The Rogue of Islay Isle (Highland Isles) Read online

Mairi came to her side. “That sounds like a wonderful idea after my journey.” Her strong arm clasped Rose’s as she stood.

  “I will help ye to your room,” Cullen said, but Mairi waved him off. Rose met his gaze. Could he read her exhaustion? She wasn’t up for the fire of their discussion or argument or mutual seduction, whatever it was.

  “Rose knows where it is,” Mairi said. “I will make certain she finds her bed.”

  Blessedly Tor’s sister realized Rose’s need for quiet, and they climbed the turning stairs in silence. The bed was plenty big enough for the two of them, and Rose settled under the quilts after they’d washed and changed.

  “Thank ye for sharing your room with me,” Mairi said as she blew out the candle on the bedside table.

  “Thank you for not asking me if I remember anything more,” Rose said into the inky darkness, her eyes still open toward the blackened windowpanes.

  Mairi laughed softly, the tone more tainted than joyful. “I’ve been questioned continuously before, and it’s tiring.” Tor’s sister yawned. “This bed is so comfortable. It must be filled with goose down.”

  Her words trailed away, and within minutes Rose could hear the soft, even breathing of sleep coming from the other side of the bed. She turned slowly so as not to jounce the mattress and stared upward at the underside of the canopy.

  The scene in the lily garden played before her in the shadows. Her mother’s voice was soft, yet her fingers were sharp and pinching if Madeleine veered at all from the path Claire Renald had planned for her daughter. Was she Claire’s only child? The one who would win her a spot at court again? The French court? Oui, at Château de Blois and another castle. Amboise. Yes, there was another chateau there. The lily garden was in the countryside where Rose had been raised, but her mother preferred the sophistication of town and court. Yet when Rose thought of the smooth white stone façade of the château and intricate ironwork around the windows and roofline, a chill shook through her. Madeleine did not like court. At all.

  …

  Music played. Haunted chords and laughter echoed with clinks of gold plates. Gilt walls tilted oddly, the fleur-de-lis patterns reaching from floor to ceiling. Every corner Madeleine turned gave her pause. Lumbering shadows followed behind her as she fled on slippers. She reached a door and turned the golden knob, pushing into the sanctuary of the room she shared with her mother. Claire wasn’t there, wouldn’t be until dawn when the parties ended and she came back to sleep until noon.

  Madeleine loved the feel of the sheets on her legs, so cool and smooth compared to homespun weave in their country home. She closed her eyes, the darkness enveloping her in the luxurious bed. The sound of merriment was muted here on the second floor, one of hundreds of bedrooms for those lucky enough to be accepted at court. Exotic foods, silk linens, warm baths whenever requested. Of course her mother wanted them to live here, despite the dangers. “I want only what is best for you, Madeleine. What is best for you is best for both of us.”

  Footsteps outside the door caused Madeleine to twist in the sheets until her legs felt clasped in them, silken shackles around her ankles, making her struggle. “Be still.” Her mother’s voice made her blink, and the face of Claire Renald loomed over her. “Be still.” She leaned in to whisper at her ear. “Don’t say a word.” Claire’s face pulled back, but candlelight cut through the shadows to show a man standing beside her, a large man. A king.

  “She is lovely,” the king said and ran a hand down Madeleine’s cheek, his palm pressing flat on the exposed skin of her chest, pinning her to the bed. He leered under his long nose and thin, oiled mustache. Could he feel her heart slamming under the skin? Giving away the terror she felt?

  “Oui, she is of royal blood, and she has skills,” Claire said. “I have tutored her in all manners, your majesty, those of a lady and those of a courtesan.”

  The king turned toward Claire’s voice in the shadows. “But she is a virgin, oui?”

  “Bien sûr. I have guarded her for you, your majesty.”

  Madeleine watched in horror as he climbed over her in the bed, pressing his hardness against her pelvis through the sheets as he sucked and slobbered along the skin of her neck. She couldn’t breathe with the weight of his bear-like body crushing her. His fingers were manacles, holding her arms out to the sides. She wanted to scream, but Claire had warned her to stay quiet, and she would be slapped if she made a noise. “Tu es à moi,” he whispered against her ear, his breath hot and heavy with wine. “You are mine.”

