Rogues to Lovers: Legend of the Blue Rose

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Tears stung his eyes as he bit back a bellow. “Och, have it your way.” He picked up the oar and nearly roared again as white-hot pain shot through his entire body. He wasn’t about to admit it, but the lass was right. His left arm had been rendered useless and tortured him as if impaled by an iron spike.

  What else could go wrong? There he sat beside the woman who had filled his every thought for the past two days, shot in the shoulder and pulling on an oar, rowing a meager skiff toward the rough seas of the Clyde.

  As they sailed out into Rothesay Bay, Quinn looked to the castle. Shouts rose above the rush of the sea. Christ, he should be there fighting with Eachan and Glenn. And who the blazes had attacked a friendly gathering? Those miscreants had broken the code of Highland hospitality.

  A hundred warring thoughts crowded his mind as men carrying torches raced for the shore.

  “Row faster!” Alice shouted.

  Quinn dragged his oar through the water with such force it made the boat veer toward the port side—Alice’s side. “You should have let me row,” he barked.

  She gave her oar an impressive heave. “I can hold my own as well as anyone.”

  Shots blasted from the shore.

  Quinn shoved the lass downward, covering her with his torso. “Take cover!”

  For a moment the boat rocked in the water like a buoy. More shots rang out, but the boat remained sound. Quinn straightened and peered through the darkness. “I think we’re out of range.”

  “Thank heavens.”

  Together they resumed rowing while torches flickered on the Rothesay shore, growing more distant by the moment.

  “How are you faring?” Alice asked, her voice breathless. Aye, the lass was using every bit of strength she could muster, bless her.

  “Fit enough to turn around and face those backbiters.” Quinn ground his molars. If it weren’t for the musket ball in his shoulder, he’d do just that. Truth be told, his strength was waning. He hated weakness. How much blood had he lost? Pints, no doubt and, by the sticky warmth of the shirt clinging to his shoulder, he reckoned the wound was still bleeding.

  As they made the crossing, he shook his head several times to stave off an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. His entire body ached. His eyelids drooped as if ten-pound weights hung from each one.

  God’s bones, he should be in command of both oars. But no, instead he was rowing a skiff in tandem with the bonniest woman he’d ever seen in his life and he could barely hold his head up.

  Bloody hero I am.

  By the time the skiff skidded into the sand on the far shore, Quinn’s chin was touching his chest. Grunting, he arched his eyebrows. “Give me a moment.”

  It took every bit of strength he could muster to step out of the boat into thigh-deep water. Something slippery made him loose his footing. With nothing to break his fall, Quinn bellowed a curse while he fell to his back. Icy saltwater flooded into his mouth and attacked his shoulder like daggers. The world spun as he tried to plant his feet.

  A hand grasped his wrist and tugged.

  Keep fighting.

  Quinn bore down, taking his weight onto his legs, while the woman slipped under his arm. “Stay with me a bit longer, m’lord. I’ll have you to the cottage in no time.”

  Highland Knight of Dreams

  Amy Jarecki

  Chapter Six

  Alice staggered beneath the weight of the Highlander as she trudged toward the cottage. Even after he’d been shot and lost so much blood, Quinn had insisted on rowing. Didn’t he think she could handle a wee boat? Alice was better at manning a skiff than riding a horse. Now when she needed the man to bear his weight, his strength was sapped. Worse, they were both dripping wet and freezing.

  “Just a bit farther,” she urged.

  He grunted a reply, his eyes closed, his teeth chattering.

  “There’s the cottage just yonder.” Alice strengthened her grip around Quinn’s waist. “You’re doing fine.”

  Though his legs continued to move, he uttered not a word. Only by the grace of God did they push through the cottage door.

  Alice urged him onto the bench. “I’ll make up a pallet in front of the hearth to warm you.”

  As soon as his weight eased from her shoulders, she set to lighting the tallow candles on the mantle. Quickly, she stacked flax tow and sticks. Lighting a twig in one of the candle’s flames, she crouched down and ignited the bundle. In two blinks of an eye, the twigs were popping.

