The Rogue of Islay Isle (Highland Isles) Read online

  “A fumbling kiss or awkward fondling doesn’t make one a virgin, Cull,” Beatrice said with an exasperated sigh.

  Cullen stood tall, his arms crossing his chest. “She is intact. I have verified it physically.”

  “God’s balls,” Grace swore on a whisper, making Ava cough into her handkerchief, and Tor clear his throat. Rose couldn’t make herself look at Cullen’s best friend beside her. What in heavens must he think? What must all of them think?

  It took a full two seconds for the information to penetrate Beatrice’s sotted mind. Her triumphant smile twisted into a sneer. “Nay.” Her eyes shifted to Agnes who walked around Errol to take her daughter’s arm.

  “To home, Beatrice,” she said and bowed her head to Cullen’s mother. “A lovely stew, Charlotte.”

  No one moved. Rose sucked in air through her nose. They all could picture what she and Cullen had done together. Could I but inhale enough to shrivel into a tiny husk and blow away on the winter wind.

  As the front doors closed behind them, Charlotte grabbed the basket of bread and handed it across to Hamish. “There’s plenty more. Errol, pass the fish this way, please,” she said, freeing Errol from his statuesque prison to pass and sit. When Cullen sat, Rose looked down at her plate where a sea trout fillet and cooked turnips stared back. How was she going to eat?

  A little hiccup burst from Grace, and she pressed two fingers to her lips. She took a full breath and let it out, her gaze connecting to Rose. “I never thought you were a courtesan, knew you couldn’t be, just like Cullen.” Her eyes opened wide. “Well, not just like Cullen.” She flapped her hands and swore again under her breath.

  Ava laughed slightly. “Don’t mind her. In England we don’t talk about a woman’s virginity at gatherings, and tension makes Grace swear, at least since we’ve come to Scotland.”

  Mairi’s laughter burst from her tight lips. She leaned forward. “We don’t on Mull either. Talk about a lass’s virginity, that is. But we swear plenty.”

  “Back to eating,” Charlotte said, popping a bite of fish into her mouth. But Rose couldn’t move, and neither did Cullen. A heavy silence lay about the room. Errol cracked his knuckles, apologizing. Grace hiccupped again. Ava’s sip from her cup sounded loud in the silence.

  Broc swore and rose, moving himself and his plate up the table to fill in one of the two empty seats. “All this quiet will curdle this good meal in my stomach.” He thumped his tankard on the table and raised it high. “To Rose and the fact that she indeed is not a courtesan.”

  Tor was the first to pick up his own tankard to copy Broc, followed by Errol, Mairi, and Grace. Ava laughed and lifted her cup of wine, while Charlotte tsked but did the same. Even Tor’s second-in-command, Hamish, lifted his tankard in salute. Cullen didn’t move, nor did his uncles.

  “Hear, hear,” Errol agreed, looking down toward Rose.

  How should she respond? All she could think to do was smile and nod toward Broc in silent acceptance.

  Cullen rubbed his face and answered a question Tor asked him about his aunt’s whisky. Everyone began to eat once again. Cullen turned his face to Rose, though she kept her gaze straight ahead, landing on the dragonflies in the tapestry near the hearth. “A private discussion is warranted,” Cullen murmured.

  “Private?” she asked, as she tried to subdue the defensive feeling rising up within her. “I was starting to think that the Scots revealed everything before the whole clan.”

  Cullen grumbled something in Gaelic. “Come.”

  At least she could escape the meal, which stared up from her plate with filmy eyes. When Cullen stood, she rose, too, and rested her hand on his offered arm. Her heart pounded, sending tingles down her fingers and into her numb legs.

  “Ye can’t leave,” Charlotte said in frustration as the dinner fell further apart. “Ye haven’t crowned the Abbot of Unreason.”

  Cullen reached down beside the table and pulled up the crown of hammered iron. He set it before his plate with a clank. “I will let ye all choose. Excuse us.”

