A Rogue's Heart

by Debra Browning

  “You’ll not have him. I heard you say it.”

  His hand inched its way down her spine and splayed across the small of her back.

  “I didna mean it,” she said, and tried to look away. He wouldn’t let her.

  “Aye, you did.” He kissed her, hard.

  Her lips parted of their own accord, her arms slipped ‘round his waist. Mairi closed her eyes and lost herself in his scent, a heady fusion of sweat and leather.

  His tongue mated with hers, then plundered her mouth as if it were a treasure trove. She knew she should stop him. Why didn’t she?

  Heat consumed her as his hands kneaded her backside. What was happening? She let out a whimper. Conall groaned in response.

  Her eyes went wide. “Nay,” she breathed, and tried to pull away.

  “What’s wrong?” Conall nuzzled her cheek, his eyes catlike slits.

  “Ye must stop. I…I must—” She spun out of his arms….

  Praise for DEBRA LEE BROWN’s previous titles

  Ice Maiden

  “Ice Maiden is an enticing tale that will warm your heart.”

  —Romantic Times

  “This Viking tale of high adventure gallops through time and into the hearts of the reader.”

  —Rendezvous

  The Virgin Spring

  “Debra Lee Brown makes her mark with The Virgin Spring, which should be read by all lovers of Scottish romances.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “A remarkable story. The fast pace, filled with treachery, mystery, and passion, left me breathless.”

  —Rendezvous

  #623 A WARRIOR’S LADY

  Margaret Moore

  #624 MONTANA LEGEND

  Jillian Hart

  #626 LUKE’S RUNAWAY BRIDE

  Kate Bridges

  DEBRA LEE BROWN

  A ROGUE’S HEART

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and DEBRA LEE BROWN

  The Virgin Spring #506

  Ice Maiden #549

  The Mackintosh Bride #576

  Gold Rush Bride #594

  A Rogue’s Heart #625

  For Mark and Ken and Steve and Greg Rogues one and all

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  The Highlands of Scotland, 1213

  Conall Mackintosh hated water.

  Perhaps ’twas the ill-fated sea voyage he’d barely survived the year before, or the memory of being dunked in the horse trough once too often as a lad. Whatever the reason, he had a bad feeling about his brother’s proposal.

  “Why me?” He shot Iain a disgruntled look. “Why not Gilchrist? He’s always splashing about in that bloody spring of his.”

  “Ye know well his clan canna spare him for such a task. Nor can ours spare me. That leaves you.”

  Conall swore silently under his breath.

  “Negotiate the terms with Dunbar, build out the docks, and make ready for the first trade boats.” Iain nodded as if Conall had already agreed.

  Boats. Docks and boats. His skin prickled at the mere mention of such things.

  “Och, what are ye worried about?” Iain said. “’Tis no’ the western sea, just a wee loch. Ye’ll be done with the task and off to wherever the devil it is this time—”

  “Glenmore. To hunt with your wife’s cousin.”

  “—long before the winter sets in.”

  Conall smirked. “’Tis easy enough for you to say, here at home.” He swept his gaze over Findhorn Castle, their birthplace and seat of Clan Mackintosh.

  “So the adventurer tires of his lifestyle, eh?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What was it ye said last spring when the MacBains proposed a match for ye?”

  Saint Columba, not this again.

  “‘I’m no’ one for settling down’ is what ye said. ‘I prefer travel, adventure.’”

  Conall rolled his eyes at Iain’s perfect but painful imitation of him.

  “Well then, brother, here’s the adventure of a lifetime.”

  Jupiter’s deep bark echoed behind them off the stone battlement where they stood overlooking Find-horn’s bailey.

  “See?” Iain said. “Even your mangy partner agrees with me.”

  Conall glared at the mastiff. “Traitor.”

  “Och, come now.” Iain mustered what Conall knew was his most serious expression.

  Here it comes. He waited for the inevitable lecture.

