Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1 (2 page)

“
Soirees
, balls, opera, theatre,” she said briskly. “Dinner parties, of course. You’re arriving quite late into the Season, but I’m sure I’ll be able to get you the proper invitations.”

“Must everything be proper with ye, lass?”

Again, no
Lady
Newburn. The man really was a rogue.

“Yes, Lord Cantford, things must be properly done. After all, the whole point in the Season—and my instruction—is that you will find a suitable young lady among the peerage to take to wife and produce an heir to preserve your title.”

His generous mouth quirked up again. “Ye are going to instruct me on how to beget a bairn?”

“Certainly not!” She felt heat searing her face. “I’m quite sure you’re acquainted on how to proceed—”

“I am,” he said with a wicked gleam in his eyes, “but I wouldna mind a lesson on the English way of doing things.”

She tried to ignore that penetrating look. “What I meant was, the Season is your opportunity to choose a wife from the best of families.”

“English families,” Ian replied.

“Well, yes,” she started to answer but was interrupted by the parlor maid’s appearance with the tea cart.

Jillian had to move one foot out of the way to avoid being run over as the maid wheeled the cart in, never taking her eyes off the Highlander. She stopped in front of him and dipped a small curtsy. “I had Cook make up some sandwiches for you with meat on them. A man like you needs to keep up his strength.” She smiled at him.

Ian smiled back. “Thank ye, Miss…?”

“Fern,” the maid answered quickly. “If your lordship requires anything—”

“That will be all,” Jillian interrupted, noting that the maid had taken time to comb her hair. “I’ll serve.”

Fern looked disappointed, but nodded and left.

Jillian gestured to a chair. “Tea is generally served when one is sitting, my lord.”

He looked at the chair rather dubiously and then sat down slowly, looking relieved when the Hepplewhite didn’t shatter under him.

Jillian suppressed a smile. As large as he was, he did look rather awkward sitting there, his kilt flowing over the sides, his hard, muscular legs exposed…
Oh!
Quickly, she looked away for he had crossed one ankle over his knee, shifting the kilt in the process and she almost saw…

What was she thinking? She never wanted to see a man’s…member…again. When Rufus wasn’t able to stiffen his enough, he’d blamed her. She pushed the memory away. She was free now. Never would she have to suffer the sting of the razor strap again because she wasn’t woman enough to make a man function.

Still, her hand trembled as she lifted the heavy silver teapot. What was it about this Highlander that disturbed her so? Perhaps because there was so
much
of him and Englishmen did not wander around with naked legs exposed.

She drew a deep breath and was pleased that the china cup didn’t rattle in its saucer as she handed it to him. And then her breathing shallowed as his warm, strong fingers stroked her hand before he took the tea from her. Heat radiated up her arm and the butterflies fluttered again in her stomach.

“You take advantage, my lord,” she said as she sat down rather quickly.

His dark eyes studied her. “In what way?”

“A gentleman doesn’t touch a lady’s bare hand.”

A corner of his mouth turned up in a lop-sided smile. “I think ye have too many rules, lass.”

And you obviously follow none
. “Rules are important. When you learn to be a gentleman you will find they keep our lives orderly and secure. One knows what to expect from one’s friends and acquaintances. No risks. It keeps one out of trouble.”

Ian grinned. “Sometimes a little risk makes life more interesting.”

She took a sip of her tea. “Not for me, my lord.” A man who could charm her maids into wanting to lift their skirts just by a look was trouble she didn’t need.

He leaned forward to set his saucer down on the small table between them and again she got a whiff of the soapy leather smell of him and something a bit muskier. It was an alluring scent—one she hadn’t ever experienced.

He looked into her eyes. “Haven’t ye been tempted to break a rule just once?”

