Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1 (17 page)

But could she bear to see her horses gone?

She put her face in her hands and began to weep. Darcy pulled her into a comforting hug. “What am I going to do, Darcy? What am I going to do?”

Chapter Ten

Dawn came late the next morning, the dull, leaden skies blocking the sun, the air tinged with static that made Ian’s hair stand on end, much as it did when the kenning came upon him. He hoped it wasn’t an omen.

He sat up from his makeshift bed in the tall grass of the pasture that Gunnar was secluded in. Ian had left the house last night, too angry to look at Wesley without bashing in the mon’s face.

Wesley had actually had the gall to laugh when Jillian had fainted and made a crude remark about his ability to make the lass pass out whilst he had her in his bed. If Ian hadn’t already been holding Jillian, Wesley would be sporting a broken nose if not more. The thought of Jillian naked in bed with any mon other than himself ripped a hole through his chest as painful as any sword wound.

Jillian had made it clear that she had no wish to marry Wesley, and Ian was determined to protect her at all costs from that fate. Unfortunately, her road to freedom depended on the coin that the Prince of Wales would pay her once Ian had chosen an English lass to wed.

In his clan, marriage was a sacred oath to be honored for life. Could he resign himself to be tied to one of these witless, giggling lasses who had thoughts only of which party invitation to accept and what dress to wear? Why, these English girls wouldna even lift their faces to the sun, but kept themselves covered with huge bonnets and gloves and shawls lest their skin turn pink. How could one of them ere enjoy the deep blue of a Highland sky or lie in purple heather near a clear running burn listening to the songbirds?

He wanted a woman who would share his love of the outdoors away from the soot and grime of the city. A woman who would love to ride the span of his lands meeting his people, one who’d appreciate the simple gift of homemade jam or freshly baked bread from the wife of a crofter. Would one of these English lasses even know what an honor it would be to be given the Macleod tartan to wear? He couldn’t picture it.

Except for Jillian. Jillian who had made it plain that she never wished to re-marry. Ian wondered again at what kind of pain had caused her not to want to be loved. He wished he could make it better for her. He punched the fist of one hand into the palm of the other in frustration. He had seen the sparkle in her eyes and the flush of exhilaration in her cheeks as they rode yesterday. She loved the country as he did and she loved these horses.

That bastard was thinking of using them to coerce her into marriage.

Gunnar nickered from nearby and Ian forced himself to push that thought aside. Slowly, he stood and advanced toward the stallion.

“Steady there,” he said. “We’re going to be friends.”

The horse’s ears pricked forward, his large, liquid eyes alert, but he remained still.

Ian began to talk to him in Gaelic, using the rhythm of the language to placate and soothe the horse. “There ye go,” he said as he ran his hand along the horse’s neck and withers. “’Tis not all men who are so bad.”

Gunnar nuzzled him, looking for an apple.

Ian laughed, his mood lightening even as the sun broke through with a weak ray that pierced the clouds. He had deliberately slept as close to the stallion as the horse would let him, letting the animal get used to his presence and scent.

“Do ye think ye might take me for a wee ride?” he asked as he pulled the apple he had remembered to take from the kitchen last night.

Gunnar’s soft muzzle scraped his calloused palm as the horse took the offering and crunched it noisily. Ian bent and picked up the bridle he had brought with him and held it out to Gunnar.

“’Tis not so bad if a mon has a light touch with ye,” he murmured as he eased the bit past the strong, white teeth. The stallion tossed his head and stamped his hooves, but Ian continued to talk to him, his hands stroking the animal’s flanks until the horse finally stood quietly.

“That’s it, lad,” Ian said and vaulted onto his back. “Now let’s see what we can do together. Ye and I.”