  “It’ll be warm in no time,” she said as she angled two sticks of wood against each other so as not to snuff the wee flame.

  Brushing off her hands, she chanced a look at His Lordship as she hastened past him. Heavens, the man was whiter than an apron hanging on the line in the afternoon sun. As fast as she could, she swept an armful of pillows, linens and blankets from the cupboard.

  Except when she returned, the Highlander was nowhere to be found. Alice turned full circle. “Your Lordship?”

  Her toe hit something solid, followed by a resounding moan.

  “Heaven’s stars, could you not have waited five minutes afore you collapsed?”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, though she couldn’t be sure if he was conscious.

  Alice swiftly made a cozy pallet, then stood and regarded the very large, very wet man lying on the floor. Only about four feet from the makeshift bed, she tapped her fingers to her lips. “I reckon we need to remove your clothing, else you’ll catch your death.”

  He didn’t move—not even a twitch. “Mm.”

  A moan is better than nothing.

  She stooped and tugged his uninjured arm upward until he sat straight enough to prop against the table leg. “I’m going to remove your brooch and plaid,” she explained, fully aware that men’s kilts were belted around the waist, with the remaining length wrapped around their backs and pinned at their shoulders. The brooch unfastened easily and the damask rose fell into her palm.

  “A lot of luck you’ve brought us.” Alice shook her head, putting both the rose and brooch on the table, completely unable to fathom what her grandmother had been up to. Attending the fête proved a calamitous mistake. Alice should have stayed home and tended to her mending.

  “Can you unfasten your belt?” she asked. “I’ll avert my gaze and then you can slip under the blankets.”

  Of course, the daft Highlander chose now not to respond at all.

  Her gaze slipped to the enormous silver buckle. Not only did it fasten the man’s kilt in place, this was Lord Quinn’s belt—the most forbidden Highlander in Scotland. Groaning, she looked to the rafters. “Merciful fairies. I’ll do it.”

  Alice convinced herself she was impervious to the flesh of any Campbell. Until the cloth dropped away, revealing a pair of muscular thighs peppered with dark hair. She’d never imagined a man’s legs could be so powerful, so alluring. And aside from his shoes and hose, his only remaining garment was a long linen covering the tops of his thighs. The linen clung to his skin so tightly, she could see everything beneath. Around the hole at the left shoulder was stained with blood, but just beneath the muscles in his chest were thick and fleshy. At the tips were dark circles, nipples not much different than hers, but remarkably different at the same time. Her mouth grew dry as, unable to stop herself, her gaze drifted lower. His abdomen rippled with bands of sinew as if hewn from iron. And lower… Holy everlasting father, lower. A dark triangle of hair shadowed his sex and there was absolutely no question about his manhood. This was as virile a man as ever walked the Highlands of Scotland.

  Forcing her mouth to close, Alice wiped her eyes. “Ah…I suppose you may as well take off your shirt as well.”

  When he didn’t respond, she opted to remove his shoes and hose first. “Take off your shirt, Quinn!” she shouted.

  The man’s eyes flashed open. Shuddering, he whisked the garment over his head. “Arrgh!” he howled as the linen stuck to his wounded shoulder.

  Alice held up her hand to shade her eyes from his…him…that�
� Good Lord, are all men thus endowed? “I’ll finish.”

  She stripped away the shirt, leaving him completely nude. Trying not to ogle the poor injured soul, she urged him toward the pallet where she’d turned the blankets down. “I’ve made up a wee bed. I need you to shift yourself over there. Just a roll or two and you’ll be toasty warm.”

  Somehow, he managed to inch over, though as soon as his bum hit the comfort of the pallet, he dropped to his back, sprawled like a spider.

  Alice peeked at him through her fingers. “Ah…are you intending to stay in that position?”

  Evidently, he was because His Lordship didn’t bother to twitch.

  “Very well.” She picked up the blanket and dropped it over his unmentionables.

  After a healthy pat to her chest her heart returned to a somewhat normal cadence. She bent over his injured shoulder. It was angry red with traces of black powder around the puncture wound. Gingerly, she pressed her fingers around the flesh. Thankfully, the musket ball hadn’t hit bone, but even Alice knew Quinn would die if the piece of lead weren’t removed.

