The Rogue of Islay Isle (Highland Isles) Page 10

  She turned the hand that he had stilled, intertwining her fingers with his, and tugged him toward his bed. “Lie upon your back.”

  He watched in torture as Rose crawled slowly onto the bed, her round arse showing as she hiked up her smock. Turning, she patted the thick mattress. His jaw worked as he fought an internal battle. He couldn’t sleep with her. Not when she didn’t know who she was. Not when—

  “Come here,” she said. “I won’t bite.” A spritelike grin tugged at her lips as she shrugged. “Or I will.”

  There was only so much a man could withstand. With a flip of his buckle, Cullen let his kilt drop, exposing his hard body. Rose’s eyes widened slightly. He was large, which had never been a problem before.

  “Are you waiting for me to run away screaming?” she asked, her gaze moving slowly up him to his eyes.

  An appreciative grin spread across his face. “A wildcat never retreats.” He climbed onto the bed, leaning over her for a long, wet kiss. When she began to stroke his bare skin, he nearly took over. But she pressed a hand to his chest, prompting him to recline in the pillows. She leaned over him, kissing him soundly. She trailed nips and licks to his ear.

  “I cannot wait to taste you,” she whispered. He shuddered beneath her stroking hand. Aye, actually shuddered. Never in his life before had Cullen been so hard and ready to explode.

  “Lass, ye are playing with an inferno.”

  “I’m not afraid of fire,” she said, gripping the base. He growled low as she moved, seeming to know exactly how he would like it. Rose leaned forward, letting her breasts sway as she lowered the top of her smock again, her fullness bursting out of the confines. He groaned.

  His mind fought against the surge of need within him. How did Rose know such deliciously wicked play? His wildcat’s past was blank to both of them, and her reactions had been honest and fresh. But all questions blew to mist when, with a saucy smile, Rose lowered her mouth.

  Chapter Ten

  Cullen wrapped his kilt around his middle while watching Rose breathe in and out. She slept, and the dawn light, filtering through the warped windowpanes, cast a warm glow over her bare arms. Her dark brown hair, painted with flashes of gold, lay in tussled curls over his pillow. He’d inhaled its floral scent all night and explored every inch of Rose’s silky skin until he was certain he’d memorized all of her.

  Och, but she was passionate and brazen and full of adventure. Beautiful and mysterious. The things they’d done to each other were certainly not innocent.

  He tied the neckhole of his shirt closed, better to hide the lass’s nibbles and scratches. His delectable wildcat, well versed in the art of love, was a mystery. Cullen stared down at the long, dark lashes against smooth pale skin. He’d loved her in nearly every way, as she did to him, exploring, tasting, bringing each other to shattering completions over and over. They needed to talk when their minds were free of need. Until she remembered her past, he wouldn’t claim her with his body. There were too many questions to do so with honor. He would wait despite both of their obvious desires.

  With a hearty spring in his step, Cullen left the room and descended to the great hall.

  “Good morning to ye,” he called to William and Farlan. They stared at him like he’d just said that cows were pissing from the turrets.

  Cullen broke off a chunk of the dense, aromatic bread sitting on the table and topped it with a slice of yellow cheese.

  “So, what of the Frenchwoman?” William asked.

  “Her name is Rose,” Cullen replied.

  “Her name is not Rose,” William countered. “And ye’d do well to remember that we know nothing about her except that she is French and therefore a traitorous beacon to the English across the strait.”

  Bloody hell, the man could ruin a perfectly beautiful morning like a crusty, black-toothed crone could ruin a lad’s wedding night.

  “Rose,” Cullen stressed, “is our guest.” His mouth hardened into a frown. “I will not throw her to the wolves, so ye can stop asking.”

  Farlan sucked on his teeth. “Have ye told Tor Maclean about her? He is bringing his family here. He might not want to risk them associating with a Frenchwoman with bloody England hunting for a way to mark us as traitors.”

  Cullen knew better than to write about Rose in a letter that could be intercepted. “I will alert him when they arrive. They can return immediately if it doesn’t sit well with him.”

  His mother bustled down the steps and into the hall. She grabbed some cheese. “I’m off with Agnes to find mistletoe. Someone told her there’s bunches hanging on the other side of the loch, not too high up in some birch.” She tied her cloak before her and found a basket near the hearth. “When we return, Rose can help us string it. I don’t suppose ye’ve seen her up yet?” Charlotte looked expectantly at Cullen.