  Ma mere? How could she stand back and let the king do this to her? Betrayal sliced like a hot knife through Madeleine. Hate broke through her fear, bubbling strength into her arms as she snapped them away from his meaty hands. He pulled back, startled, and focused on her face. But instead of anger, Madeleine saw an excitement that sent a chill through her. Slowly he lifted off of her and turned to the darkness.

  “Have her at the ball tomorrow night, dressed to enchant.” He pulled something from his coat, the sound familiar as the pearls hit against one another, tinkling. “For her to wear.” He glanced back at Madeleine, lying flat in the bed where she’d been left. “A gift for my new mistress, in payment for her virginity.”

  He turned back to Claire, his hand sliding up and down over his erection. “But tonight, you will do quite nicely.”

  “Of course, your majesty.” And the bear attacked.

  Madeleine squeezed her eyes shut and slapped her palms to her ears to block out the noise. Non!” she yelled. “Non.”

  “Rose,” a woman’s voice called, and she felt her wrists grabbed tightly as she fought. “Rose, wake up.”

  Rose’s eyes flew open, her breath catching on a choke as she stared upward at a woman’s face. Who was she? Where was she?

  “Breathe,” the woman said. “That’s it. Ye were having one bloody hell of a nightmare.” She slowly released Rose’s wrists and sat back on her heels, watching her warily.

  “I…I’m sorry,” Rose murmured as Mairi’s name came back to her. “Did I wake you?” Dawn filtered through the windowpanes.

  She shrugged and scooted back to her side of the bed. “No matter. I was about to get up anyway.” But instead of rising, she leaned against the headboard and frowned at Rose. “I’m fairly experienced with nightmares, having had many myself, but it seemed like ye couldn’t breathe, and ye tried to punch me.”

  “Mon Dieu,” Rose said, pushing onto her elbows. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “Nay,” Mairi said. “I’m fast at dodging, after growing up with Tor. He’d wished to turn me into a brother by making me fierce. I woke often to surprise attacks when I was a lass.”

  Rose rubbed her hands over her face and noticed that they shook.

  “Ye’re remembering more,” Mairi said. “And it doesn’t look like it’s pleasant.” She slid out of the bed and padded across to the small jug of watered wine in the room, pouring out a cup. She returned and handed it to Rose.

  “Thank you.” Rose let the wetness wash the bitter taste of fear from her mouth. Where normal dreams faded quickly upon waking, horror did not. It seemed to sit within Rose’s chest, spreading out to coat her with a slick feel of oily dirt. “I wonder if I could order a warm bath. That might help.”

  “I’m sure Charlotte could see to it.” Mairi sat on the edge of the bed, her face growing serious. “I don’t pry because I don’t like others to pry into my affairs. But if ye’d like to talk ever, I have two ears and tight lips.” She cupped her ears and squeezed her lips hard together.

  Rose found her first real smile, and with it came the ability to fully inhale. “Thank you, Mairi.” Tor’s sister seemed sincere, but the thought of telling her about the horrible dream washed the smile from her lips. What would Mairi think of her if she knew what had played before Madeleine’s eyes? What she’d been told she must do? Non. She would keep her memories to herself while she figured out what was real and what was only a nightmare.

  …

  Cullen
nodded to his mother as he and Tor strode into the great hall, their hair still damp from washing for the Christmas Eve feast. She stood with Joan near the mantel.

  “Your hall looks so festive,” Ava said where she sat before the hearth, hands resting on her gently protruding belly.

  “And much less scorched than Aros,” Grace said beside her.

  Tor snorted. Cullen slapped his hand down on his friend’s shoulder. “Ye have the rascal responsible restoring the keep while ye’re here?”

  “Aye, with constant oversight,” he said and took the tankard of ale Cullen handed him. They’d been hunting and had brought down several large bucks and another boar that were being gutted and cleaned in the bailey. He surveyed the hall, but Rose was absent, as was Mairi. They had walked arm in arm after breakfast as Rose showed her around Dunyvaig.

