woman is his stepmother. Kind of hard to believe he’d marry an old lady.”

  Jillian felt a fresh stab of fear slice through her. Had Wesley not given up on that idea yet? Thank goodness he wasn’t home. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was get back to Cantford and to Ian. Perhaps once the banns were read, Wesley would let go of this absurd idea of marrying her. Then Sherrington could buy Gunnar.

  She excused herself and hurried back to the house. She’d just pack a few clothes in the satchel she’d brought and be gone.

  The room was exactly as she left it. The night rail that she had flung over the chair still hung there. The bedcovering was still mussed from where Mari had sat on it. Even the empty teacup in its saucer had been left on the table. Yet there was no dust on anything. Someone had been in here to clean, but had left everything in place. Why?

  Puzzled, she opened the armoire and removed a gown. She was folding it when she heard the door close behind her and heard the key turn in the lock. Dropping the dress, she turned around.

  “So you came back,” Wesley said. “I knew you would. I’ve been waiting.”

  “I understand ye dinna want to do business with Newburn after your wife’s death,” Ian said as he sat across from Sherrington in the man’s library, sipping a fine Scots whisky.

  “It wasn’t that,” Sherrington replied. “The offer had been made before Delia’s…ah, accident. The two mares he let me have, but he said the stallion was going to be a present for his wife.” He frowned slightly. “Strange. I didn’t know he was courting anyone.”

  Ian held back a curse. Did that damn bastard still have hopes of marrying Jillian? Well, not for long. The banns would be read for the first time this Sunday.

  “He dinna say who it was?”

  Sherrington shook his head. “I always thought he and Delia… Well, perhaps I was mistaken. I should not speak ill of her.”

  Ian admired that the man was so honorable. “How is your daughter doing?”

  The earl took a sip before he answered. “She’ll be fine, I think. She and her mother were not overly close.”

  Ian could understand that. As Abigail matured, she would be a constant reminder that Delia was aging. And the girl had a natural beauty that remained well-hidden behind the glasses, pulled-back hair and drab dresses. Perhaps now she’d have a chance to blossom.

  Sherrington was staring at his glass contemplatively. “You know, the whole thing is strange. Delia rarely drank more than a glass of wine at dinner. The allegation that she was drunk, in mid-morning, on strong spirits just doesn’t make sense.”

  Ian felt a familiar tingle at the back of his neck. Had Wesley had a hand in Delia’s demise? “Did the magistrate not investigate?”

  “He did. Mr. Adams, the butler, told them what Wesley had said happened.”

  “They dinna question Newburn?”

  “Yes. In fact, the prince actually called Newburn to Clayton House. Newburn insisted it was an accident…that they’d had an argument over his betrothal. In the end, the prince seemed convinced that Wesley spoke the truth when he asked for a special license to marry.”

  Ian’s nape hairs crackled as his head started to pound and he stood abruptly. He needed to get back to Cantford, collect Jillian and ride to London to confront that fat oaf of a prince himself. Under Scot’s law, Jillian was his.

  Even as he rode away, rehearsing just what he’d say to the English prince, his hair kept bristling. He’d never felt the kenning this strong before.

  He spurred his horse to a gallop. Something was horrible wrong at Cantford.

  Jillian stared at Wesley. “I thought you were in London.”

  He gave her a sinister stare. “That’s what I wanted everyone to think. I knew you wouldn’t come back if you thought I was here.”

  “What do you want?” she asked uneasily.

  “I think you know,” he said and started toward her, pulling a rope from his pocket.

  She leaned quickly to pull the bell cord by the bed and then moved behind a table. “You need to leave.”

  That strange smile stayed on his face as he took another step closer. “Your people are gone. These servants will follow my instructions. No one will come.”

  “But what do you want, Wesley?” Dear Lord, she needed to stall him. “Let’s talk, shall we?”<
br />
  “If you wish.” He shrugged, his fingers playing with the twine. “I have nothing but time.”

  Unfortunately, that was true. Ian was probably still at Sherrington’s, and Mari wouldn’t worry about her riding over here to pick up some things. “I heard about Delia’s death. I’m sorry. I know you were friends.”

  He shrugged again. “She tried to kill you.”

  He knew? “I suspected that she might have been jealous. It’s why I left.”

  “You don’t need to worry about her anymore. I took care of that.”

  Jillian felt a chill slide down her spine. “What do you mean?”

  “I couldn’t let her hurt you,” he said and an odd look of confusion flitted across his face. “I hated to do it. She pleased me well in bed…” He frowned slightly and then a bright smile appeared which made his eyes glitter. “But you’ll make up for that.”

  Her stomach felt like she had swallowed hot lumps of coal. Wesley was between her and the door. She glanced toward the window. This room was on the first floor…it was only a matter of a meter or two to the ground. Could she make it?

  “Don’t even think about it,” he said with that eerie smile. “There’s a guard posted outside.”

  Jillian drew a deep breath and forced herself to think calmly, trying to ignore the rope that dangled from his hands. “Why do you want to hurt me?”

  He looked surprised. “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to marry you.”

  “You’re too late. I’m hand-fasted to Ian.”

  His face darkened with rage and he shoved the table aside, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. “Do not mention that barbarian’s name to me again.”

  “It’s true—”

  “It’s not!” He stopped shaking her and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Did you whore for him?” When she didn’t answer, he backhanded her hard enough that she fell across the bed.

  Jillian’s vision blurred, but she scurried across the bed before he could reach for her and wobbled to her feet on the other side. “I thought you said you didn’t want to hurt me?” Already, the sting of the slap was turning into a dull, aching throb.