  “Ye are third son and, as such, ye’ve been left with damned little to make a start of your own. Ye’ll always have a place here with us at Findhorn or at Monadhliath with Gilchrist, but—”

  “A lifetime of domestic boredom doesna suit me? Aye, well, that’s the God’s truth.”

  “That’s no’ what—” Iain closed his eyes and exhaled. Conall watched, amused, as his brother silently counted to ten.

  “Hmm? You were saying?”

  “I was saying, ye’ve traveled the bluidy world. Can ye no’ tarry long enough to do this one thing for us?” Iain clapped a hand on his shoulder in that annoyingly paternal way Conall hated. “For the Chattan?”

  The Chattan. The five. Mackintosh, Davidson, Macgillivray and the rest. Five Highland clans aligned in peace. Well, most of the time. It had been their father’s dream, God rest his soul.

  Iain had seen it through, forged the bond some ten years ago, with Gilchrist’s help. Conall had been a reckless youth at the time, more concerned with horses and women than with politics. In fact, he preferred them still.

  “We need the trade,” Iain said. “Three hard winters in a row—we canna abide a fourth. Last year many died.”

  Conall shrugged out of his brother’s grasp and stepped to the edge of the battlement. Jupiter nudged his hand. “Good boy,” he whispered, and patted the mastiff’s enormous head.

  The bailey was alive with the shouts and laughter of their kinsmen: stable lads, fletchers, farriers, women with baskets scurrying between the timber cottages hugging the curtain wall.

  “Will ye do it, Conall?” Iain asked. “If no’ for the Chattan, then for Gilchrist and for me?”

  God knows, he’d done damned little for family or clan these last years. He wasn’t like his brothers, content to stay in one place with one woman. The wanderlust was in his blood. ’Twas part of him, the best part.

  Perhaps he was being selfish. On the other hand, ’twas just like Iain to draw him into exactly the kind of life he didn’t want to live, one small task at a time.

  “O’ course he’ll do it! He’s a good lad.”

  Conall bit off a curse and turned toward the familiar voice.

  “Rob,” Iain said. “Convince my brother here to pay Alwin Dunbar a wee visit.”

  “Dunbar of Loch Drurie?” Rob cocked a tawny brow and fisted chubby hands on hips.

  Conall crushed his conscience long enough to fight the smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. His short, balding friend Rob oft reminded him of the rotund gnomes of boyhood tales.

  “Aye,” Iain said. “The same.”

  “’Tis a fair piece o’ land he holds, The Dunbar,” Rob said.

  Iain nodded. “Aye, and well situated for our purpose. We shall trade game and furs for g
rain.”

  “And a bit o’ drink if we’re lucky, eh?” Rob winked, his blue eyes flashing mirth.

  “’Tis a good plan,” Conall said warily. “I’ll admit that. But how do you know Dunbar will agree?”

  Iain shrugged. “I don’t. ’Tis your job to convince him.”

  Conall snorted. The only convincing he’d done lately had resulted in a thrashing from a village lass’s father.

  “Och, come on,” Rob said. “Ye know ye love a challenge.”

  Iain crossed his arms over his chest. “So he says.”

  They had him on that, and they both knew it, damn them. “Whoresons,” he muttered.

  Rob grinned. “I told ye he’d do it.”

  Iain grunted satisfaction.

  “I’ll not miss that hunt with Grant, mind you.” His words fell on deaf ears.

  “’Twill be good for him to shoulder a bit o’ responsibility on behalf of the Chattan, eh?” Rob said.

  Responsibility. Even the word made him itch. His coarse woolen shirt suddenly felt too tight about the neck.

  His brothers’ responsibilities over the years had grown tenfold, their successes spawning only more work, not less, and staggering obligations. The years of hardship and struggle, a thousand forgone pleasures. And for what? He shuddered to think of what he would have missed of the world had he succumbed at an early age and followed in their footsteps.

  Nay, ’twas not for him.

  “There’s a fair reward for the service,” Iain said. He studied his fingernails in a way that made Conall instantly suspicious. “I nearly forgot to mention it.”

  “What reward?”

