The Rogue of Islay Isle (Highland Isles) Read online

  “Not so much as a splinter from a mast along the coast,” Broc said. “And no sign of a ship.”

  “It must have sailed on without her,” Errol said.

  “Perhaps they hanged her over the side and figured she drowned,” Farlan said, making even Broc lose his grin.

  Charlotte shook her head. “They’d have sent her overboard in her smock, not in a court costume. ’Tis too rich to forfeit, even without the pearls sewn into it.”

  “I will send word to Tor Maclean and our other allies,” Cullen said. “They might have seen a ship sailing off the western shores.”

  “How is Tor?” Broc asked. “All ox-eyed and panting after his bride?”

  “I think Tor Maclean is feeling like a very lucky man,” Cullen said and found his first real smile of the day. “She’s already with child. And she has the prettiest white teeth.”

  Broc laughed out loud.

  “Wasn’t there some deceit about who she was?” Errol asked.

  “She’s English, ain’t she,” William scoffed. “Of course, there was deceit.”

  “English and the daughter of a countess,” Cullen said, standing to find some parchment his grandfather kept in a cupboard along the wall. “Making Aros safer from English encroachment.”

  Errol looked to his father, his eyebrow rising. “With that rich costume on the lass, she might be titled or better.”

  William kept his frown. “Once Agnes has the woman’s voice working again, we’ll see exactly who she is.”

  “She’s a lady, that’s for sure,” Agnes MacDonald called as she walked regally into the room, tucking her hair behind her ears. Agnes was Beatrice’s widowed mother and a talented healer in the village. She paused, waiting for all attention to rest on her. “Her hands are soft and pale, probably from wearing gloves. A lady, no doubt. Young still. No wedding band. Rich gown.” She shrugged slightly. “I’d say she was captured by pirates and tethered about the neck. Maybe she escaped.”

  “Cullen’s eye can attest to her feistiness,” Broc said with a sideways grin.

  Farlan rubbed his full beard. “There could be a reward for her.”

  Cullen looked back at the letter he penned to send out first to Tor Maclean of Mull. Someone else must know of the ship. For now, he’d keep the lass a secret.

  “A reward if she survives,” William said, frowning. “If she dies, we could be blamed.” Did the man ever think of anyone or anything other than keeping Dunyvaig free of English condemnation? Cullen would rather fight the English than continue to bow to their insolence, trying to blend into the Atlantic fog so as not to bring notice to themselves. “The woman is a danger to Dunyvaig, Islay, and the MacDonald clan,” William said, punctuating his statement by slamming his tankard on the table with a crack.

  Cullen poured sand over the parchment to seal the ink. He set it aside and rested his knuckles on the small desk. “Rose,” he said, his voice breaking through the speculation that fouled the very air of the room. “Rose is under the protection of Dunyvaig.”

  Face hard, he met first Farlan’s blustery sputtering and William’s stony glare. “I will not throw a half-drowned woman to English wolves. She is under the protection of The MacDonald,” he continued. The title still felt odd on his tongue, but he stood with confidence, like he did in battle. “Anyone who schemes or strategizes to bring harm to the lass…” He paused to make certain they were listening.

  “Will be guilty of committing treason against the MacDonalds of Islay.”

  Chapter Three

  A bear, black and lumbering, rounded the corner. The woman gasped, trying to scream, but the sound was muffled by the pain in her throat. She swung around, her hand sliding along the printed paper glued to the walls.

  Sinister shadows fell around her as she yanked up her skirts to run. Heavy rumbles of breathing panted in her ears, and she fled along the dark corridor. Doors flanked her, but she knew they would be locked. No one would help her. Except… Where was he? The man who’d pulled her from the water. Cullen. She tried to call his name, but again, the pain in her throat crippled the sound.

  The corner up ahead teased her, seeming within reach only to extend away. Her legs slapped against the heaviness of her skirts, and she realized they dripped with water, slowing her. Cold and drenched, she fled. Grasping the edge of the corner, she yanked herself around. No! She stopped. For there, before her, was the bear.

  The woman jerked, tightening her hands into fists. The sting on her knuckles reminded her where she was, and she breathed deeply against the panic as she opened her eyes. She sucked in a breath and grimaced at the rawness of her throat.

