The Rogue of Islay Isle (Highland Isles) Read online

  Beatrice MacDonald walked in from the entryway with the evil twins, Bonnie and Blair. All three of them carried fabric over their arms, Beatrice talking nonstop to her minions. Several young men followed, carrying logs draped in woolskins. One brought forth a cowskin over his shoulders, mooing as he sauntered about. Grace and Ava both laughed at his antics, and Broc left Rose to chase after him for milk. She backed up out of the way of the dancers.

  One of the guards, usually stationed by the portcullis, carried in a manger filled with hay. They set their loads down on the platform next to the musicians, and the twins came at once to fix the skins over the logs to look like animals. It was to be the nativity.

  Set free from their loads, the young men came over to watch the couples. One nodded to Rose. “I’m Garrick MacDonald. Care to dance?”

  “Broc abandoned me for a cow, so thank you.”

  Garrick produced a wide grin. “Broc’s a fool, even without the fool’s crown, if he left ye standing alone.”

  Rose met Garrick in the center of the line before stepping back with the ladies. Where was Cullen? She turned in time to see him with Beatrice. Rose missed a step and quickened her pace to catch the beat. Beatrice leaned into Cullen, talking while he stood, a mask of patience on his face. He said nothing while the woman seemed to talk unendingly.

  “My turn,” said another young man, taking Garrick’s place. A slower tune started, which required Rose’s attention to copy the steps. When she looked back, Cullen had Beatrice’s hand and was leading her to the end of the increasing line now that the twins had joined in with their helpers.

  Rose caught his gaze for a brief second before she had to turn away, avoiding Blair’s broad sweep, her arm outstretched to bell her skirt wide.

  “Sorry there,” Blair said, though her frown didn’t hold a drop of apology.

  Up the line, Broc sauntered down the middle as the king of Christmas, looking down his nose, imitating partners, and avoiding skirts. Cullen’s cousin was born to play the Prince des Sots. The flash of a thin man, crowned with a jester’s hat, points drooping over his face, flashed in Rose’s memory. She blinked to clear the image but missed the next step so that Blair collided with her, giving her another frown.

  “Excusez moi,” Rose murmured and caught up, her smile for her new partner forced and stiff. As soon as the song ended, Rose curtsied and stepped out of line before another could claim her hand. Suddenly the laughter, music, and voluminous skirts seemed overwhelming. She escaped to the alcove near the stairs that led above. Her fingers clutched the wall of the arch, a solid hold as she felt awash in more memories of the dark brunette with flawless skin and hard, blue eyes.

  Claire Renald. Her mother. She’d instructed Rose on dance, manners, flirtation, and ways to manipulate men. But the worst lessons had involved a book Claire owned that housed erotic pictures of lovers in various positions. The way in which Claire shared personal stories made Rose, or rather Madeleine, blush.

  Madeleine’s past was flying back like a book thrown open in the wind, pages flipping quickly, throwing information like dust in her eyes.

  But I am Rose here, not Madeleine. She looked out at the holly and evergreens swept along the walls in grand dips. Clusters of mistletoe and winter berries accented the entryways. Candles burned brightly, and the Yule log had been covered with dried flowers to be lit at midnight. The stage was set for the nativity pageant, and the musicians wore bright clothes and cheerful expressions.

  Dunyvaig was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen. No gold or wallpaper. No crystal and silks. Yet, Rose realized, she didn’t want to be anywhere else. At the far end of the hall, William and Farlan MacDonald sat at a small table set with chess pieces. Farlan was stealing one of William’s pawns. Even the gruff old men were preferred to the lecherous glances from the king or vicious whispers from the ladies who saw her only as a rival.

  “Rose?”

  She turned at the woman’s voice, her inhale stuck but her spine strong. Beatrice stood before her, face soft. “Yes?” Rose answered, the word even.

  Beatrice’s chin tipped slightly upward, cocking her head. “I ask ye forgiveness for the other night at dinner. The drink was strong, and I let my worries about Dunyvaig out without sober thought. I did not mean to slander ye.” She nodded, her face grave, and tucked an errant curl behind her ear.