  “Oh, no’ much,” Iain said, not looking at him. “Some land, a bit o’ cattle—” he paused and met Conall’s gaze “—a bride, mayhap.”

  “What the—”

  “Only if ye wish it,” Iain said quickly. “She’s a bonny lass, the youngest daughter of one o’ the Chat-tan lairds.”

  Conall shot toward him. “Bloody matchmaker. I’ll have none of it, d’ye hear?”

  Rob—who was supposed to be his friend, the blackguard—dissolved into laughter.

  “Suit yourself.” Iain shrugged. “’Twas just a thought. About the bride, I mean.”

  “Aye, and by the new year you’d have me bound to some simpering virgin. A bairn on the way by Easter.”

  “Och, surely sooner than that, eh?” Rob winked, and Conall shot him a murderous glance.

  “All right,” Iain said. “Forget the lass, but ye’d be damned stupid to refuse the land and the cattle. ’Tis meant as a reward, no’ a millstone around your neck.”

  “Hmph.” His gaze was drawn again to the bailey, where a group of children played in sight of their young mothers. He felt overwarm and sweaty, and pulled at the leather ties of his shirt. “I dunno.”

  Jupiter let out a small whimper and licked his hand.

  “Och, hang the reward,” Rob said. “We’ll do it for the fun, for the challenge, won’t we, Conall laddie?”

  “We?” Conall looked his short friend up and down. “So you think to come with me?”

  “O’ course. Why wouldn’t I?” Rob grinned. “Someone’s got to keep ye out o’ trouble.”

  “Take Dougal and Harry with ye as well,” Iain said. “They’re good scouts and in need of a change.” Iain slapped him on the back.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Iain’s grin of satisfaction and Rob’s dancing eyes. “The two of you are thick as thieves. Did I ever have a choice?”

  Jupiter barked and wagged his monstrous tail.

  “And you.” He swatted the dog’s rump. “I suppose you were in on it, too?”

  The mastiff cocked his head, looking up at him with huge liquid eyes. Iain and Rob grinned.

  “Boats,” he muttered. “Docks and boats.” Already his stomach grew queasy.

  “Mairi Dunbar!”

  She froze at the rich, familiar timbre of Geoffrey Symon’s voice. The ax she wielded hung in midair, poised over the felled larch.

  “What in God’s name are ye doing?” Geoffrey bellowed from behind her.

  Dora looked up from her work gathering kindling, and rolled her eyes. Mairi glared at her, then dropped the ax and quickly wiped the perspiration from her face.

  “’Tis his second visit in as many weeks,” Dora hissed, and shot her one of those I-told-ye-so looks Mairi hated.

  Mairi ignored her, squared her shoulders and turned to greet their visitor. “Geoffrey, what a surprise.”

  He was alone, which was unusual, and dressed in some of the finest garments she’d e’er seen him wear. Hmm, even more unusual. His plaid was newly woven, laced with rich colors—nothing like the common hunting plaids most everyone wore.

  Atop his dappled gelding he sat tall, chin high, more like a prince than the lesser chieftain he was. His jet hair was tied back, as always, with a leather thong, accentuating his fair features and crystalline blue eyes.

  She would think him handsome if she had a mind to notice such things, but she did not. Geoffrey was just like her father. She mustn’t forget that, not ever.

  He slid easily from the horse’s saddle and smiled at her—a bold, disarming smile that made her blush involuntarily. Of all the stupid responses.

  She fisted handfuls of her gown, soiled from a morning of hard labor, and boldly returned his gaze. “What brings ye to Loch Drurie again so soon, Geoffrey?”

  “Ye know why…Mairi.”

  The way her name rolled off his lips caused a small shiver to course through her. She wasn’t certain if she liked it or not.

  Dora snorted behind her. Mairi glanced back in time to see the older woman pick up the ax and hack at the felled tree with renewed vigor. Dora shot them both a disgusted look.

  Geoffrey laughed. “Your friend doesna like me much.”

  Dora hated him, in fact.

  “No matter,” Geoffrey said. “She’ll come ‘round, as will ye, Mairi Dunbar.”