  Rose propelled her legs to keep up with Cullen as they strode past the dark alcove toward the back of the keep that opened into the gardens. He stopped in the corridor, releasing her arm. Two sconces in the hall gave only enough light to keep one from running into the chiseled stone walls that arched the length of the corridor. In the darkness, Cullen’s eyes looked black, his face drawn in fierce lines.

  They were alone, utterly alone, and she had only her wit for defense. Yet she wasn’t frightened. Not of Cullen. He’d shown his honor the other night by not taking her maidenhead. The thought washed a layer of her irritation away, and she exhaled in a sigh. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  Cullen strode across the narrow width and back. “I meant to ask ye in the alcove before dinner if ye knew.”

  “Like I have said,” she whispered. “I cannot remember my life before. Only vague feelings and directions about things like herbs and…” She indicated the two of them with a flip of her hand. “What happened the other night.”

  His stare stretched long, the silence heavy with the stones surrounding them. Finally he cleared his throat. “Ye have memories about…learning how to do what we did?” he asked, his arms crossing over his chest. “Or doing those things with other men?”

  A sinking feeling made it hard to inhale. What type of person had she been? She swallowed and flung her fingers, stretched wide in frustration. “I have no idea.” She shook her head, frustrated anger flaring up. “I don’t remember where I learned what a man might like, Cullen.”

  “Yet ye showed no shock or hesitancy.”

  His words were low, and she could almost pick up condemnation in them. Or was she imagining it? “Neither did you,” she pointed out, her voice rising.

  “I’m not a virgin.”

  “Are you upset that I could give you pleasure?” she asked. “Angry for touching you, making you quake and strain and roar?” He stared at her, and she watched his face tense with anger or mounting passion, she wasn’t sure which.

  A woman’s words are her power. She could tip a man from one extreme to the other simply by stringing together the right words. And heaven forbid, Rose knew which way she wanted to tip Cullen.

  She took a step toward the middle of the corridor to face him. “Were you shocked, Cullen Duffie, when my teeth razed along your skin or when my lips closed around your length?” Her voice lowered, a whisper in the shadows. “Did you wish I were a meek lady instead?” She rested her palm on his chest and looked up at his face in the thick shadows, curling her fingers into his shirt front. “Demure and restrained instead of running my tongue along you. Lapping at you,” she whispered.

  The deep sound of a growl came from the back of his throat, and he reached for her, his mouth covering hers. He pulled her with him to lean back against the wall, his legs braced apart with her between them.

  All Rose’s thoughts of strategy shattered. Lips slanted against each other, and Cullen’s fingers raked through her hair, dislodging her hood and coiffure. She raked her nails over his broad shoulders, pressing her pelvis into his erection that she could feel through the many layers separating them. He lowered his hold to grasp her backside, rubbing her deliciously against him until she gasped out a small moan.

  Everything about Cullen was tantalizing, and she ached for him. Last night had done nothing to diminish her desire for the Highland chief, the exquisite warrior with soft, laughing eyes. The power he held in check, the muscles beneath his skin, his smell, the way his hands cupped her with urgency, as if she made him lose the civil part of his mind. All of it called to Rose, luring her into a fierce tempest of desire that she had no wish to calm.

  With the quickness of lightning, Cullen swung Rose so that her back was to the wall and ripped his mouth from hers, spinning around. She blinked in the darkness at his broad shoulders, her breathing ragged.

  “So…I’ve been elected,” came Broc’s voice from before them in the corridor. “And
the Abbott of Unreason has come to find ye two, as Ava Maclean wishes, in order to give Rose an early Christmas gift.”

  Rose rested her forehead into Cullen’s back as she mentally restitched her composure. She breathed deeply, using Cullen and the wall to keep her standing.

  “And…” Broc continued in a slow, apologetic voice. “The length of time ye two are down here is being noted. Thought ye might want to know.”

  “William and Farlan?” Cullen said, his voice low and ragged.

  “One glance from Charlotte and they shut their gobs. I think your mother’s going to run swords through anyone threatening to disrupt the festivities further tonight.”

  Mon Dieu. Poor Charlotte. “Of course,” Rose said from behind Cullen’s back. “We will be there momentarily.” As she peered around Cullen’s arm, she blinked at the bright torch Broc raised high, illuminating the whole corridor. Her hood lay on the floor between them.