  He shook his head. “Nay, just these two…” He was going to add “cod droppers” but thought better of it.

  A slice of cheese in hand, Cullen strode out of the hall into the crisp winter air, puffs of white breath coming from his mouth. It was invigorating, and he inhaled deeply. He glanced back at the windows lining the top floor of the keep. How would Rose act today? Would his wildcat blush or taunt him more?

  “It should be a crime to smile this early in the morning,” Broc said, walking up to him. He followed Cullen’s gaze upward with a frown. “Aye, ’tis a lovely castle, but no need to cast cow eyes at it, Cull.”

  Cullen slapped him on the back as he strode toward the gates that were opening. “Come now, Broc. The air is fresh, the sun is golden, and Christmastide is nearly here. The world is merry.”

  Broc cursed and caught up as he reached the gates where Errol spoke with one of the younger warriors. “Ye told him about keeping the warning fires ready if needed?” Cullen asked Errol and nodded to the youth.

  “Aye, I’m going over it again before he rides out to the farms along the western shore.”

  “Fresh air? Golden sun? Christmastide? The world is merry?” Broc asked as he scratched his neck. “Something has ye spouting poetic.” He stopped, lowering his arm as one eyebrow rose slowly. “Or is it someone? The lass in the barn?”

  “I’m a jovial sort. Ye’ve said that yourself.” Cullen met Errol’s watchful stare. “What?”

  Errol rubbed a spot on his own neck. “Got a bit of a nibble there.”

  “Bloody hell,” Broc said, circling him. “And here’s another.” He tugged on Cullen’s shirt collar, pulling it down.

  Cullen shoved Broc’s hand away and nodded to the youth. “Kenneth, ye have your orders.” The young warrior jogged off to the stables while Cullen strode out through the gates. The heavy crunch of pebbles told him Errol and Broc followed.

  “Did ye sleep with Bea?” Errol asked, his voice rough.

  Cullen exhaled. “Nay, Errol. She’s all yours.” He looked at his friend who walked beside him. “But bed her soon so she stops sneaking into my room at night.”

  “The twins?” Broc asked. “I hear they climb the secret stairs weekly when ye’re home.” They walked toward the smithy. “Lucky bastard.”

  Cullen snorted, but Broc didn’t seem to notice his dark look and went on. “I hear the first lass to get done with her chores, who makes it to the door in the bushes at the bottom of the stairs, ties her ribbon to the handle to let the rest of the lasses in the village know not to bother the two of ye. That she’s won ye for the night.”

  “Ye hear a bloody lot,” Errol said and kicked a rock in the path, sending it flying up to hit the stone wall around a cottage.

  Cullen spoke low. “The twins are not climbing those steps, at least not since Bea’s been doing it, and Bea’s trying to get me to sleep with her only so she can be the next Lady MacDonald.”

  Broc slapped Errol on his back. “Bea’s being a saddle-goose where Cull’s concerned. Ye know he thinks of her only as a friend.”

  Errol cursed softly. “I wager it’s her mother.”

  “Agnes?” Cullen aske
d, bowing his head politely to three elderly ladies who were whispering in the doorway of a large thatched cottage.

  “Aye,” Errol said. “I heard her saying to Bea that she best not get with child, unless that child be yours.”

  His words sank into Cullen as Broc clicked his tongue. “Really?” Broc said. “Agnes is plotting to get a bed up at the keep.”

  It certainly explained why Bea kept throwing herself at him. Otherwise, if her mother had found her sneaking out to bed a man, the Agnes MacDonald of old would tie her daughter to her own headboard at night.

  “Ye need to marry, Cull,” Errol said. “Then she’ll let Beatrice choose her own man.”

  “If ye weren’t with Bea,” Broc said as they turned down a path toward the edge of the village. “And ye weren’t with the twins.” He tapped his chin with two fingers in exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Who put the merry in your step?”

  Errol’s eyes narrowed. “Someone ye’re supposed to be staying away from?”

  Broc dodged before Cullen, turning to walk backward in front of him. “Aye, instead of sneaking up the stairs, all she’d have to do is walk down the hall. Très convenient,” he said in a poor French accent.