  “Geoffrey, I told ye I—”

  “Hush.” He crossed the tiny clearing and put a finger to her lips.

  She drew back, bristling. No one told her to be quiet. No one. “I’ve work to do, so state your business.”

  He laughed again. “Ah, that spirit o’ yours is as fiery as your red head. ’Twill get ye into trouble yet.”

  A smart retort burned on her lips, but she clenched her teeth against it.

  Geoffrey’s expression sobered. “Mairi, I would speak to ye alone.” His eyes darted behind her to Dora, who, from the sound of it, was hacking the larch to splinters.

  The chopping abruptly stopped.

  “Dora is clan,” Mairi said. “There is naught fit for my ears that she may no’ hear.” She arched a brow, her terms set.

  The edge of Geoffrey’s mouth twitched. He studied her for a moment, then said, “All right, then. Ye know of what I wish to speak.”

  Mairi’s pulse quickened. The chopping recommenced. She knew all too well why Geoffrey was here. “My father’s debt.”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, what of it? I told ye I’d pay by the new year. ’Tis two months away yet.”

  Geoffrey grasped her hand, and she tensed. “Why d’ye fight me, lass? It doesna have to be this way.”

  “I dinna know what ye mean,” she lied, and pulled her hand away.

  “This.” He pointed past her to the tiny, ramshackle village lining the shore of the loch. “And this.” He lifted the skirt of her filthy gown.

  Dora grunted with another stroke of the ax.

  “Women shouldna be forced to such labor,” he said. “If ye were my wife, Mairi, ’twould no’ be so.”

  “Wife?” The word made her cringe.

  “Aye. I’m willing to forgive the debt.” He paused. “And what’s passed between us.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, a derisive sound escaping her throat. Perhaps he was willing, but she was not.

  “Come now, ye know ’tis the best thing for ye and what’s left of
your clan. Just look at the place.”

  She did look, and hardened her heart against what she saw. Rickety timber cottages, leaky boats, docks mildewed and rotting. Her father had done this to them, the negligent clod. She bristled at the memory of his sloth and gambling.

  Her gaze lit on two women scrubbing dirty clothes on a rock at the water’s edge. Children played in the mud with makeshift toys. Most of the men were dead or gone, all but the old and infirm. Driven out by her father’s oppression, or their own disgust.

  “Ye canna survive another winter like the last,” Geoffrey said. “Women and children, alone, with but a handful of ragtag clansmen to protect and provide for ye.”

  Mairi clenched her teeth. He was right, but she’d never admit it. She’d find a way to pay the debt and get them through the winter without starving. She had to.

  “We’re doing just…fine,” she stammered, and nodded once for emphasis, more to convince herself than him.

  Geoffrey mouthed a silent curse and kicked at a pile of wood shavings near his feet. “Ye’ll be paying me a visit afore the winter’s e’en here. Methinks ye’ll change your mind. Ye need me, Mairi, admit it.” She tipped her chin at him, and he grabbed her wrist. “Mark me, Mairi Dunbar. I’d have ye willing, but I’ll have ye—one way or another.”

  “Presumptuous lout!” She jerked her hand away and shot him a murderous look. “Think ye to control me, as did my father? Think again.”

  He had the nerve to smile at her.

  “Get off my land! And dinna return till ’tis time to collect your payment.”

  Geoffrey shook his head, and his expression softened. “I love ye, lass, don’t ye know that?”

  “Aye, ye love my land. Now go!”

  He looked her up and down as if he were appraising a sheep. Another smile curved at the edge of his mouth and his eyes danced like bright blue flames.

  Her blood boiled.

  He mounted the dappled gelding and raised a hand in farewell. “And when I break ye of that wild spirit and no’-so-comely boldness, ye’ll make a fine, obedient wife.”

  “Obedient wife?” Mairi repeated, and fisted her hands on her hips.

  Dora dropped the ax and stepped to her side, breathing hard, her face sheened with sweat. “Aye,” she wheezed. “When pigs fly.”