Rogues to Lovers: Legend of the Blue Rose

by Laurel O'Donnell

  He’d never see Alice again—leave her to return to her duties and he to his.

  Though the thought of turning his back only served to make the pain in his shoulder ache all the more. Did he have a life before he’d met Alice?

  “Most were killed,” She continued, “some escaped to the Lowlands.”

  “But not you?”

  “Gran hid me. She says I am the clan’s last hope.”

  “And you have every reason to hate me.”

  “But I do not.” Alice dabbed her lips with a linen cloth. “Why did you kiss me?”

  “I couldn’t help myself.” Unable to sit without touching her, Quinn moved around the table and grasped her hand. “I want to kiss you again.”

  But this time he must exercise utter control. Out by the well he’d acted roguishly, taking her in his arms and plundering her mouth like an alehouse wench. He didn’t want to ever disrespect her. Alice wasn’t just a woman for whom he lusted, she deserved to be worshipped. Her entire clan had been wronged by his kin. If only he could find a way to help her—to make up for the sins committed four and twenty years ago.

  Quinn moistened his lips and bowed over her hand, hovering for a moment. The soft fragrance of roast and rosemary mixed with her—the same delicious scent of woman he’d breathed in when he’d kissed her. Closing his eyes, his entire body ached to have her, but if he never performed another chivalrous act in his life, he would control himself in this moment. The warmth of her hand caressed his lips as he gently kissed.

  Alice’s sharp inhale made Quinn’s heartbeat stutter. On the outside he didn’t show the intensity of his desire. Rather he drew her knuckles to his cheek and brushed them along his face. “I am and shall always be at your service, m’lady.”

  “H-how do you manage it?”

  He straightened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Every time you look at me or touch me, you make my insides turn molten.” She tugged her hand from his grasp and wiped the back of it on her skirts. “You have no right to seduce me.”

  “I didn’t mean to…” Quinn groaned and shoved his fingers through his hair. “I meant to show you respect.”

  “By kissing my hand?”

  “Aye, that’s what courters are expected to do.”

  “Courters?”

  Bloody hell, the more he said, the deeper he dug his grave. Quinn couldn’t propose marriage to a Lamont.

  Alice thrust her finger toward the pallet. “You have had a long day and quite obviously need rest else your shoulder will never heal. And do not expect me to stay up for nights on end spooning a tincture into your mouth. I simply will not do it.”

  Well aware she was fighting her own internal battle and ignoring his advances, he bowed. “I’m feeling much stronger now than I did this morn.”

  Looking away, she twirled a lock of her hair around her finger. “T-t-that’s quite good because as I recall, your knees were rather wobbly.”

  “Alice.”

  “Aye?”

  “I want to kiss you again.”

  She raised her palms in front of her face. “Absolutely not. We cannot ever do that again. As you just so aptly demonstrated, merely kissing my hand is dangerous.”

  “You’re right.” A heavy weight burdened his shoulders while Quinn strode toward his pallet, putting the table between them—not much of a barrier, but it would have to serve to remind him of his place. “’Tis a good thing we are setting out on the morrow.”

  “I think I should go alone.”

  He chopped his hand through the air. “Absolutely not.”

  “I beg your pardon, next you’ll be telling me you forbid it.”

  “I doubt you’d listen if I did.” Quinn started back around the table but clenched his fists and forced himself to stop. “It is not safe for a woman to venture out alone. What if you fell victim to outlaws?”

  “Aye, as if you’d be much good to me with your injured shoulder.”

  Quinn rolled the offending wing, willing himself not to wince at the pain. “’Tis coming good. By the morrow I’ll be swinging my sword with either hand.”

  “I doubt that. Not even a Campbell heals so quickly.” She stood taller. “I can care for myself—have been all my days.”

  He shifted his fists to his hips. “Can you now?”

  With an indignant spark in her eye, the saucy lass raised her chin. “Aye.”

  “You sound quite self-assured.”

  “I keep a dagger up my sleeve.”