  “All is well, lass.” The deep voice brought her gaze immediately to the door where the man stood. Cullen. Not the bear. She peered into the shadows, but no one else seemed to be in the room. Alone? Her heart thumped deeply. She mustn’t be alone with a man. They were dangerous, strong, and usually without honor.

  He held a globed oil lamp. “I didn’t mean to wake ye.” His steps were silent as he walked on bare feet. He set the lamp down on the small table next to her bed. “Can I get ye anything? A drink?”

  The word pulled a deep thirst to the surface. She tried to wet her lips, but her tongue seemed swollen and dry. She nodded, which sent him striding to a pitcher near a narrow window.

  He was tall, his shoulders straight and broad, and his legs were bare from the knees down. No hose on him at all. Only a wide swath of fabric wrapped around his waist, one end thrown over a shoulder. She’d seen the costume before in pictures. The rolling accent, the strange clothing… She let her gaze wander upon the undecorated walls of the room. Plain stone, no plaster or paint. Scotland?

  He turned toward her as he poured from a pitcher. She shouldn’t be alone in the room with him, especially in such a weakened state. A woman’s weapons are her mind and words. She’d learned that somewhere, but her thoughts were still muddled, and she couldn’t talk. She was completely at his mercy. But the lamplight revealed a gentle smile, and she tried to take smooth, even breaths. What other weapons could she use? Her fingers slid under the pillow, but there was no dagger.

  “Fresh water from the inland falls,” he said, returning with a pewter cup.

  She pushed against the mattress with the heels of her palms. Despite the soreness of her muscles, she lifted herself to lean against the wooden headboard. Her knuckles were wrapped in strips of cloth, and she glanced at Cullen’s face. The firelight showed his injured eye, surrounded by a dark bruise, the lid swollen.

  “Here,” Cullen murmured, reaching around her to grab another pillow. As he leaned over, she smelled fresh air on him. Not the stagnant, perfumed smells of… The thought pinched out, and she frowned.

  She took the cup when he tried to hold it to her lips, letting the sweet, cool water fill her cheeks. Little by little, she allowed sips until she could take in another mouthful. The refreshment was worth the pain in her throat.

  He carried a padded chair from the hearth to her bed to sit in. “There’s plenty more water if ye need it.” She set the cup on the bedside table.

  Dark hair framed merry eyes, at least the one she hadn’t pummeled. A charmer, certainly. He had a neatly trimmed beard, and his hair looked clean and given to curl. A quick grin turned up the corners of his sensuous mouth. It was a kissable mouth, full, but not wet, nor chapped. She raised her gaze from it to meet his eyes.

  “Ye don’t need to be afraid. Ye’re at Dunyvaig Castle on Islay Isle of Scotland. We are the MacDonald clan, and I am Cullen Duffie.”

  She nodded once to show she understood. He bowed his head. “Nice to meet ye.” His brows rose. “Now your turn. Who are ye?”

  She shook her head with a slight wobble.

  “I know ye can’t speak.” His mouth turned downward as his gaze dropped to her neck. “Who did that to ye?”

  If only she knew. A man perhaps. Someone associated with the ship, the ship she barely remembered. She ran a fingertip over the line of fire crossing he
r throat, smeared with a salve. Shaking her head, she exhaled in frustration and raised her hand to tap the side of her head with one finger.

  “Your head? It hurts?”

  A dull throb still threatened each time she moved, but that wasn’t what she needed him to know. She pointed to him with a jabbing motion.

  “Cullen Duffie,” he said, and she nodded, smiling encouragingly. Then she jabbed the same finger at her own chest. “And ye are…?” he asked.

  Slowly she raised her shoulders in a shrug, tapped her temple, and shook her head.

  His brows rose. “Ye don’t know who ye are?”

  She released her breath and nodded slowly, feeling her shoulders relax. She sank into the pillows.

  “Your name?” he asked.

  She shook her head with a shrug.

  “Where ye’ve come from?”

  She repeated the movement.

  He leaned back in his chair, and his mouth formed an O. “Well…that’s…bloody difficult.”