  She looked to the door. If only Gran would have rowed across the firth with them. But surely she’d be along soon.

  Alice puzzled for a moment. Why hadn’t her grandmother made the journey across the Clyde? There had been enough room in the skiff.

  Why had she stayed behind?

  ***

  After the sun rose on the next morn, Gran still hadn’t returned. Worse, Lord Quinn was sweating like a laborer in the hot sun.

  “Water,” he said, his voice nowhere as bold as it had been the previous day.

  Cup in hand, Alice hastened to his side. “How are you feeling?”

  He held his head up while she gave him a drink. “Like I’ve been shot.”

  “The ball needs to come out. It’ll make you very ill if it does not.”

  He rested his head on the pillow and let out a long breath. “Have you experience with such a surgery?”

  “I saw it done once.” Gran had removed a musket ball from a man’s knee, but he’d caught the fever all the same and died a month later. Alice bit her lip. No use telling Quinn his chances for survival were grim.

  The blanket slipped lower as he traced his fingers around the wound. “Then you’ll have to dig it out.”

  “Me?”

  “Aye.”

  “My grandmother would do better. She’s very skilled with the healing arts.”

  Quinn’s gaze swept across the cottage. “I haven’t seen her.”

  Alice offered him another sip. “I thought she would have come home by now.”

  “Are you worried?”

  “Aye. She’s been acting strangely as of late. I’m afraid she’s going senile.”

  He licked his parched lips, his eyes losing focus for a moment. “In that case, I’d rather have you perform the surgery. Then once I’m on my feet, we’ll set out to find her.”

  “We?”

  “Mm.” He rubbed his arm right below the wound. “I’d reckon you’d want to go, would you not?”

  “A-aye,” Alice replied, none too convinced. She’d brought a Campbell into her home and now he was talking about taking her to search for Gran? Things were growing stranger by the moment.

  “I’ll fetch you something for the pain,” she said, heading for the shed where Gran kept her medicine bundle and hung the herbs to dry. Unfortunately, the dear woman had never seen fit to record any of her remedies with quill and parchment.

  Alice found the mortar and pestle and put it on the table while examining the stoppered pots. Let’s see…valerian, willow bark, a pinch of opium… She chewed her lip as she looked at the vial of nightshade. Only a few days past she had thought to poison the man with it and now she was trying to save his life.

  With a trembling hand, she pulled off the stopper and sprinkled in a tiny bit of the finely ground powder—any more and her remedy might be his undoing. Using the mortar, she mixed the tincture and then added a dram of whisky. Then she poured the lot into a cup and stirred it with her dagger for good measure. Alice had no idea why, but Gran always used her dagger to mix the tincture before she performed surgery, and now was no time to veer away from any matter of course.

  Back inside the cottage, His Lordship gave the concoction a dubious look. “What’s in it?”

  “Whisky…mayhap a few pinches of this and that.”

  He took the cup and held it aloft. “I can manage anything with a tot of spirit.”

  Alice said a silent prayer as she watched him drink.

  “Ah.” He wiped his mouth. “I wouldn’t mind a bit more of that whisky if you have it.”

  “Perhaps after.” She held up the dagger.

  He cringed. “Blast. I’d hoped you might have forgotten about the wee lead ball.”

  “The sooner we have it out, the faster you’ll heal.” Kneeling beside him, she examined the wound. “Do you need a stick?”

  “Nay. I’ll be right.”

  But he hissed when she pressed her fingers around his wound. “Perhaps we should wait for the tincture to take effect,” she suggested.

  “Do it now afore I lose my nerve.”

  “You do not seem like a man who would lose his nerve easily, m’lord.”

  He grimaced as she located the ball just beneath the puncture. “I’m not,” he grunted.

  Steeling her nerves to keep her hands from trembling, she threw back her shoulders. “Gird yourself.”

  His lips formed a white line as his entire body tensed.

  Alice clenched her teeth, levering the knife into the wound as she pressed hard against the lump.