  “A dagger?” Unable to resist, Quinn sauntered around the table. “What else?”

  “I-I’m a fast runner. You saw it for yourself in the wood.”

  “Hmm.” He eyed her from head to toe, approaching like a wildcat. Damn the bloody table. Quinn needed no weapons to make his point. As soon as he was near enough, he snatched her wrist and spun her around, putting her back against his chest.

  He grunted. Stars shot through his vision. Jesu, his shoulder burned like a bastard.

  “No!” she shouted, trying to stomp on his instep, but even through the pain, he was faster.

  Quinn used his good arm to restrain her while he fished inside her sleeve and found the knife. “Is this your defense against vile miscreants like me?”

  Her body tensed. “I told you where I hid it. The outcome would have been different had I surprised you.”

  “Many a woman conceals such a weapon in her sleeve or her garters.” He tossed the dagger onto the table. “But a wee knife is no match for a dirk, musket, sword, or any manner of weapons.”

  She raised her chin, twisting enough to meet his gaze. “So, what would you have me do, strap a pistol to my waist?”

  Good God, she personified temptation. Pert lips, the soft curves of her bottom flush against his loins. “I would have you allow me to accompany you on your quest to find your grandmother,” he growled, his voice rasping. “Let me prove to you that I am not my grandfather.”

  She studied him, her gaze sliding to his mouth. Did she want to kiss him as much as he craved to touch her, just once more? Quinn dipped his chin a fraction. As if pulled by a magnetic force, she stretched nearer.

  “How can I trust you?” she whispered.

  If he kissed her now, he might lose what little trust he’d earned. “I give you my word.”

  “That’s what your grandfather said to mine—afore he ordered the executions.”

  Jesu.

  Quinn released his grasp and snatched the dagger from the table. “Then I give you leave to drive this blade into my heart.”

  Taking it, Alice turned the weapon over in her hand as if considering. “But you said you would protect me.”

  “I did.”

  “Then you shall carry out my bidding when we set out on the morrow. And we will not hide our identities. You are a Campbell aiding a Lamont in her search for her grandmother.”

  “And you are a Lamont accepting the assistance of a Campbell.” He held out the palm of his uninjured arm. “Agreed?”

  Her eyes narrowed as she stood proudly assuming the role of clan leader. And then she did something completely unexpected. The bold lass slit open her palm without so much as a flinch. “Hold your hand steady.”

  Quinn did as asked and she cut him as minimally as she’d cut herself. Seizing his palm, she pressed the two wounds together. “We seal this pact with our blood. Should either of us faulter, the other will put him—”

  Quinn clenched his fingers tightly to prove his commitment. “Or her.”

  “Under the knife.”

  “Agreed.”

  “We leave at dawn.”

  With a nod, she turned on her heel and dashed into the rear chamber, closing the door behind.

  Highland Knight of Dreams

  Amy Jarecki

  Chapter Ten

  Alice watched Quinn drop a crown in the ferryman’s palm in payment for their passage to the Isle of Bute. She had misgivings about traveling with a wounded man and suspected he’d opted to take the ferry b
ecause rowing the skiff would hurt his shoulder.

  Ferry or skiff, Alice didn’t care. It was neigh time to find Gran. And the longer the dear woman was away, the more Alice feared something calamitous had happened.

  I never should have left her.

  “You oughtn’t be taking a lass to the isle,” said the ferryman, slipping the coin into his sporran.

  Three men had already boarded. They were MacGregors by the look of them and armed to the teeth.

  “What’s afoot?” asked Quinn.

  “I reckon everyone in the Highlands except you kens. The Lamonts have staged a bloody siege.”

  Alice clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp. “No.”

  Quinn grasped her shoulder. “He’s right. You should stay at the cottage.”

  “Did you not hear him? The Lamonts are responsible for the rising.” Gran is with them. I should have known!

  “All the more reason for you to remain safely beside home’s hearth.”

  “Is she sailing or nay?” asked the ferryman. “The others are waiting, m’lord. I’ve no choice but to weigh anchor.”