He turned the horse, felt its haunches begin to tighten and reined in, keeping the horse’s head up. “No need to buck now.” He made no effort to force Gunnar forward until he was ready. Finally, he felt the tension ease out of the stallion and praised him. “Now let’s see what ye can do,” he said and touched his heels to the flanks lightly. Gunnar sprang forward, but Ian held him to a rocking canter that was wonderfully smooth. Gunnar crested his neck, tucking his jaw, his tail flying high behind him as they sped across the pasture.

Half an hour later, Ian slipped off his back and removed the bridle. “’Tis a good introduction we’ve had, lad,” he said. “I wish I could take ye to the stable where a pretty mare would welcome ye, but I’ve a thought that Jillian wants to keep ye hid for a reason. So, for now, we’ll keep us a secret, lad.”

As if he understood, Gunnar nodded his head and turned to canter off. Ian watched as the horse’s silver rump disappeared into the small shed that served as his shelter just as the first drops of rain began to spurt from the still threatening clouds.

He looked up at the sky.

“I’m not finished with Wesley Alton,” he said, raising a fist. “I’m not finished.”

By the time Ian reached the house, he was drenched.

“Where have you been?” Jillian asked as he came in through the kitchen door and shook himself like a spaniel, his long black hair spewing droplets of water. The rain had plastered his shirt to his chest, showing the contour of every well-developed muscle. His pants clung to his slender hips and corded thighs and Jillian averted her eyes, lest he catch her looking at
that
part of him. Lord knows, she was entertaining thoughts that had never before entered her head. “The housekeeper will not thank you for tracking in mud,” she said as she saw his boots.

“That might be true,” the jolly-faced cook said as she turned from scraping a large pan, “but this be my territory, and not even Mrs. Willows tells me what to do in my own kitchen.” She paused, her eyes crinkling in her lined face as she took in the sight of him. “The master is welcome here anytime.”

“He’s not the master,” Wesley said from the doorway. “I thought the introductions were quite clear yesterday. I am the earl here.”

The cook’s smile faded. “Yes, my lord. I was but having a bit o’ fun.” She managed a curtsy. “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering what was keeping breakfast so long,” Wesley answered as his eyes swept over Ian’s wet form, “but I can see the Highlander has been entertaining you. In the future, that is if you have a future here, you will serve my breakfast on time.”

The cook’s cheeks flamed red and Jillian sent Wesley a sharp look. “Edna has been with the family for years. I think you’ll find her skills in the kitchen exemplary.”

“I hope so,” Wesley answered and extended his arm. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll join you in a moment,” Jillian said evenly, although she was furious with his treatment of poor Edna. “I’d like to discuss the day’s menu first, since the weather is going to keep us from going to Cantford.”

Wesley frowned, then turned on his heel and stomped out.

“He’s a charmer,” Edna muttered and then clapped her hand over her mouth. “Beg pardon, my lady. My lord. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s all right,” Jillian said, and to her surprise, Ian walked over and gave the plump cook a peck on her cheek which had her giggling like a young girl.

“I’m looking forward to enjoying yer cooking,” he said with a wink that started her giggling all over again. He looked over at Jillian. “I’ll get into some dry things and join you in the dining hall.”

Jillian nodded, grateful that she wouldn’t have to be alone with Wesley. She had managed to stay in her room last night, pleading ill effects from her swoon. She had no wish for the subject of the horses—or her marriage—to be brought up again.

She lingered in the kitchen as long as she could, going over menus for the day and making sure there were adequate stores. “You might consider replenishing your supplies, Edna,” she said after she closed the pantry door.

The cook looked surprised. “There’s plenty there, even if the new earl wants to stay for a week or two.”

“Oh, he won’t,” Jillian assured her. Wesley already looked bored and had made comments about missing his club. “It’s just…” She hesitated.

“Just what?” Edna asked, concern in her voice.

“Well, you might as well know. Rufus never expected Wesley to return, so there is no provision in his will for me once Wesley inherited the title—”

“Say it’s not true, my lady,” the cook interrupted, her usually rosy face going pale. “You’ve always been so kind to us. It’s not fair. It’s not.”

