Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1 (32 page)

The broth did seem enticingly good. Jillian’s stomach suddenly growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten in more than two days, but she regarded the bowl suspiciously.

“It’s quite all right to eat it,” Delia said in an amused voice. “Your maid watched me ladle it from the kettle.”

Jillian felt her face grow hot again. Did she really suspect Delia was trying to poison her? “Forgive me, Lady Sherrington. It’s just… Well, we’ve never been close. Why are you doing this?”

“To ask for your forgiveness, of course,” she answered.

“Forgiveness for what?” Ian interrupted and took the spoon from Jillian to test the thin soup himself.

Delia arched a delicate eyebrow as she observed him. “If you want me to, I’ll share the bowl of soup with Jillian. I came only to make amends.”

“Amends for what?” Jillian asked when Ian handed back the spoon.

“Well, you see…that unfortunate accident… My skirt got caught in some weeds when I moved toward the quail. I tripped… My gun went off. I think… I mean, I don’t know for sure, but I think maybe it was my bullet that went astray.” She looked at Ian and then back at Jillian. “It was an accident. I should never have been so clumsy. Will you believe me and accept my apologies?”

Jillian felt swamped with relief. It made sense. She had seen how excited Delia had gotten with downing the last bird. The woman was impulsive and likely to have moved quickly without looking where she was going. This just proved that no one was trying to kill Ian.

“Of course,” she said. “We won’t mention it again.”

“Oh, thank you,” Delia said with a big smile and stood. “You are such a kind, understanding person. William will be relieved.”

Jillian hardly heard the rest of what Delia said. All that mattered to Jillian was that Ian was not the target. And that he wasn’t betrothed. Yet.

Ian wasn’t at all sure he trusted Delia’s motives, but at the moment he had no proof to actually doubt her. She had come forward with the admission that it was her gun that went off. The past two days, ever since Jillian had rejoined them downstairs, Delia had only displayed the best of manners.

Still, the hair at his nape prickled, a sign that the kenning was trying to make itself heard. It was times like this that the gift became a curse. Even though he was fairly sure he dinna inherit any fey blood, it still ran in his family. The Faerie Flag of the Macleod’s had been given to an ancestor by a faerie princess, after all.

“Ye are sure the messenger got on board the ship for France?” he asked Sherrington in the library later that morning.

“Word will be waiting for me in London about that,” Sherrington said. “The man I sent to accompany him should return soon, and I will be taking my leave this afternoon to go back also.”

Ian tried not to look too relieved. With Delia gone, he would rest easier about his suspicions. The next thing the earl said made his relief short-lived.

“Unfortunately, Delia will not be accompanying me.”

“Why not? The roads are good. If you need an escort, I’m sure Newburn can provide one.”

Sherrington grimaced. “Newburn asked her to stay. Since Jillian is still recovering, Delia has been asked to act as hostess for him. There are still social obligations, even in the country.”

Ian lifted both brows. “Ye’re her husband. If ye tell Newburn she’s leaving with ye, he can do naught about it.”

“Perhaps,” Sherrington agreed dryly, “but you don’t know Delia. There would be hell to pay. Frankly, her tongue can cut like a blade. Men tire of that quickly. It’s better Newburn finds out firsthand rather than my forcing the issue. I’ll leave Abigail here with her mother. Maybe that will help keep her in line.”

Ian shook his head slightly. “I doona think I will ever understand your Society rules. If a woman were to shame her husband in the Highlands, she would be cast out from the clan’s protection.”

Sherrington nodded. “A good rule. It would certainly keep a number of men from being killed in duels.” He sighed. “But I have my daughter to think about. Once I secure a solid marriage for her, things may change.”

Conflicting emotions ran through Ian’s mind. Irritation that English Society insisted on such trivialities as invitations to parties and balls and where a lass might live or whether there was any scandal in her family. Jillian was battling the same thing for Mari. ’Tis the reason Jillian kept insisting that he become betrothed. A wee bit of guilt also plagued him, for Abigail was a fine lass. She was steady and responsible and would be comely if her mother dressed her differently.