  “And um, Cull…” Broc started and rubbed the tips of his fingers on his chin. “Ye might want to have the lass walk in front of ye.” He dipped his gaze to the front of Cullen’s kilt. He turned, his boots clipping softly as he strode toward the great hall.

  Cullen retrieved her hood and took a deep breath, cursing softly. “I didn’t mean to attack ye here.”

  Rose tried to fix her hood with the few pins she could find scattered at her hem. She shook her head and dropped her hands. He’d kept a step between them, but she could still feel the erotic pull of their unquenched desire. She looked up into his eyes. “Anger feeds into passion, Cullen. It was inevitable.”

  “We aren’t finished,” he said, and she couldn’t quite tell if it was a threat or a promise. She felt a shiver tickle through her, pearling her nipples under her bodice.

  “Absolutely not,” she said in agreement and took his offered hand. She glanced down at his kilt as they walked through the pool of firelight from a lit sconce. “And I think Broc was right about me walking in front of you into the hall,” she said.

  His hand moved to the erection proudly tenting his kilt. At the mouth of the great hall, he shifted behind her, bending to whisper into her ear. “Aye, we are absolutely not finished.”

  …

  “Here they come now,” Broc stated, standing to the side of the hearth, the crown lopsided on his head. Everyone had moved away from the table, and Errol was adding more peat and logs to the fire.

  Would they notice that Rose’s hair was undone? Cullen plucked out one pin that dangled as if waving for attention.

  “Wonderful,” Charlotte said, indicating a chair for Rose. When she sat, Cullen moved to stand behind her, much to Broc’s merriment. His cousin grinned broadly as Cullen tried to picture his Uncle Farlan naked. Ballocks. That vision would geld any man.

  “Even though we don’t usually give gifts until the first of January, Ava wishes to give Rose and Charlotte their gifts now,” Broc announced.

  “They are from both Grace and me,” Ava said, lifting two small wooden boxes topped with dried flowers. She set one in Charlotte’s lap while Grace carried the other over to Rose.

  “I picked this one for whomever might be another lady of Dunyvaig,” Grace said. “I had no idea you were French at the time.” She giggled.

  William coughed into his fist and retreated to the table, while Farlan crossed his arms and leaned against the wall next to the hearth. Cullen noticed his mother’s murderous look. It must be what was keeping them quiet. Not only was Rose not in a dungeon or tied to a boat sailing her over to Captain Taylor, she was being given a gift as a lady of Dunyvaig.

  His mother and Rose untied the ribbons holding the lids on top. “Ye are really so thoughtful,” his mother said. She pulled out a glass bottle from a nest of cloth. Rose did the same.

  The bottle was made of thick white glass with a liquid inside. “’Tis a sweet balm,” Grace said. “We thought you might want to wear some during the holidays.”

  Rose wiggled off the thick stopper and held it to her slanted little nose. Cullen watched her inhale, a merci already on her lips, lips he’d been plundering minutes ago in the dark corridor. Bloody hell, he couldn’t keep his head around her. What had happened to his famed control? Her words alone made him wild with want. Uncle Farlan. Uncle Farlan naked. He couldn’t keep thinking about Rose’s perfect lips in polite company.

  “It’s lovely,” Charlotte said. “Thank ye so much.”

  “We bought the scented oils from a peddler traveling along the isles,” Grace said.

  Ava gave a wry grin. “Even though Tor and Hamish wanted to kill him.”

  “He looked suspiciously English,” Hamish said from his seat farther back from the fire.

  Ava waved her hand. “One can’t look English unless he’s wearing a red military jacket. Anyway, he had all sorts of these balms, and we picked out a few. I thought the one for you, Lady Charlotte, had a deliciously warm scent.”

  “It is perfect for me,” his mother said as she touched a bit to the pulse point on her wrist.

  Grace raised onto her toes and smiled down at Rose. “Even though I had no idea you were French, I chose this floral scent. The peddler said it was directly from France. It’s a French flower.”

  “A lily,” Rose said, her face oddly blank, pale even.