She stared back at him.
Oh, yes. I broke a rule once. The first time Rufus slapped me, I ran away. He was furious when he caught me at Papa’s. How scandalous for a young marchioness to leave her husband! He foreclosed on Papa’s house and threatened to have Mari compromised so that she would never have a Season. When we got home, he used the razor strap on me for the first time
. She closed her eyes, feeling the sting of hot tears welling up. This Highlander didn’t need to see her cry. Tears were a sign of surrender. Then she felt his thumb very gently brush against her cheek, wiping the wetness away.

“I dinna mean to make ye cry, lass. Forgive me.”

Jillian swallowed hard and opened her eyes. Rufus had taken pleasure in making her cry, but this large, muscular barbarian with such a light touch didn’t look smug. He looked unsettled. He was probably afraid she’d swoon or start sobbing like a spoiled child. She’d learned long ago not to give in to tears. She blinked them away.

“I’m fine,” she said, “just a bad memory. I’m afraid I’ve made you let your tea get cold.”

“I’m not much of a tea drinker.”

“But the English—” she started to say when a discreet knock sounded on the partially open door. “Yes, Givens?” she asked when the butler entered.

“Miss Marissa Blakely has arrived, my lady.”

“My sister. Oh, this is good news.” Jillian jumped up, grateful that she wouldn’t have to sidestep the questions that were in the Highlander’s eyes. “Please show her in.”

Ian would never have believed they were sisters when he was introduced. Jillian was tall and willowy, but her sister was petite and curvy, with cornflower eyes and yellow sausage curls that bounced around her head as she talked animatedly. Jillian’s cool reserve contrasted severely with her sister’s bounce, enthusiasm and non-stop chatter.

“Oooh,” Mari said now as she spied the tray of sandwiches, “how decadent to have meat at this hour.” She immediately sampled one and grinned. “Better than having cucumber, though, I must say.”

Cucumber sandwiches? Ian looked at the silver tray holding the small, thin wafers on which a mince was spread. The wee morsels were nay but a bite, and he hoped he wouldn’t starve before he returned to Scotland. He watched in fascination as Jillian nibbled on one and thought about nibbling
her
. He would start with a corner of her plump, luscious mouth and then work a trail down her throat to the soft, white mounds that were peeking out past some piece of frilly lace that he longed to pull out from the front of her dress. He wondered how long it would take him to make her blood run hot. He forced himself to listen to the conversation before his kilt started lifting itself.

“I’m so excited,” Mari exclaimed. “I received an invitation to the Foxworth’s tea-dance next week. I’ve been waiting forever to be invited to my first event.”

Jillian smiled. “You’re only sixteen, Mari. Will Aunt Agnes be attending as your chaperone?”

Mari wrinkled her nose. “Yes. I’m sure she won’t even let me have a real dance with a boy either. You know how absolutely rigid she is about rules.”

Rules again. Ian wondered if that’s where Jillian got her ideas from. He was going to have his work cut out for him, getting her to throw that rule book out the door. He smiled inwardly. Not that he’d mind
that
challenge. Then he sobered, remembering the tear that had slipped down her cheek. What rule could she have broken that made her cry?

“You mustn’t speak ill of your aunt,” Jillian replied. “She was kind enough to take you in when Papa…died.”

“But it was more fun when you were raising me, Jill. You let me do all sorts of things like—”

Jillian held up a hand to silence her sister and Ian wished she had let her go on. So the Ice Lady hadn’t always been frozen? Interesting.

“I was hardly more than a child myself, sister. Aunt Agnes probably had to work years to undo my faults. At any rate,” she said brightly, “next year, you’ll be plied with invitations for your Season. You’ll be at every one of Almack’s weekly balls, for I’ve taken care to keep the marquess’s social contacts that you’ll need.”

The lasses seemed to fash a lot about these
social contacts
. He dinna ken why. If a mon were attracted to a lass and she gave him a wee bit of encouragement, what else mattered? His thoughts started to drift to how he was going to make that happen with the very proper, rule-loving Lady Newburn when he realized that both lasses had grown quiet. They’d been talking about the marquess. Was Jillian still mourning him?