“The lads be fools if they canna see the beauty in your daughter,” Ian said. “She’s got more intelligence in her little finger than the whole group of silly, giggling lasses that flounce about.”

“I don’t suppose you would consider asking for her hand?” Sherrington asked.

Guilt flooded Ian again. If his heart weren’t already given to Jillian—who dinna want it—he would consider the girl. “I am honored that ye think me suitable, especially after what happened with your
…
ah, well, with what happened.”

“The reason I didn’t shoot you is because you’re an honorable man, Cantford. But—” he tilted his head slightly to study Ian, “—I suspect your intentions lie elsewhere.” Ian shifted uncomfortably and Sherrington raised a hand to cut off a response. “Don’t explain. I just had to ask. For Abigail.” He walked to the door and turned before stepping out into the hall. “I hope things work out for you. Lady Newburn needs a good man in her life.”

Ian stared after him. Was he as readily transparent as that or was the earl even more astute than Ian had thought? In either case, Sherrington was right.

Jillian needed a good mon. And that mon’s name was Ian Macleod.

The soldier on duty on the ramparts near the gatehouse sounded his horn the next morning while Ian was finishing breakfast. Jillian looked up from her plate.

“Riders? At this hour?”

Ian’s nape hairs rose. The soldiers didn’t sound that particular horn if they knew who approached. Were the strangers friends or foe? He cursed softly under his breath. Wesley should be up at this hour to greet whoever was outside the gates and to call his men to arms if need be.

“I’m sure there’s nothing wrong,” Jillian said as she rose to her feet.

Ian rose too. “Ye stay here.” He went through the hall and to the front door, taking time to strap on the sword he kept hanging there, much to Mrs. Willows’ displeasure and Adams’s delight. He flung open the door just as he heard the captain of the guard yell, “You can ‘t go in there.”

“Nae? Ye willna stop me. I’ve near ridden my poor beastie to death—”

“Jamie?” Ian asked as he ran down the steps into the courtyard to greet his brother with a bear hug. “What are ye doing here? What is wrong that ye couldna send a messenger? Who is protecting the clan?”

“Och, if ye’ll stop knocking the wind out of me, I’ll tell ye,” Jamie gasped as he stepped away from Ian. “Shane is in charge. As for the rest,” he looked around at the curious soldiers who had gathered around him and his small band of men, “’tis for your ears only, brother.”

Ian forced himself to take a calming breath. If Shane Macleod, their cousin, were in charge, all should be well. Shane was the thinker in the family, not one to be easily swayed. He was also huge, a man whose looks intimidated and hid the scholarly soul beneath the braw warrior. Still, if Jamie had seen the need to bring this news to Ian himself, something was very wrong.

“Come with me,” he said and turned, only to bump into Jillian.

He glowered at her. “Dinna I tell ye to stay inside?”

She met his gaze calmly. “I did, until I realized this was your brother. It would be rude of me not to greet him.” She moved around Ian to smile at Jamie. “I am Lady Newburn. I’m afraid my stepson, the marquis, is indisposed at the moment. Welcome to Newburn Hall.”

Jamie grinned and gave his brother a knowing look. Ian looked heavenward. He could already read the unspoken questions in his brother’s tawny eyes.

“’Tis a pleasure. My brother’s letter said naught that ye were beautiful.”

Ian watched as Jillian’s lovely ivory skin turned pink and jealousy such as he had never known pierced through him. He wanted Jillian to blush only for him. Damn his good-looking brother’s sorry hide. How many times had he watched the lasses stumble over their own feet when Jamie bestowed that smile on them? Even now, his eyes deepened to the color of malt whisky, a sure sign that he was about to move in on his prey. Ian stepped between them. “This way,” he said between clenched teeth.

“Aye,” Jamie said, but his eyes didn’t leave Jillian’s face. “I look forward to seeing ye later then.”

Ian said no more until they were seated in the library with the door closed. “What’s the trouble, Jamie?”