  “A lily?” Grace continued without notice. “Of course. Ava, it’s a lily. Well, the man said it was a very sought-after fragrance in France, especially among the royals.”

  When Rose didn’t respond, Cullen squatted before her, bringing his face level with hers. “Lass?” He slowly disentangled her cold fingers from the glass bottle and replaced the stopper. “What is it?”

  “Oh my,” Grace said, taking the gift when Cullen passed it to her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Rose?” Cullen said and cupped her cheeks to bring her eyes to his. They were dark in the dimness of the room, but the look in them was startling. Brows slightly drawn, her lips cracked open, she looked like she was lost somewhere between shock and weeping. “Rose, lass. Ye’ve remembered something,” he said, searching her eyes.

  “The smell,” Tor said behind him.

  Joan stood. “Smells can be very powerful at bringing forth memories.”

  “Rose?” Cullen said again, coaxing her back.

  She finally took in a breath, her gaze connecting with his. “Not Rose,” she said slowly. “Madeleine. Madeleine Renald.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rose remained perfectly still as the ghosts of her past swam around her like fish in a pond. She sat in a garden of spring lilies, bright green leaves holding white, fragrant bells while bees and butterflies moved on a breeze. A dark-haired lady paced before her, speaking in French and punctuating most of her sentences with a flipping of her slender hands.

  You are naturally beautiful, Madeleine. You have learned grace and manners, languages, the womanly arts of seduction, and everything you need to be a success. The lady was Claire Renald, her mother. She stopped before her and nodded approvingly. You will be my greatest accomplishment. It is time to return to court.

  “Rose,” Cullen’s voice called, and she reached past the fading images to focus on his kind, worried eyes.

  “Didn’t ye hear her?” William said, coming up beside them. “Her name is Madeleine.”

  Rose blinked, her world settling back to the present. “Je vais bien,” she said.

  “She says she is well,” Ava translated, bending forward so that her concerned face hovered near Cullen’s shoulder.

  “Can she speak only French now?” Farlan asked.

  “I am well,” Rose repeated, this time in English.

  “Did everything come back to ye?” Charlotte asked.

  “Give her a minute,” Cullen said, stroking her cheek. “Ye’re very pale.”

  Rose wet her lips. “I was startled.” She looked up to meet Charlotte’s eyes. “I was in a garden of lilies.” Her brow wrinkled as she looked down at her hands in her lap. “With my mother, I think. She said we were to go t
o court.”

  “I knew she was royal,” Farlan said.

  Rose shook her head. “I do not think I am royal. Possibly well-bred and taken to court.”

  “Ye can’t remember more?” Cullen asked.

  “Non.”

  “That’s normal,” Joan said, stepping closer. “May I?” Cullen gave her room, and she took Rose’s wrist to feel her pulse, touched her head, and looked closely at her eyes, finally standing. “I’ve had a few patients with memory loss back at Aros. In two of them, their memories trickled back one at a time. After something like a smell that awakened a strong memory, the rest followed within a few weeks, filling in the missing parts. Although the actual accident that caused the memory loss never came back.” She patted Rose’s hand. “It sounds like you’ll start remembering soon.”

  Rose wasn’t certain that she wanted her memories returned. Even the beautiful setting of the lily garden was muted by a dark, anxious feel. Her mother had smiled, but something sharp lurked behind it.

  “Do ye know the name?” Farlan asked William.

  The bald man stroked his short beard under his perpetual frown. “Nay, but that means very little. If I made it a habit of learning the names at the French court, the English would be sure to hear of it. Like they will probably hear of our French guest.”

  Cullen stood, shielding her. “Madeleine is still under my protection.”

  Her name in Cullen’s mouth made her stomach clench. “Call me Rose,” she said, prompting them all to look at her. “Until I have my memories back, I feel much more like Rose here.”

  “Also,” Tor said, “if the English hear her real name, it might pull their attention to Dunyvaig.”

  The weight of Rose’s memories lay across her like a wet bag. She’d come from a very different world, one filled with opulence and shallow morals. It was nothing like the relatively wholesome life here at Aros. “I think I will retire for the night.”