  Rose stared at the edge of Beatrice’s jaw where a shadow lay against the skin. With the direct illumination from the wall sconce, she could see her complexion clearly. “Your face is bruised,” Rose said. “Did someone slap you?” Rose had suffered many slaps from her mother, the sting across the skin fading, but the bruise sometimes swelling afterward when delivered with rage. She pushed past the memories to focus on the woman before her.

  Beatrice yanked her hair forward to hide the side of her face, obviously knowing exactly what Rose saw. “Do ye accept my apology or not? Because I have work to do for the pageant.”

  Her tone grated against Rose. She’d probably never have another private chance to put Beatrice MacDonald in her place. The girl was vulnerable, and any number of waspish slights and backhanded insults, meant to peel away her confidence as a woman, curled onto Rose’s tongue. From Beatrice’s country, slightly shoddy attire, to her wild, unkempt curls and vulgar hopes to snare Cullen, Rose could cut the woman down with a sentence or two. After all, Rose had been trained by the best to slander a woman bloody. The French court was a house of serpents disguised as ladies, and the only weapons women were given were the sharpness of their words and the precision of their cutting gestures.

  As Rose opened her mouth to unleash a quiet, yet venomous slice, Beatrice shifted, blinking several times as she held her unbecoming frown. She was nervous, obviously outside of her usual role of Dunyvaig’s womanly dictator.

  With an even inhale, Rose let her hard smile soften to neutral and swallowed down the lethal responses. “Thank you, Beatrice. I will take no offense.”

  “I want only Cullen happy and Dunyvaig safe,” Beatrice replied, her gaze drifting off to the wall.

  “That is noble,” Rose said, although she was certain Beatrice left some of her other, more selfish, motives out. “I will try not to injure either of them.”

  “Very well,” Beatrice said. “I must get back to work.” She turned away but looked over her shoulder, her confident mask back in place. “Would ye like to play a part in the pageant? I haven’t enough actors.”

  A refusal sprang up in Rose with another wounding remark, which she squelched. She wouldn’t let her mother’s words rule her thinking. It wasn’t honorable to intentionally harm, no matter what she’d been taught. “If you are in need, and it is an easy role, I can help. Is the part difficult?”

  Beatrice’s face lit with surprise. “Nay, there aren’t even any lines for ye. I will find ye garments to wear.” She turned and strode toward Charlotte without a thank-you. Good manners were not Beatrice’s talent. Had she gained the bruise by insulting someone in the village? Blair and Bonnie seemed as enthralled by their leader as usual. Her mother, maybe? Rose blinked as she felt the sting of Claire’s flying hand and leaned against the rough stone wall.

  “Did dancing tire ye?” Cullen stepped around the corner, startling Rose. Her open hand flew to her neck. “Sorry for the fright.” He remained several steps away, yet Rose felt the attraction spark between them. Darkness and privacy were the kindling, and Cullen was the flint.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Did Bea beg your forgiveness?” he asked.

  The woman hadn’t sought her out to assuage her conscience but had been directed by Cullen. “I wouldn’t go so far as saying she begged,” Rose said, catching sight of Beatrice arranging animals.

  His hand stretched up the wall where he leaned and balled into a fist as he drew closer to her. She could smell a mix of whisky, leather, and pine coming from him. So familiar after the night they’d shared.

  She forced her gaze to stay level.
It felt that whenever they were alone, anger and passion fueled them. She took an even breath. “I haven’t thanked you for the other night. Your restraint.”

  His sensuous mouth turned serious. “I would not take your maidenhead without knowing if there was someone ye wish to save it for. Someone ye love.”

  She tipped her head, looking up sideways from under her lashes. “If I’d not been a virgin…?”

  He chuckled low and met her gaze with a look that held no guilt whatsoever. “All thoughts of virtue fled my mind the moment I saw your form before the fire, lass.” He leaned toward her. “Och, Rose. Ye are like…” He slid the back of his finger gently along her jaw to trail a knuckle down her neck. “Ye’re like a finely sculpted goddess made of flames and sin.”

  Her grin broadened at his poetry. “It was I who seduced you,” she said.

  “From the moment ye punched me in the face.”

  He leaned in to kiss her, catching her bubble of laughter.

  “Ah, we found it,” a man proclaimed from the archway.