  Quinn made a gurgling sound of agony as his body jolted.

  Alice flicked her wrist, but the ball didn’t come out. “Curses,” the word came out strained as she worked the shot left then right while her patient writhed, baring his teeth.

  “I nearly have it!” Pushing down, it took only one more dig with her blade until the ball popped out.

  “Satan’s ballocks, that bloody hurt!” Quinn bellowed, his face blanching.

  Holding up the round shot between her fingers, Alice couldn’t help but grin. “At least it looks as if my tincture isn’t going to kill you.”

  His fingers swathed a path through the blood oozing from his shoulder. “Aye, but I might bleed to death.”

  “Och, no!” Springing to her feet, Alice grabbed a clean cloth from the pile of linens and held it firm atop the wound.

  He strained upward, glaring like a madman. “Can you be a wee bit gentler, mind you?”

  “Sorry, but we must staunch the bleeding.”

  The big Highlander dropped his head to the pillow. “Where is it written a goddess had a kind heart?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Athena was no shrinking violet.”

  Alice tossed the bloodied cloth aside and applied a fresh one. “You’re making no sense at all.”

  Quinn closed his eyes. “Mayhap on account…”

  At his loud exhale, her heart lurched with the force of a thunderbolt. “M’lord?”

  Highland Knight of Dreams

  Amy Jarecki

  Chapter Seven

  Quinn couldn’t decide which was worse, the pounding in his head or the stabbing pain in his shoulder. Both tortured him relentlessly. Though when something soft pressed against his hip, he had a mind to open his eyes. And for a blessed moment he felt not a twinge of pain.

  He inhaled deeply, the scent of wild berries soothed him. He opened one eye. Fully clothed, Alice lay on her side with her back to him, her silken hair draped in wisps across her body. Her head rested on the crook of her arm. Above, a feminine shoulder gave way to a steep slope ending in a narrow waist and flaring into the most glorious hip.

  “Are you real?” he whispered.

  With a soft moan, she shifted, a lock of her hair falling onto Quinn’s palm. He rubbed it between his fingers—so exquisitely soft. He drew the silken tress to his nose and inhaled heaven. “I
think ye are a selkie, because you’re too bonny to be of this world.”

  “Mm,” her voice was rich and womanly, making him want to kiss her. But with another soft moan, she sat up and stretched. When she glanced his way, she smiled—her expression like a ray of sunshine. “Praises be, you’re awake!”

  “Was there any question?” he asked, his throat raspy and dry.

  “Ah…” Her gaze trailed aside.

  Quinn moved his toes. “How long have I been abed?”

  “Two days.”

  “Two days? My kin will be sick with worry.”

  “I was sick with worry—and Gran still hasn’t returned from Rothesay.”

  Draping his arm over his head, it all came back. Who the devil had shot him and why? And the old woman had insisted the scoundrels were after me.

  “How is your shoulder?”

  The damned thing seared with pain. “Hardly ken I’ve been shot.”

  “Truly? I’ve never seen a man recover so quickly.”

  He gave her a sheepish cringe. “Mayhap it’ll be awhile afore I’m wrestling a colt.”

  “I would think so.” She gestured to the table. “Are you hungry? Yesterday I made some bread and put a pot of mutton stew on the hob.”

  Quinn’s stomach growled at the mention of food. “I’m famished.”

  “Can you rise? I could bring a bowl and feed you here.”

  “I’ll not be mollycoddled,” he growled, trying to sound tougher than he felt. Honestly, having the lass spoon feed him while he reclined on the soft pillows was a far more enticing idea, but he’d never admit to it.

  The pallet grew suddenly cold when Alice rose. “I’ll dish up a couple of bowls.”

  “My thanks.” He winced as he sat up, the blankets falling to his hips. Och, he wore not a stich of clothing. Blast, his shirt and kilt were draped across a rocking chair on the other side of the chamber.

  As he stood, he pulled the blanket with him and tucked it around his waist. The room spun a bit. Worse, his legs barely withstood his weight. “Abed for two miserable days and I’m as weak as a bairn.”