  “Hold the blasted door,” Broc yelled from the entryway, sending Cullen to help him and Errol with the Yule log they’d found, fallen and dry, in the small forest, mid-island. The three of them carried it to the hearth, setting the large end in the gaping stone maw to the side of the fire. They would light the end tonight at midnight with the ashes of last year’s log, and keep it burning through the twelve nights of Christmas, as was tradition.

  Joan sat on the edge of the stage Hamish, Errol, and Broc had built earlier in the day for the Christmas pageant that Beatrice had organized. She’d stayed clear of the keep since her drunken outburst last night, but the pageant was still planned.

  Errol and Broc trudged back out, most likely to wash before the Christmas Eve celebration.

  “Have ye seen Rose and Mairi?” Cullen asked, his gaze turning to the dark alcove. He hadn’t had a moment alone with Rose since their tryst in the corridor.

  “They went above to change for dinner,” Ava said.

  Grace glanced at Ava with a smirk. “They asked us to accompany them on their walk around your small lake outside the village, but I don’t walk near water with Ava, especially in winter.”

  Ava huffed. “You’d have everyone thinking that I would push you in.”

  “No,” Grace said, fixing the cuffs of her slim, decorated sleeves. “I’m convinced that the world becomes off-kilter whenever you are around water, making me lose my balance or slip or trip or something of the kind.”

  “Really?” Ava said. “I tip the world?”

  Grace pursed her lips and nodded. “Apparently.” They both stared for a moment at each other before breaking into light feminine laughter.

  “Has the celebration already started?” Mairi called as she stepped out of the alcove from the stairs. But Cullen’s gaze slid right off her to Rose, who followed.

  “Good,” his mother said. “Rose is wearing the gown we had made for her. Mildred is so talented with the needle. And Ellen helped. It turned out splendid, although anything on her would be stunning.” She spoke to Joan, but Cullen couldn’t agree more. Rose was stunning.

  She walked with poise over the polished wood floors, the edge of her full, steely-blue skirts whispering with each step. The material parted in front to show a pale underskirt with burgundy embroidery of swirls and flowers. The sleeves encased her arms, leading up to her slender, straight shoulders. The bodice came to a V down the front, covered with the same wine-colored embroidery as the underskirt, and the neckline was square and low, showing her creamy skin and the gentle swell of her bosom.

  Cullen inhaled, knowing how that warm skin would smell, how it would feel under his fingers, his lips.

  Rose’s hair was woven onto her head, a circle of matching fabric perched like a crown. A soft smile sat on her lips, her cheeks pink and lashes long and dark. She stopped and bowed to the room before moving closer. He met her gaze and gave a brief, slow nod. The dress brought out the traces of blue in her eyes.

  William and Farlan stomped inside alongside Hamish. “How many swords does Aros have in reserve?” William asked.

  “More than we have arms to hold them,” Hamish replied, heading to the sideboard where tankards stood full and ready for thirsty mouths.

  “How many?” Farlan asked. “Fifty, one hundred?”

  “Hundreds,” Tor called. He walked toward the men. “Enough to equip Dunyvaig if need be.”

  “Ye would come if the English storm us?” William asked.

  “The Beast of Aros,” Tor said, speaking of himself, “and my clan, back Cullen Duffie, as do the MacInnes.” He’d apparently embraced the name Beast, which used to annoy him.

  “Ye back the MacDonalds of Dunyvaig,” William repeated.

  Tor’s grin was wry. “Nay. We back Cullen Duffie. I do not know the MacDonalds. I know Cullen, and he has my oath.”

  William nodded, his gaze crossing to Cullen.

  “Enough talk of swords and English,” Charlotte called. “’Tis Christmas Eve, and here is the start of the feast.” Ellen pushed in a cart laden with platters, the aroma reminding Cullen that he hadn’t eaten for hours.

  This time Cullen wouldn’t waste his time trying to follow dining propriety. He walked directly to Rose and offered her his arm. A slight uncertainty crossed her forehead, but it smoothed quickly. She placed her gloved fingers on his sleeve.

  “Ye look lovelier than all of Christmastide,” he said.

  She canted her head. “Don’t let Charlotte hear you disdain her grand decorations.” She spoke of the garlands that had been draped from rafter to rafter, providing a bright green backdrop for the red berries wherever one looked. Evergreens gave off the fresh tang of pine to blend with the scent of the oil lamps and cloves. Candles glittered in all the chandeliers and sconces, filling the room with gay light.