  “Blast,” Cullen murmured and pulled back. The immediate coolness, where the heat of his mouth had been, made Rose blink to stare at the bright archway where Tor and Ava stood. “Found what?” Cullen groused.

  “The dark alcove where I can steal kisses from my wife,” Tor said, and Ava laughed. They held each other, seeming to fit perfectly together in true comfort. “We started looking for one as soon as your Christmas fool announced we were to play Blind Man’s Bluff.” Tor’s merry look darkened. “I wasn’t about to have anyone pawing around the room after my wife.” Ava leaned in to him, her smile radiant.

  Was this what love looked like? Two people who wished to be together because of the joy they felt in each other’s presence, not to rise in status or slate their lust or win a boon or persuade one to act on their behalf? Rose studied the couple, seeking any telltale sign that one of them lied, but there was none. All she saw was true, deep affection.

  A feminine shriek and male laughter exploded outward from the room beyond. Charlotte began to fuss. “Sounds like my mother is putting that fire out,” Cullen said, taking Rose’s hand. The warmth of his touch was an anchor, and she moved easily to his side as he pulled her to look into the room. Errol whipped off his blindfold while apologizing to Grace. She blushed, a hand to her breasts, which must have been groped.

  “That game always brings trouble,” Ava said, laughing softly.

  Tor set his arm across Ava’s shoulders. “I believe it used to be one of Cullen’s favorites.”

  “Old, foolish history,” Cullen replied, a warning in his low voice.

  On the stage, Beatrice clapped her hands. “The Christmas pageant will begin soon. All actors and musicians come forward.”

  “That would be me,” Rose said with a sigh.

  “You are in the pageant?” Ava asked.

  “Beatrice says they are short on actors and asked me.” Rose shrugged and gave Cullen a wide-eyed look. “If she makes me a cow, don’t let Broc try to milk me.”

  “Agreed,” Cullen said.

  Ava laughed. “You are a brave woman, Rose.” She gave a look of sympathy while holding a hand to her bosom. “I will remember you fondly.”

  “Merci,” Rose said with a laugh, and Cullen led her toward the stage.

  Beatrice glanced between Rose and Cullen, her features stiff. “Here is your costume.” She held out a long, dark brown tunic and a shepherd’s staff. “Don’t forget to put on the beard.” Her mouth twitched upward in a smirk as she set a wooly mass on top of the tunic.

  Mon Dieu. Cullen took the costume and followed Rose behind the screen. His brows rose appreciatively. “Ye’ll have to take off your petticoats or the tunic won’t fit.”

  “At least I’m not a cow,” she said, making his shoulders move with muffled laughter, which made her laugh, too. She snatched the tunic away. “Ask Mairi to help me change or we will cause more scandal.”

  Cullen laid the load down on a chair. “Don’t forget the beard.”

  Rose pointed for him to leave. Mairi came back and helped Rose out of her broad skirts and into the long, thin tunic that fell to cover her slippers. Its draping hid every womanly feature she possessed.

  “I think this costume is made for someone two hundred pounds heavier than ye,” Mairi commented and removed Rose’s fabric crown. Pulling a few pins out to unwind her hair, she kept the braid, tucking the end down the back of the tunic. “A lovely veil,” Mairi said, as she covered Rose’s head with the shepherd’s headscarf, using the hairpins to secure it. Mairi stepped back. “And one last detail.” She held up the ball of dyed wool and shook it out into a beard with a hole for Rose’s mouth.

  “Mon Dieu. How will it stick?” Rose asked, eyeing what looked like vermin from the Paris gutters.

  “There are ties for the beard,” Beatrice called, her face peeking around the screen. Of course, she was dressed as the Virgin Mary in light blue. She pursed her lips to contain her laughter at Rose’s ensemble.

  Mairi scrunched her face when Beatrice turned. Rose chuckled softly. “Well, I said I’d help when she asked,” Rose whispered. “’Tis my own folly.”

  “Hold it, and I’ll tie this hideous thing in place,” Mairi said, dodging behind Rose. Beatrice directed her actors about the stage. Blair and Bonnie walked by, dressed as angels. The three wise men were young men from the village.

  “I’m the only shepherd, aren’t I?” Rose murmured.