  Without assistance, Alice boarded the boat. “I answer for myself and I sail.”

  The ferryman released the rope. “Have it as you like, but I’ll not be held accountable for anything that may happen.”

  “Are you certain?” asked Quinn.

  Alice nodded. “The last time I saw Gran, she was embroiled in the midst of the skirmish. And now I ken my clan is at the heart of it, I must go to her.”

  “Your granny seems like the type of woman who’d be leading the siege.”

  “Mayhap she is, though I’ll not assume anything until I see it for myself.”

  Alice strode past the Highlanders and stood at the bow while the boat got underway. Was Gran at the center of the siege? Had she been responsible for Quinn’s wound? What about the daft rose and what significance had it played? And who were the Lamonts holding the fortress? Over the course of her life, she’d met but a handful of her clansmen.

  Before the boat arrived at the pier, a commotion stirred on the shore with men running and shouting.

  Quinn stepped in beside her. “Those are my men. Stay close to me.”

  “I aim to put an end to this madness.”

  “And how do you expect to do that? Don a suit of armor and reenact Joan of Arc?”

  “If I must.”

  “No doubt you’d do it without a flinch.” He gave her arm a squeeze. “I hope it doesn’t come to that. But remember no one on the pier kens who you are. I’ll be able to ensure your protection if it remains as such.”

  Alice pursed her lips. She had no intention of concealing her identity any longer than necessary. Gran had hidden her in the cottage for too many years. What was to become of the Lamonts who remained? She looked out over the sea of Campbells and their supporters. With such small numbers, her clansmen behind the curtain walls had little chance of holding the fortress for long.

  A kilted man rode an enormous horse onto the pier—Glenn MacGregor—one of Quinn’s companions. “Damnation, ye are alive, m’lord. I see you’ve brought along some reinforcements as well.”

  Quinn gave the man a snort. “Thought you’d take a holiday, in my absence, did you? With your girth I would have expected you to have the situation in hand by now.”

  “We’ve been busy enough. By my calculations there are no more than forty men holding Rothesay, though they have the ground advantage.”

  Quinn gave Alice a sideways glance. “We’ll end this as peaceably as possible.”

  “Not one death,” she said through gritted teeth. “On either side.”

  The corner of Quinn’s mouth twitched up as he bowed his head. “M’lady.”

  “I am no one’s lady.”

  He mumbled something that made Alice’s stomach leap. Or was the sudden onslaught of butterflies caused by the rocking of the boat? Regardless of what she thought she’d heard, Alice chose to ignore him.

  As soon as the ferryman set the gangplank in place, she followed His Lordship across while he strode straight toward MacGregor. “I need a complete run through of the present state of affairs.”

  MacGregor dismounted and handed his reins to a lad. “A moment first. I saw you hit by musket fire. Thought the worst. What the blazes happened?” He gave Alice a wary once-over. “Is she a witch? A selkie as Eachan said?”

  Dissenting grumbles rose from the crowd. And by the way they were closing in, Alice remained very close to Quinn’s side.

  “Stop with your misplaced suspicions. If it weren’t for the lass, I would have taken another musket ball or worse. She saved my life. Nursed me back to health in but a few days.”

  The heir delivered a convincing argument, but Alice had seen his winces and heard his grunts. No matter what Quinn said, he was still hurting.

  MacGregor frowned. “We thought they’d taken you behind the walls—which is why we haven’t attacked.”

  “Good. No one attacks unless there is no other alternative.”

  “Let’s smoke them out,” said a ruddy Campbell.

  His Lordship jammed his fists onto his hips. “I’d prefer to parley first.”

  “Are you daft?” MacGregor drew his dirk and thrust it toward the castle. “Have you lost your memory whilst you’ve been in fairy land? Those bleeding bastards tried to murder you.”

  Alice shoved Quinn far enough aside to push into the conversation. “I’ll talk to them.”

  “No.” His Lordship sliced his hand through the air, nearly hitting her midriff. “I cannot allow it.”