  Difficult and maddening, especially because the only thing she did know was that she’d been betrayed, betrayed and thrown into peril.

  “Do you remember anything? Anything at all?”

  She moved her hand as if following the waves of the sea.

  “The ship?” he asked. “Ye remember being on the ship.”

  She remembered that the ship had been dank and confining below. That she’d been in the wind and rain above, too, but nothing else except a sickening feeling in her stomach and…yes, a tether held by a man. She pinched her fingers close to indicate a small amount.

  “Anything else?”

  She thought, looking down at her hand that remained free of the bandage. It was soft, several fingernails broken from her ordeal, but no callouses. She flipped her palm over, showing him.

  “Aye, ye’re a lady. Your dress is rich, too.” He fished around in a leather pouch and pulled out a pile of pearls attached to a frayed thread.

  The sound of them tinkling against one another in his palm shot through her, straight to her heart. It galloped like it was struck with a whip, and she pressed backward into the pillows.

  “It was sewn into your bodice,” he said, tilting his head. “Are they yours?”

  They were, weren’t they? So why didn’t she want to touch them? The large dark pearl in the center reminded her of an eye watching her. She shrugged and kept her fingers clenched tightly in the bedding. When she wouldn’t take them, Cullen slid them back into the leather pouch. “I’ll keep them safe for ye.”

  She met his gaze, and even though she knew that, in fact, everything was wrong, his calm nature gave her hope. And hope was something she was pretty sure she’d been without for a very long time. It made her want to trust him. Trust will lead to ruin.

  They sat quietly for a minute, the only sound the hiss from the dying fire. She could almost hear the rapid beat of her pulse as her thoughts churned around ways to protect herself if his demeanor changed. She glanced toward the dark windowpanes. Windows were often too high and narrow to allow escape. The room was made of grayish stone walls, thick and impenetrable, heavy wooden beams lining the ceiling, and a simple hearth sat at one end. Primitive. Certainly not a palace. A palace? Had she visited a palace?

  “I should let ye sleep, Rose,” he said. “It’s late.”

  Rose? She mouthed the name, her brows lowered in confusion.

  “I can’t just call ye lass. Ye had roses on your gown, hence the name. Do ye mind?”

  Rose? It wasn’t her name. That she knew, but when Cullen said it with his rolling accent, his strong mouth forming the word, it was beautiful. She shook her head.

  “Good,” he said and stood, his gaze friendly. “Ellen will be up at dawn with some breakfast. Try to sleep.” For a moment, they stared at each other without moving, though Rose swore she felt a pull toward him. His eyes were dark as if desire was surfacing. She’d seen desire before, and it was dangerous.

  “Well, then,” he said, breaking the tether of their gaze. He walked to the doorway, pausing to look back. A golden splash of firelight cast him in honeyed tones like a bright flame. Was he as dangerous as a flame? All men are dangerous. The whisper shuddered through her like a forgotten nightmare.

  He nodded and closed the door. Rose held her breath, waiting, but no key turned a lock; no bar lowered from the outside. So, she was not a prisoner of Dunyvaig. She sank into the warm blankets, her eyes resting on the fire. But she’d definitely been a prisoner somewhere else.

  …

  Cullen delivered a downward blow, striking Broc’s long sword in the middle. Broc grunted, letting the force swing his own sword toward the ground, gaining momentum to arc upward. But before he could bring it all the way around, Cullen raised his knee and thrust the sole of his boot into Broc’s bare gut. His friend flew backward onto his arse, sword hitting the packed dirt, still clutched in his fist.

  Broc growled, angry with himself, and rolled to his side to spring up in a fluid motion.

  “A long sword takes too much time to swing a full arc unless your opponent is tired,” Cullen said and wiped his arm across the sweat on his forehead. Even in the crisp winter air, they’d removed their shirts in the heat of training. Steam rose from their skin.

  “And Cullen never gets tired,” Errol said from where he stood, arms crossed, legs spread in a warrior’s stance.