  “I do not talk about lasses,” Cullen said as they stopped at the smithy where the fires were already burning, the tang of hot metal on the breeze.

  Broc laughed. “Bald-faced lie. Ye always talk of the lasses.”

  Errol caught Cullen’s arm. “There will be consequences, Cull, if ye keep a Frenchwoman at Dunyvaig. Unless ye hide her away, ye can’t keep her mute before the English forever. They will know ye lied about her being a Maclean.” He dropped his hold. “Ye are The MacDonald now, not just Cullen Duffie.”

  Errol and his damned clear reasoning could suck the joy from the morning more effectively than his father. He met Errol’s gaze with strength. “As second-in-command, ’tis your duty to advise. Thank ye.” He gave one brief nod. “As a cousin and friend, ’tis none of yer bloody business.”

  “Ballocks, Cull,” Broc said, always one to break the tension. “Meddling about meddling with a lass is what family does.” He grinned, though he stood tense as if he might be called upon to dodge among fists.

  Aye, protecting Rose on Islay was not an easy course of action, but throwing her to the English or sending her away… The thought was a punch to the gut. If there was a way to protect both Rose and his clan, he had to find it.

  Cullen broke the staring contest with Errol and turned to the open-air smithy. “Donald?” he called, his voice gruff. He stepped in, his gaze searching past the stone hearth, billows, and water barrels.

  “Aye, back here,” came the rough voice of the old blacksmith who kept Dunyvaig armed with the strongest swords found on the isles, as well as lethally pointed maces, arrow tips, and spears.

  “Here to see if the crown is ready.” Cullen flexed his jaw and heard his cousins step up on either side of him.

  Errol’s hand came down on his shoulder, making Cullen meet his gaze. His cousin’s scowl softened, and he splayed his elbows out to grab the back of his head, glancing toward the sky. “Cull, do ye remember when my ma died?”

  How could Cullen forget the anguish in Errol’s face when they’d carried Elizabeth MacDonald from her death bed to ready her for burial? William had turned from everyone, too sorrow-filled at the loss of his wife to comfort his son. Cullen had taken Errol away to a cottage mid-island where he could, in private, lament and wail and drink until some of the pain bled out of him. Cullen had stayed with him for days, keeping him company, lending an ear and a shoulder until he was ready to return to Dunyvaig.

  “Aye,” Cullen said.

  Errol nodded. “As The MacDonald ye have my fealty as your second-in-command, but as the man who stayed by my side at my worst, ye have my life and my support,” Errol said.

  “Even if it goes against your father?”

  Errol’s mouth turned upward in a wry grin. “Especially if it goes against my father.”

  “Hear, hear,” Broc said.

  Cullen’s fists relaxed at his sides, and he nodded, glancing between his two best friends. They had faith in him. “Thank ye, but I’m not talking about any lasses, French or Scots.” He turned toward a sleek steel blade Donald had set out, awaiting the binding of a leather hilt. He should have Donald check the balance and sharpness of his grandfather’s sword since his grandfather hadn’t used it for a score of years.

  A young apprentice ran around to the fires, loading more peat and working the billows. Donald shuffled from the back, his decade-old battle wound stealing his once strong stride. He held the polished iron circle out to Cullen. “I was shining it up along with the headpieces for the lasses to use in their Christmas pageant.”

  Cullen took the simple, hammered crown that his grandfather had made long ago for crowning the Christmastide fool in charge of the festivities. Now it was Cullen’s turn to choose the Abbot of Unreason to rule from Christmas morning through Twelfth Night on January fifth.

  “Ye better be careful whose head ye put that on,” Errol said. “Or he may not give it up.” He spoke of his father, no doubt.

  “Wise lad,” Donald said, his mouth twisted up on one side in a smirk, confirming what Cullen had already discerned. All of Islay knew that William and Farlan MacDonald wanted their nephew out of the chief’s seat. They would surely use his desire for a Frenchwoman as leverage against him, if they knew.

  “Thank ye, Donald,” Cullen said, nodding to the man. “Make sure to come up to the keep for some of my aunt’s fine whisky and wassail.”