  She shoved his hand away. “You are not my clan chief and I owe you no fealty. I will speak to them and there’s nay a thing you or your behemoth MacGregor can do about it.”

  The big man scowled. “We can tie her up and lock the lassie in the stables.”

  “Shut it, Glenn,” Quinn took on a commanding stance—one oozing complete authority. “I want everyone to ken right here and now, Miss Alice is not to be trifled with. She saved my life and for that we will treat her with respect.”

  He leaned to her ear and whispered, “If anyone goes in to parley, it will be me.”

  Before she could pose an argument, Quinn eyed his man. “Now, where’s my brother?”

  “He rode for reinforcements…and cannons.”

  “Cannons?” His Lordship asked.

  “We thought the bastards had you inside.”

  Quinn started up the hill toward a cluster of tents. “When do you expect Eachan to return?”

  “No later than the morrow. This afternoon if we’re fortunate.”

  “Do you have my weapons?”

  “Aye, they’re still in the tent, m’lord.”

  Hanging on every word, Alice followed closely behind. As soon as the top of the keep came into view, she searched the crenels for Gran—or anyone she might recognize. Merciful Father, if the Campbells were planning to bring in cannons, her clansmen would have no chance.

  Highland Knight of Dreams

  Amy Jarecki

  Chapter Eleven

  Quinn sat at a table in the rear of the alehouse with Alice at his side and the wall at his back where he’d be able to react quickly if anything went awry. “Have they made any demands?”

  Across, MacGregor nursed a pint of ale. “Not a bloody word.”

  “That makes no sense at all. What have they been doing for the past four days, having a ceilidh?”

  “Same as us. The bastards—”

  “Watch your language in the presence of a lady,” Quinn growled.

  The big man shrank a bit, looking like a chided mastiff. “Beg your pardon, miss.” But Glenn quickly regained the classic MacGregor scowl. “We have ladders enough to scale the walls as soon as the cannons arrive. And thus far they’ve done naught but wait and watch. One of our musketeers fires off a shot, and they shoot back.”

  “Anyone injured?”

  “Only you.”

  “They could have killed us all
at the gathering.”

  Using her thumb, Alice squashed the candle wax pooling in the center of the table. “But they didn’t.”

  Quinn drank his ale down and pushed the empty tankard toward his friend. “Go fetch us another round, would you?”

  “Fetch your own bloody round.” MacGregor might be full of brawn, but he carried a chip on his shoulder the size of Bass Rock.

  “M’lord,” Quinn added to emphasize their difference in station. He wasn’t about to bend to his friend’s irritability. “I need a word with Miss Alice.”

  “He’s none too happy,” she muttered while Glenn strode away.

  “I wouldn’t be either.”

  She drove her thumbnail beneath the wax. “And he’s itching for the cannons to arrive.”

  Quinn rested his palm on his sword, something he did when he was about to step in harm’s way. “That’s why I’m going inside afore they do.”

  “Then I am as well.”

  “Absolutely not.” He pulled her hand away from the candle and firmly placed it in her lap. “I forbid it.”

  The lass shoved her chair away from the table, her eyes filled with spite and gall. “For-bid?” she asked, drawing out the word as if it were blasphemy.

  “’Tis too dangerous.” Quinn slapped his palm on the table. Mayhap he’d overstepped his bounds, but he would not back down on this. “If I go inside under the flag of parley, they’ll ken I’m willing to listen to their grievances.”

  “Flag of parley? I doubt my kin will trust you.”

  “They’ll trust a man with no weapons. ’Tis the way of honor.” He removed his sword and dirk and clanked them onto the table. “Now tell me true, is your grandmother involved?”

  “Gran saved you. I do not see how she could be aside from trying to prevent more bloodshed.”

  “But she was holding a musket when I was shot.”

  “And then she protected you—safeguarded us both.”

  “And that’s what perplexes me. Why would she do such a thing? Your grandmother is the wife of…” He swiped a hand over his mouth. “You ken. She has more cause to hate me than anyone in all of Scotland.”