“At least he was good for something,” Mari said tartly and Jillian shushed her.

Ian felt a tinge in the air and the hair at his nape prickled. If he had been home in Scotland, the old seer—the Crone of the Hills—would surely have called it
the kenning
. Something bode ill here.

Mari was much more subdued when she spoke again. “Have you heard any more about his son? When he’s returning?”

Jillian nodded. “I had a missive from Lord Liverpool that Wesley Alton will be sailing from Calais within the week.”

Ian spoke up for the first time since the introductions had been made. “What’s a young lad doing in France with the war not over?”

For a moment, a look of amusement flitted over Jillian’s face and then it was gone. “The
lad
, Lord Cantford, is thirty years old.”

Not particularly good news
. “If he’s been in France all this time, why’s he coming home now?”

“It’s a long story.”

“One that I’d like to hear.”

She looked undecided, then sighed. “Well, I guess, since you’ll be staying in his house, you might as well know as much as I do.”

“His house? I thought I was staying here,” Ian said.

“You are. The title and lands go to the heir and the heir is always a male. Wesley inherits these holdings just like you inherited Cantford.”

“But yer husband must have provided for ye in his will.” When she was silent, he shook his head in amazement. “What kind of a mon dinna provide for his wife?” May St. Michael help him. If the mon werna already dead, he would kill him.

“Do you want to hear the story?” she asked before he could make another remark.

At his nod, she continued, “The marquess was sixty years old when…when the marriage to me took place. He’d only had one son from his first marriage. According to what my father told me, that boy, Wesley, disappeared from Eton in 1800. At first, abduction was suspected, but no ransom notes came over the years. No trace of him was found.”

Ian raised an eyebrow. “A wee coincidence that he’s been found now, isna it?”

“I don’t know. When the marquess died two years ago, the Prince of Wales once more renewed the search. This time, his orders included military records. One of the captains serving under Colonel Wellesley found records that didn’t match.” Jillian shrugged. “Apparently, Wesley Alton has been using the alias of Gerard Fountaine and spied for the English, helping turn the battle at Vitoria for Wellington. The prince has declared him a war hero.”

The hair at the back of Ian’s neck bristled again. Something else wasn’t right here. Scotland had its share of French refugees, some desperate to return home now that Napoleon had escaped from Elba and overthrown Louis XVIII, but others had adapted Highland ways. His clan had kept close watch on any who were on their lands and the Fountaine name had emerged a time or two.

Then the kenning hit him, as it had on several other occasions in his life, with a flash of light and a sticking pain in his side as though a
sgian dubh
had pricked him.

According to the French ex-patriots, Gerard Fountaine had helped Napoleon escape from Elba. So whose side was he on? Why was he really coming back to England?

The new marquess was about to invade the space around Jillian Alton too. Would she need protection? Proud as the lady was, she’d no doubt scoff at the idea, but Highland code demanded that while he was her guest, he made sure no harm came to her.

This long-lost son would also suss in a hurry that Ian had decided he would be the one to melt the Ice Lady’s reserves and draw out the passion that no doubt lay under that coat of protection called
rules
.

Ian gave a soft territorial growl. For now, he would protect the lass. Later, when she was willing—with fire burning in her veins instead of frozen water—he would claim her. If he couldn’t, he didn’t deserve to be called a mon.

And no one had ever dared to call him less than a mon.

Chapter Two

Ian was sitting alone at the big dining room table scowling when Jillian walked in the next morning for breakfast. She helped herself to shirred eggs and ham from the sideboard as a servant poured tea for her.

“Will you be needing anything else, my lady?” the gray-haired man asked.

“You may go,” she answered, and wondered at the furtive look he gave the Highlander before scurrying away. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Dobbs move quite so quickly before. She turned her gaze back to Ian who still wore a frown on his face, even though he was now staring at her.