  Donald’s grin grew, showing more gaps than teeth. “I wouldn’t miss Maggie’s fine whisky for all King Henry’s gold.”

  “How about his head?” Broc jested. “Would ye pass on Maggie’s finest for that?”

  Donald laughed. “I’d miss me own turn at Heaven’s pearly gates to see King Henry’s head cut from his bloody neck.”

  They thanked Donald and strode back to the bailey. Cullen searched the heavy clouds for snow. “My mother would like ye two to find a suitable Yule log for the keep.”

  “So ye really aren’t going to talk, are ye?” Broc asked.

  Cullen flipped the circle of polished steel between his hands. “Ye both read too much into simple morning cheer.”

  “And love bites around your neck,” Errol said.

  Broc elbowed Errol. “Watch to see if any of the lasses have a hard time walking this morning.”

  “Or a blush and a satisfied smile,” Errol added.

  The two of them were as bad as…well, as bad as Cullen had been before his grandfather had died and left the burden of the entire clan on his shoulders.

  …

  The warmth around her seduced Rose to snuggle deeper into the sheets. They smelled of Cullen. They smelled of her. They smelled of the two of them intertwined. Memories of their passion-drenched night surfaced, making Rose’s heartbeat quicken and a rush of sensation to spread through her. She blinked, turning her head on the pillow. Gone. She was alone in his large bed, the dark curtains hanging around the four posts of carved, heavy wood.

  Pushing up on her elbows, Rose looked about the room. A cheery fire danced in the hearth. When she spotted her chemise draped over a chair by the fire, she peeked under the covers, but of course she knew that she was completely nude. “Mon Dieu,” she whispered and touched her tender flesh that was beginning to ache anew from the memories alone.

  A door down the hall closed, and she gasped, eyes wide. To be found naked in Cullen’s bed… What would Charlotte think? A French wanton, seducing her son.

  Rose slid from under the blankets, as silent as a specter, and padded over to the chemise. With a quick yank over her head, it floated down into place. Should she go down the secret stairs? Non. Getting back into the keep unseen would be impossible. She grabbed her robe, pooled in a heap by the hearth, and shrugged into it.

  Her toes curled upward, away from the cold floorboards, as she stood for a long while with
her ear pressed to Cullen’s bedroom door. Nothing. Holding her breath, Rose cracked it, cringing at the spark of sound in the silence. She peeked around the edge. No one. With a quick prayer to God, who was most likely damning her for her licentiousness, she stepped out, shutting the door with a soft click.

  Barefoot and swift, she raced to her own room, yanking the door open and shutting it quickly behind her. The hard wood braced her back as she leaned against it. Her hearth was cold, Dieu merci. No one had come to stir it, only to find her gone, her bed still made.

  Rose took deep breaths and walked to the fire. She used the poker to tap the embers, blowing underneath until a ribbon of smoke curled up. She tossed on some of the brittle straw and a chunk of peat to burn, brushing her hands together.

  The fire caught, warming her face, and she walked to the water pitcher where the surface was edged with ice. The cold in the room was both torture and balm to the heat still threatening to pluck at her body every time she thought of Cullen’s delicious skills.

  Washing and dressing quickly in a green day gown, Rose sat before the polished metal mirror. She touched her tender lips, slightly bruised from their passion. When the erotic ache started to spread again in her pelvis, she pushed away the images and picked up the bone-white comb.

  Rose teased through a snarl, one of many in her curls, and her mind drifted. She breathed, relaxing, and the stone walls of the bedroom seemed to fade to flowered wall coverings. Tinkling laughter echoed in her thoughts. The sounds were joyless, hiding pain and desperation in forced merriment, stringed poppets dancing on a gilt stage.

  Rose stared at the reflection of her wide eyes, green and gray, long lashes curling upward. She touched her cheeks with light fingertips, confused at the brief memories of her past, which had already faded. “Who are you?” she asked the image, but her face looked as frustratingly blank as she felt.

  She exhaled with force. She might not know who she was, but she absolutely knew whom she wanted. Cullen Duffie. The desires he had kindled in her last night were beyond anything she could imagine having practiced before. And even though the motions of some of their play seemed familiar, the feelings she’d experienced with Cullen were new and intense, as if the world before had simply been black and white, and now he’d painted the details in vibrant jewel hues.