His brother’s face lost the half-smile he’d been wearing. “There are rumors.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“That ye are becoming an Englishmon.”

“Bah! Ye doona ken how ridiculous English Society is. ’Tis a never-ending round of parties and balls and silly lasses. I grow weary of it all.”

A corner of Jamie’s mouth quirked up. “Really? Have ye grown tired of the young widow so soon?”

“Ye leave her out of this.”

Jamie’s grin widened. “So it’s like that?”

Ian clenched his jaw. “’Tis not like anything. Ye just leave her alone.”

“I doona think I’ve seen ye so flustered, big brother. The lass must be—”

“Silence! Ye’ll say no more!” Ian roared.

Jamie’s golden eyes locked onto his for a moment, rather like a wolf deciding if the bear he’d cornered was worth the fight. Then he shrugged. “I’m not here to battle ye. We have bigger concerns. Our die-hard uncle, Duncan, has challenged the leadership of the clan.”

“What?” Ian couldn’t believe his ears. Duncan MacNair was his mother’s younger brother and still believed strongly that Bonnie Prince Charlie should have won the war and that the English were nothing more than mad dogs. “What’s got him in such a lather?”

“A Frenchmon came north not long after ye went south. He asked questions about the French who live on our land.”

Ian wrinkled his forehead. “Andre Picard and Henri Robillard? What did he want with them? And who was this mon?”

“His name was Louis Tredeau. They said he asked questions about their allegiance to France. Whether they would be willing to help Napoleon if he needed it.”

Ian felt as though his stallion had just kicked him. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the letter to Marshal Ney was
found
in the ledger while Liverpool was visiting and a Frenchmon was on his lands asking questions. The name Louis Tredeau didn’t mean anything to Ian, but the scheme reeked of Wesley Alton.

“Go on. How did Duncan get involved in this?”

“Tredeau was blethering on in the pub that ye were doing well on your estate. So well that ye were planning to take an English wife…” Jamie paused, but Ian kept his face expressionless. “Well, ye know what kind of an uproar that brought. Then Tredeau said ye would be sending an Englishmon north to manage your lands.”

Ian clenched his fists. “Ye know I would never turn our lands over to the English. I am the laird!”

“I ken. But the Frenchmon was most persuasive, especially after he bought drams for everyone. He says ye have found favor with the prince, that he wants ye betrothed to an Englishwoman and that ye are to send an Englishmon to manage in your stead. Broc Moffat was there…”

Ian groaned. Broc was a by-blow of Ian’s grandfather and half-brother to Duncan. Moffat had asked to court Fiona, but Ian had forbidden it, mostly because his sister had begged him not to marry her to the man. “And Broc spread the rumor to Duncan?”

Jamie nodded. “Ye know how hot-tempered Duncan is and pig-headed as well. Once he has the notion in his noggin, ’tis only a tree trunk that can dislodge it.”

What Jamie said was true. The man had a vile temper, but he was a strong warrior and respected by most of his men. What was worse, Ian couldn’t deny at least part of the rumor. His only meeting with the prince had gone favorably and the prince did want him betrothed to an Englishwoman.

“There’s only one way to stop him,” Jamie said.

Ian began to pace and ran his fingers through his hair, knowing what he had to do. “Aye,” he said at last. “I must come home to Scotland.”

Jillian sipped her wine slowly at dinner that night. Her stomach had been unsettled since the accident, and for some reason the wine tasted bitter, but that probably had more to do with her thoughts than the actual wine.

Ian had told her earlier that he would have to return to Scotland to settle some dispute over leadership. Although she understood his reasons, a part of her would miss him tremendously, even though she should feel relieved at the separation. It would help her adjust to his moving to his own estate when he returned and took a wife.

“Would either of ye ladies care for more pudding?” Jamie asked as he picked up the serving spoon. He turned to his right and smiled at Abigail. She blushed furiously, seemingly unable to speak.

“It’s impolite not to answer the man,” Delia snapped from across the table.