Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1 (13 page)

Wesley had a conspiratorial look on his face as he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The fact is, gentlemen, that I have a son. Two of them actually. I left them in France until I could sort things out here. I’ll send for them soon.”

“Wilna their mother nae be wanting to join them?” Ian asked.

Wesley hesitated a moment. “That shouldn’t be a problem, Cantford, since I didn’t marry the mother. Either of them.”

That didn’t surprise Ian at all. He wondered if Wesley had even provided for the boys. Or if he had other by-blows he didn’t even know about.

Wesley returned to the original conversation. “I can hardly allow my step…for Jillian to be put out on the streets when I have the means to provide for her.”

Both of the barons beamed at him. “It’s quite honorable of you,” Tindale said.

Ian clenched his fists beneath the table. The little weasel was making it sound like he had nothing more than Jillian’s wellbeing at heart. The thought of Jillian lying naked beneath Newburn was something he didn’t want to think about. Not when his nights were filled with visions of her luscious curves and soft body writhing beneath
him
while her silken thighs wrapped around his buttocks, begging him to pleasure her once again.

“Have ye asked Jil—the lady—her opinion about this?” Ian asked.

“No need to,” Wesley answered. “What choice does she have? If you don’t agree to marry an English girl and secure the title with an heir, the prince will deem Jillian’s efforts a failure. She’ll have nothing, unless I provide it.”

Ian stared at him. With a sinking feeling, he realized that the bastard was right. No matter how charming and proper Ian was willing to be for Jillian’s sake, if he didna follow through with a betrothal, she would not likely be paid.

Which left him with a dilemma. He could either allow this fool to plow ahead with this plan to marry Jillian or he, himself, would have to choose from among the silly lasses who skittered about.

Ian decided he was going to get very, very drunk.

Wesley laughed as he parted company with the stodgy barons and a very irate Scot. The remark that Havisham made about Jillian’s inability to have a child was a perfect boon to quell any thoughts that the Highlander might have in that direction. His English title would revert back to the king if Cantford didn’t provide an English heir.

And the remark was a boon for Wesley as well. He couldn’t abide whining, screaming children, even if they were well-tended by nannies and only brought out on occasion. He didn’t want any woman he was swiving to be distracted by any motherly concerns. It was the reason he’d left both of the mothers of his bastards. They thought the brats should actually spend time with him. The oldest one was near ten years now. Wesley supposed the boy could be sent away to foster somewhere once he arrived. He grimaced, wondering how much coin he would have to part with to make sure the mother stayed at home.

Well, time to think about that later. He had to meet with Jean to determine if there was any military information worth sending back to France, and then he was planning to spend the rest of the night plowing the very lush fields of Delia Sherrington.

What a coincidence that both his mistress and his soon-to-be wife looked so much like the one woman he
had
cared about. The one his father made sure he never saw again. Lorelei would live for him again every time he buried his shaft deep within the hot, wet walls of either Delia or Jillian.

It mattered not which one he straddled as long as it was Lorelei’s face he saw.

Several hours later and quite definitely drunk, Ian staggered slightly as he left White’s Gentleman’s Club. The young fools who fancied him their competition had left long before and Ian had drunk both barons under the table, but not before they had asked some questions about the French who resided in Scotland. He couldn’t quite remember what those questions were now, but they had seemed odd at the time.

But he did remember Newburn’s boast. Rage filled him again at the thought of the swine so callously assuming to marry Jillian. As if the lass had naught to say about it. He wished someone would accost him, or even just insult him, so he could use his fists and beat the mon witless. But nae, these Englishmen were too civilized for a good, blood-shedding brawl. His fists clenched anyway.

“Your horse, sir,” the young groomsman said as he brought Ian’s gelding around.

Ian glowered and grabbed the reins. The boy jumped back, his eyes round. “Thank ye,” Ian managed to say. ’Tis not the lad’s fault he was angry.