  “This should teach ye never to volunteer for anything again.” Mairi barely held in her mirth as she came around and separated the fleece better between Rose’s lips. Rose puffed her breath out to blow the wool from her teeth. “I hope there aren’t any bugs in it,” Mairi murmured.

  “What?” Rose looked at her with wide eyes.

  A harp sang out a chord. “I better find my seat,” Mairi said. “Good luck.”

  Rose looked down at herself, totally enshrouded in coarse, brown material. With the bushy beard, she couldn’t even see the tunic’s hem. She’d have to lift it so as not to trip. If Beatrice’s hope was to make her ridiculous in this oversized, manly costume, she’d accomplished her goal.

  One of the wise men ran behind the screen, carrying a wooden sheep. “Here,” he said and chuckled when he saw her. Oui, she looked ridiculous. “Carry it out with you when you hear the harp play after they reach Bethlehem.”

  She tried to thank him, but the wool kept falling between her lips so that she had to spit it out. The music began, and Beatrice stepped out to a smattering of applause. The other two wise men snuck behind the screen, along with Errol who seemed dressed like Joseph.

  “Rose?” Errol whispered. She nodded, unwilling to open her lips.

  “Errol.” One of the wise men gave him a little shove, and he strode out onto the stage. Someone from the audience whistled, and he began his lines. Blair and Bonnie swooped onto the stage to tell him that the child was of God.

  “Ye’ll be up soon,” said the wise man she recognized as Garrick.

  Thhpp. Rose cleared the wool one more time around her mouth. “She won’t make me speak? I can’t in this.”

  Garrick grinned and shook his head. “The shepherd should be silent.”

  Rose held the wool beard back as she peeked around the edge of the screen. Cullen sat with the Macleans and his mother. His features seemed unguarded, the frown that had plagued him having faded. Relaxed, he was even handsomer. Dark brown hair, which she knew was soft and fresh, sat tasseled around his head. A strong jaw gave a solid base for his neat beard and sensuous lips. She sighed softly, realizing that she could watch him smile forever. He laughed as Broc jumped up to be the ass to carry Mary on her holy journey. Rose grinned behind her wooly beard.

  A few minutes later, Beatrice moaned. “The babe. It comes.”

  Garrick handed Rose the wooden sheep. “Be ready,” he whispered. “Go when the harp sounds three times.”

  With much flourish from Beatrice, Errol held up a ball of wool
wrapped in linen to represent baby Jesus. Blair and Bonnie flew about, singing so loud, Rose missed the sound of the harp until Garrick tapped her shoulder.

  She yanked up her tunic and held the sheep under one arm.

  “Your staff,” he whispered and thrust it into her other hand. Taking little steps on the tips of her toes so as not to trip, she climbed the two steps onto the stage. Applause and laughter made her look at the onlookers. Mairi clapped and Tor whistled, but it was the happiness across Cullen’s face, at her entrance, that made her heart soar.

  Rose tiptoed across the stage and set the sheep down. She was about to draw near to Beatrice and the wool baby, when the doors at the back of the keep burst open with a gust of whistling wind. The laughter cut off, and Cullen, Tor, and Broc rose from their seats, hands at their swords. It was one of the MacDonald guards, escorting two rough-looking men. As they strode across the hall, the light fell upon the taller of the pair. His straight nose and long beard plucked a chord of terror inside Rose. Her heart began to hammer so hard behind her ribs, she wondered if she’d be bruised by it.

  “I am Captain Henri de Fleur,” he said, his French accent thick. His gaze raked across the room, searching amongst the people gathered. “I am here for Madeleine Renald.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cullen slid his sword free. “I did not give permission for a Frenchman to land on my shores.”

  “I am here to retrieve what is mine,” de Fleur said. “Where is she?”

  “Is this woman your wife?” Cullen asked, stepping closer, his sword focused on the man’s throat. Was this the man who’d tied a rope around Rose’s neck? “How is it that a woman is yours, exactly?”

  The French captain ignored him and turned in a tight circle. “Madeleine,” he called and continued in French.

  “Shut your bloody mouth,” Cullen ordered. Errol and Broc had taken his flank with Tor to his right. Together they blocked the ladies behind them, but Rose remained in plain sight on the stage. Don’t move, he willed her.