  Cullen snorted but didn’t disagree. He’d spent his whole life excelling on the battlefield. Proving to the clan that he was not his weak father, in muscle or character. Now, more than ever, he needed to remain strong, a leader of men and clan. He must prove that he was The MacDonald of Islay. “Ye should have used my own force against me,” Cullen said and held out his sword. “Block and then drop it, throwing me off-balance.”

  Broc nodded and took a pull of water off the bladder he carried with him.

  Cullen drank from his own and tossed it by a pile of stones as Errol approached, his sword drawn. Behind him, Cullen heard the babble of lasses walking into the bailey through the gates. He kept his gaze on his opponent, circling. Despite sparring for the better part of an hour, Cullen still held his arms wide, giving Errol a false opening to strike. Would his friend fall for it?

  A small grin ghosted over Errol, showing that, no, he remembered Cullen’s trick. But Errol lunged anyway, enacting their old routine to impress the girls as the three cousins were growing up. Were they still foolish boys? Apparently, Errol was. Cullen barely retained his laughter. Which one would be the winner this time? It used to depend on which lass was walking by.

  Cullen blocked the thrust, sliding Errol’s blade down his in a rasp of steel. He spun away, his gaze flashing upon three women, Beatrice in the middle of the twins, Bonnie and Blair. They stood with baskets on their arms, watching. When he clashed again with Errol, swords smashed together to form a lethal X between them, Errol’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “My turn to win,” he hissed softly, apparently looking to impress one of the three.

  “Win, Cull!” Beatrice yelled, and the other two giggled.

  With an internal groan, Cullen decided that he’d feign losing one last time, anything to turn Bea’s interest from him.

  Errol twisted, bringing his sword in an arc, and Cullen met it, though took a small stagger back. He turned again and thrust at Errol, who knew precisely where the tip of Cullen’s sword would be and struck it away easily. Cullen grunted, pretending the impact was sorely felt up his arm. For several minutes, they battled, Cullen giving a good performance of tiring until they faced each other several steps apart.

  Errol opened his arms wide like Cullen had done at the beginning. For the farce, he should lunge while Errol sidestepped, throwing Cullen to the ground to give Errol the victory.

  The wind blew cool against Cullen’s sweaty skin, making him consider a dip in the ice-edged lake. Best to end this now. A movement near the keep caught his gaze. Rose.

  It had been five days since he’d found her on the shore, four since he�
�d sat with her at night, and over an hour since he’d forced his thoughts to turn away from the mystery of her. She stood before the keep doors like a radiant queen. A smooth, heart-shaped face turned outward, surveying the bailey with large, almond-shaped eyes. They were a deep gray-green, he remembered. She raised an arm to tuck away an errant strand of long, dark hair. Such fluid grace. Had she been raised to walk the halls of the English court?

  “Come, Cull!” Errol yelled. “Or do ye forfeit?”

  His focus returned to his cousin. Broc stood apart, grinning like a fool as he looked purposely between them and Rose. Broc knew something that Errol did not. The farce was over.

  Cullen took a refreshing breath. Strength filled him, and he gave a little head shake to Errol. Hopefully his friend was paying attention. He strode into the circle again, his sword by his side. Errol frowned in confusion and swung his sword, missing as Cullen spun around, slamming his sword down on Errol’s blade. It wobbled in the warrior’s hand as the shock splintered up his arm. Still, Errol held on to the weapon, spinning to face him in time to block his advance. Their swords clanged together, left, right, left. Cullen pushed him back with what must look like a sudden resurgence of energy to Beatrice and the twins. But he cared nothing about what they thought.

  Errol parried back Cullen’s assault, his lips hitched to show gritted teeth. With a quick squat and turn, Cullen eluded Errol’s push, throwing the man off-balance. Another slam of his sword on Errol’s blade sent the weapon flying from his cousin’s hand, throwing him facedown in the dirt. Cullen stabbed the tip of his blade into the pebbled earth and reached down to help him rise.

  “What the bloody hell?” Errol spat but took Cullen’s hand.

  Broc clapped Errol on his dusty shoulder. “The drowned waif has dried out.” He leaned closer to Errol’s ear. “Ye didn’t stand a chance with Cull putting on a show.”

  “How in hell was I supposed to know that?” Errol grumbled, glancing up to the steps where Rose still stood. He cursed low.