“You are welcome, my lord,” he replied, but hurried away.

Ian reflected on the evening as he rode through the dark cobblestone streets. He dinna trust Wesley Newburn, but he had no proof that the mon was indeed a spy. Neither did he have someone he could send to Jamie to make inquiries about what their French neighbors really knew about Gerard Fountaine. Even when he finally got his country estate—when this abominable Season was finally over—he’d still have to decide whom he could trust with such a mission.

The Season. Only a few short weeks remained. What kind of people thought that a mon could choose his life’s mate during the course of one party and dance after another? So far, all he’d gleaned from any of these lasses was that they chattered endlessly about dresses and bonnets and such, tittered constantly and tended to swoon if he actually smiled at them. He couldn’t imagine introducing any one of them to his independent, high-spirited sisters.

Except Jillian. With a start, he brought his horse up short. Where had that thought come from? As if she would ever want to visit Scotland. Still, the thought penetrated his cloudy mind. She had the same inner strength as Bridget. After their mother had died, it had been his oldest sister who’d taken care of the rest, just like Jillian was doing for Mari. And he couldn’t recall a time when Jillian had even mentioned clothes, other than his own.

He had a sudden image of her riding one of her beloved white horses wildly across the heathered moors of Scotland, her faerie-colored hair loose and flying behind her, green eyes alight with laughter and teasing as he brought his horse alongside hers.

He would lift her from the saddle and then lay her down upon the sweet-smelling grass, his hands working her bodice even as he claimed her mouth…

Bloody hell
. He shook himself out of reverie. Jillian was not someone he could have. That lout, Wesley, had spelled things out quite clearly. But Ian would be damned if he let Newburn marry Jillian against her will.

Which meant that Jillian would need the money that the Prince of Wales had offered for his training. That meant that Ian would have to choose a wife.

He was back to square one. And he’d have a hangover in the morning to boot. He muttered a Gaelic curse and spurred his horse on.

The animal leaped forward, eager for his stall and oats, and Ian felt the saddle begin to slip. In another moment, he hit the ground hard, scraping his hand and arm in the process. The saddle fell beside him as the horse stopped suddenly, snuffling anxiously at his master.

Ian rose slowly, running his hand down the horse’s neck, soothing the spooked animal. “’Twas not your fault, my lad,” he said and bent down to pick up the saddle. He fingered the girth, puzzled that none of it was frayed. And then he felt the smooth edges where it had separated.

The girth had been deliberately cut.

Chapter Eight

The dining hall was empty as Jillian entered the next morning to get some breakfast. That Wesley wasn’t here wasn’t unusual. He rarely came in before dawn and slept until the sun was high overhead. But Jillian had gotten used to Ian being present.

She was finishing her porridge and about to leave when he finally arrived. She stifled a gasp. He wore breeches and a rumpled linen shirt open at the throat and his raven hair was disheveled, as though it had not been combed. He hadn’t shaved and a day’s worth of stubble shaded his angular jaw, giving him a dark and dangerous look. His eyes were bloodshot.

“Did you have a good time at White’s last evening?” Jillian asked.

He growled an answer as he loaded his plate with eggs and thick slices of ham along with several pieces of toast. He sat down beside her and ate as though his last meal had been days ago.

Dobbs poured his tea and cleared his throat.

“Your elbows, my lord,” Jillian whispered before the servant would become haughty over his lack of manners or dress this morning, “do not belong on the table.”

He grunted, but removed them. “I’m nae of a mind to tend to what’s proper this morn, lass.”

Jillian raised an eyebrow. She had asked Wesley to take Ian with him to White’s so that he would be able to socialize with his male peers out of sight of females and parties and such. “Did something happen at White’s? Was Wesley rude?”

He gave her a look she couldn’t decipher and reached for the marmalade, only to wince and draw back to rub his left shoulder.

It was then that she saw the scrapes on his hand and forearm. “You’ve been hurt,” she said and reached over to touch his hand. “What happened?”