Jillian patted the woman’s hand. “I’ll be okay. The Prince of Wales has agreed to pay me enough money to buy back my father’s townhouse once I’ve taught the Earl of Cantford the etiquette for fitting into Society and choosing a proper wife.”

“I think his lordship has fine manners, if you’ll pardon me saying so.”

Jillian was inclined to agree. He certainly had more empathy for people than Wesley did. “I’m sure Lord Cantford will do quite well,” she said and pushed aside the thought of his wedding. “At the present, I’m more concerned for you.”

“Why?” the cook asked.

“For now, Lord Newburn is not concerned with counting foodstuffs. He’s much more interested in the profit that the estate can make. He’s…ah, suggested…that he may release some of the staff and remove the retainers as well.”

Edna gasped, a hand going to her heart. “What will we do?”

“I’ll think of something,” Jillian said. “Loyalty, especially to my late husband, deserves to be rewarded. Meanwhile, I want to make sure every servant, whether able-bodied or old, will have enough food to last a few months. Purchase as much as you can and parcel it out before an inventory is taken. Will you see to it?”

The other woman nodded, her face grim. “That I will, my lady.”

“And don’t forget the ale,” Jillian said with a smile. “The men would never forgive you.”

“I’ll have my William take care of the barrels himself, my lady. You are kind and generous. Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Jillian said, wishing she could do more to assure the cook and the rest of the servants that they would continue to have a place here.

She heard Ian enter the dining hall and turned to leave.

“Just one thing, my lady,” the cook said.

“Yes?” she asked as she turned around.

“It’s not my place to say so, my lady, but…” Edna hesitated, then took a deep breath and plunged on, her face bright pink, “…the wife that the Scot needs is you.”

Jillian felt her own face grow warm and then heat seared through the rest of her body, leaving a deep, throbbing ache low in her belly where a baby would never grow.

“That cannot be,” she whispered and fled to the dining room.

Luckily, the weather cleared by late afternoon and they journeyed to Ian’s estate. Jillian had insisted on riding a horse, albeit side-saddle, rather than using the carriage because she wanted to see Ian’s face when he first laid sight on his property.

They followed a tree-lined road that curved, hiding the house from view until they were full upon it. Ian reined his horse in as they rounded the last bend and sat, silently taking the grounds in.

The house was a three-story, like Newburn, but its bricks were the mellow color of golden sandstone. A portico stretched the length of the house and wrapped around the corners to extend to the one-story wings that flanked the main house on either side. Instead of the typical Palladian window that most of these homes had, its original builder had put in a stained glass window depicting a cross inside a square inside a circle. With the slanting rays of the sun giving the whole structure a golden glow, the cross, square and circle seemed to be illuminated.

Ian’s eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed at it.

“It’s an unusual window, isn’t it?” Jillian asked. “I’m told your great-grandfather had it modeled on some chapel near Edinburgh.”

“Aye. ’Twould be Rosslyn.” He turned to her. “Ye are saying that my great- grandfather had this house built?”

“Yes,” Jillian answered. “Before the Jacobite uprising Cantford was a part of Newburn’s lands.”

Wesley bristled. “How did we come to lose this land then?”

Jillian sighed. Losing this valuable piece of land had always been a sore spot with Rufus too. “Your great-grandfather made the mistake of befriending King George’s son, Frederick,” she said.

“I would think that would help a mon, nae? Befriending a prince?” Ian asked, a quizzical look on his face.

“In most cases it would,” Jillian answered, “but for some reason King George hated his son and he didn’t take kindly to anyone opposing him.”

“George II was probably as
fou
as the current king is,” Wesley sneered.

“It isn’t wise to criticize the king,” Jillian said mildly, and to her surprise Wesley kept silent. She turned back to Ian. “For your great-grandfather’s help in squelching the Young Pretender, the king parceled this land and created a new title. It’s all quite legally yours. What do you think of it?”