  “I stand by my assessment,” he countered and led her to sit next to him at the top of the table. She lowered into her seat as Cullen imagined a princess might, her head held regally straight yet without being stiff.

  Agnes joined them, thankfully without her daughter, and she didn’t say another word about Rose’s knowledge of abortives. Charlotte may have threatened her with the blade she said she always wore.

  The venison was tender, as was the goose, and the fish was fresh and seasoned to perfection. Turnips and carrots and freshly baked braids of bread accompanied rabbit stew. His aunt, Maggie, brought another cask of whisky and stayed for wassail.

  Donald, the blacksmith, and his wife and apprentice arrived for sugared plums. Laughter and the low hum of conversation wove around the table. With each new guest, Cullen rose to greet them, bringing them to the comfort of the table and warm hall. No one questioned Rose’s presence or accent. Perhaps they trusted Cullen more than he thought.

  When the quartet of musicians set up, Broc clapped his hands, his iron crown skewed on his head. “A dance, my good men.” He nodded to the lead player who strummed his wooden lute. Within minutes they started a lively tune for a pavan dance. The lute, wooden flute, and viola blended together, led by the merry beat of the drums. People formed pairs in the center of the hall between the table and the hearth.

  Cullen excused himself from the gatekeeper and walked to where Rose sat. He offered her his hand. “Do ye know how to dance?”

  She watched the pairs forming two lines. “The tune sounds familiar.”

  Cheerfulness loosened his stiff shoulders when she set her hand in his, and he led her to the end of the paired lines. They stood opposite each other. Cullen nodded, his heart feeling light. They stepped together for palms to touch, retreated, and circled, bending knees. They turned together, moving close and then back again. Down the line Farlan cursed low and apologized. Charlotte laughed, as did Grace as she leaped forward to meet Errol’s palms in time for the next move.

  “Beautiful,” Broc shouted as the ladies turned, their skirts belling out.

  Cullen couldn’t agree more as he watched Rose sway and pivot, the folds of her blue skirts twisting and widening around her narrow waist. She floated more than stepped, her shoulders perfectly still, and her neck tempted him with its bare length. When she raised her arm, it was
like a great white swan’s curved neck. Even her fingers were expressive.

  Cullen and Rose came together, and he smelled summer flowers, not the lily that Ava and Grace had brought, but a lighter scent.

  “Ye know these steps,” he said.

  “Oui. It reminds me of the basse danse.”

  They stepped in again, their faces only inches apart for a moment. “How so?”

  “Dancing like two lines of proud peacocks,” she said, and a small laugh came from her lips. It was authentic, one of her first, and it sounded like a silver bell. He’d been prepared to question her more about her memories, hoping that remembering the dance would tease them out of her shuttered mind, but now all he wanted to do was make her laugh.

  Tapping boots and ladies’ swooshing skirts complemented the lute. Light laughter, down the line, punctuated the pauses in the dance pattern until the last trill of the flute faded.

  Before anyone could escape the floor, Broc called out to the musicians. “Another song, fine gentlemen.” Broc strode right up between them to claim Rose for the next dance. He looked over his shoulder at Cullen. “Benefit of being Abbott of Unreason,” Broc said. “I get to dance with all the lovely lasses.”

  Cullen watched them line up. Everyone, except for Agnes, found a new partner. Even Maggie danced across from Garrick. Bea’s mother would feel slighted if no one asked her. Taking one last swallow of the ale in the tankard he’d left beside the hearth, Cullen turned toward her. But a commotion of high-pitched voices broke out in the entryway, with one overriding the rest. Beatrice.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The merry beat of the dance brought out the laughter among them all, including Rose. The flute trilled, and the lute player strummed lovely chords. Rose floated through the moves, the basic steps coming back to her without thought. Some of her embellishments seemed unique, and Grace and Ava added to their turns as well, raising more cheer.

  Rose smiled at Broc while catching sight of Cullen off to the left. He walked across the room, his face intent. With a quick bow and slide, Rose realized his target, and her breath stuttered.