“’Tis naught. I fell off my horse.”

“You? I find that hard to believe, my lord, even if you were…ah…a bit foxed.”

“I was drunk, lass.”

“Well, let me have a look at your arm then,” she said and turned to the servant. “Dobbs. Please get the salve from the medicine bag.” As he left, she rolled Ian’s sleeve up further, her mouth pursing in disproval as she saw a gash on his thick biceps that traveled upwards beneath the sleeve. “How far does this cut go?” she asked.

“Across my shoulder.” His dark eyes studied her while a corner of his mouth quirked up. “Do ye want to see?”

Jillian felt herself blushing. After the conversation he’d overheard with Mari, the man probably thought she
wanted
him to take off his shirt. Still, if the gash hadn’t been cleaned properly…

Dobbs returned with the salve, a small basin of water and a clean cloth. “Your maid said you’d be needing this,” he said rather stiffly. “Do you wish me to assist?”

The poor man was squeamish about blood, having fainted once when one of the serving maids had cut herself. The one time Rufus hadn’t been careful and a bruise had actually been seen on her own arm caused the servant to avoid looking at the mottled colors. He had excused himself as quickly as he could.

“I’ll take care of it, Dobbs. You may take the dishes.”

He looked relieved and hurried away with the stack. Jillian turned back to Ian. “I don’t suppose you cleaned the lacerations last night?”

“I dinna even ken I had them until this morn.”

She sighed. “I’ll need to see your shoulder then.”

Ian smiled and began to unbutton his shirt, his eyes not leaving hers.

“You…you just need to remove your arm from the sleeve, my lord,” she said as he finished undoing the buttons.

He grinned, removed the shirt and threw it on the floor. “I want to be sure I doona have any other scrapes I may have missed.”

Jillian’s mouth suddenly went dry. He looked even more virile than she remembered. The width of his shoulders, the dusting of black hair around flat, brown male nipples—nipples that beaded into hard tips as she looked at them—had they done that last time? She suddenly wanted to know what they felt like and also became aware that he was watching her with an amused expression on his face. She felt her face flame. What in heaven’s name was she thinking?

“’Tis my arm that’s scratched, lass, but if ye want to look at the rest of me, I doona mind.” His mouth curved wickedly as he reached for the laces of his trews. “Now that I think on it, there might be a scrape on my leg as well…”

“Enough with you, my lord,” Jillian said, sure that her face was a red as a tomato.

“I’ll just make sure there’s no dirt lodged in the scratches.” She set to work, not looking at him again, concentrating on cleansing the wound and applying the salve, even though she could not deny how hard and powerful his arm and shoulder felt. She handed him his shirt.

“You can put that back on now.”

“In a minute,” Ian said cupping her face with his hands. “I’d like to say thank ye
properly
.” Before she could protest, one of his hands slid to the back of her head, cradling it, while the other hand slipped over her shoulder, drawing her onto his lap.

He slanted his mouth over hers, his lips gliding with gentle pressure. He tugged at her lower lip, sucking it between his, and then let his tongue slide along the crease of her mouth. Jillian made a soft sound low in her throat and parted her lips. Ian slipped his tongue inside, tasting her slowly, letting her get used to the feel of him in her mouth as his hand moved down her back pressing her against his chest. She felt her own nipples pebble as they strained against the cloth of her thin muslin dress. The friction set her body on fire, kindling flames in places she didn’t even know existed. Jillian wound her fingers in Ian’s hair and he deepened the kiss, exploring her mouth thoroughly even as his hands grazed the sides of her breasts. Heat seared through them and she wanted nothing more than to have Ian touching them, doing…well, she didn’t know what, but they ached for something more…

She heard footsteps in the hall and realized where she was. The effect was as if she had fallen into the trough of cold water kept for the horses outside. She pushed away from Ian and slipped back into her own chair as Wesley entered the room.