The Rogue of Islay Isle (Highland Isles) Page 4

  The three lasses finished their applauding. “Brawn as ever,” Bonnie called out.

  “All of ye,” Blair said. She stared sweetly at Broc.

  Beatrice tugged the twins to follow her onto the practice field where Cullen grabbed his shirt off a fence post, his gaze going back to Rose.

  “I hear she’s a criminal who was being hanged,” Beatrice said as they approached the men, her face scrunched like she’d stepped in dung.

  “And I heard ye’re carrying Errol’s babe,” Broc said without a moment’s hesitation. Errol coughed, his wide-eyed fury falling on his grinning cousin.

  “What?” Beatrice screeched, her gaze flipping between Errol and Cullen.

  Broc shrugged. “It’s amazing how someone can take bits of nothing and talk them up into something huge.” He opened his arms wide.

  Blair looked over her shoulder at Rose. “And she doesn’t speak or know who she is.”

  “Mute and dumb,” Bonnie added.

  “Mistreated and injured,” Cullen retorted and left them to their ridicule. He strode purposely across the bailey toward Rose.

  Chapter Four

  Rose watched Cullen, her heart tapping faster as he approached. He was bare chested with a sheen on his tan skin. The edge of the plaid, wrapped around his waist, rode low on his taut abdomen. Muscles lay in perfect order under a thin sprinkling of hair across his chest. Here and there, scars puckered along the lines of his upper arms and chest, evidence of battles past. It was as if he were made for war. War or making ravenous love to a woman. She felt her cheeks warm and slid the borrowed shawl higher to hide the chafed skin that encircled her neck like a macabre necklace.

  Cullen reached the bottom of the stairs and smiled up. “Hello.”

  Her throat remained swollen, her speech less than a whisper, so she nodded in return. She clutched the skirts of the blue day gown and stepped down slowly. “Ye are feeling better?” he asked as she reached the bottom.

  She nodded, but worry tightened her face as her fingers touched the sores around her neck. The bruises had faded somewhat, but the broken skin looked worse with the dark scabs.

  “They’ll heal,” he said.

  She knew that, but even if they didn’t scar her skin, she’d always carry the scars inside. Why had she been tied about the neck? Had she been a slave, tied like a dog? Or nearly hanged like Charlotte had whispered? Was she wicked? A criminal deserving of such punishment?

  Rose pushed down the festering worry and pointed to his eye.

  “It’s healed faster than my pride.”

  Her face pinched in a look of apology. He shrugged with a half grin. “I learned an important lesson. Even beautiful mermaids can be dangerous.”

  Mermaid? Their gazes connected, and she allowed a grin. Cullen Duffie was definitely a charmer. She moved her focus to the sword Cullen had used to knock down the other warrior. The twisted cherrywood handle rested easily in his palm, an extension of his arm. The steel blade reflected the muted sun, giving it a lethal gleam, and a large oval ruby sat embedded where the handle formed a cross.

  “’Tis a claymore,” he said, hefting it higher. The weight made his bicep bulge. What would it feel like to be surrounded by such strength?

  With a flip of his hand, he grabbed the wooden handle below the cross so that he held the sword out to her, tip down. He moved closer, making Rose’s heart pound. “It belonged to my grandfather, and his father before him, and his before him.”

  Purposely moving her gaze from the man to his weapon, she ran one finger over the ruby. Cold and hard, and exceedingly coveted. She pulled back her finger, as if the edge of her memory burned it. She’d seen other gems before.

  “There’s a legend,” Cullen said. “That my great-great-grandda cut the bloody eye from a cyclops as it tried to make its way onto our island. He mounted it in his sword.”

  Rose raised one eyebrow, and he laughed. “It seemed more believable when I was a lad of six.” He took her hand, the knuckles mostly healed. Her first instinct was to snatch it back, but his palm was warm, and his touch made her feel more awake and alive than she had these past days. “Here, try to hold it,” he said.

  Turning her palm, he laid the handle of the magnificent sword in the center. The twisted wood, rubbed smooth from generations of battle and practice, held Cullen’s heat. Rose grabbed the hilt with both hands as the heaviness threatened to drag her grip down. “Aye, there ye go,” he said, backing up so she could hold the sword outward.

  The weight pulled her off-balance as she tried to keep the tip even with Cullen’s chest. Her weaker arm muscles strained, tugging at a faint memory. She’d held a sword like this once, pointed at a man’s chest. It made her stomach roll with nausea, and she let the tip drop to the packed dirt.

  One of the other warriors whistled as he and the third followed Cullen over. “Less than five minutes, and the lass has ye disarmed, Cull.” He had longer hair and a teasing grin. He elbowed the serious-faced warrior walking next to him. “She’s better than ye, Errol.” Behind the men walked the three women, their gazes assessing.

  Rose tipped the hilt to Cullen for him to reclaim it. Gesturing toward his men, he said, “This is Broc Duffie and Errol MacDonald, my two cousins and second-in-command.”

  “I’m second,” Errol corrected. “Broc’s third.” He took Rose’s hand and bowed slightly, stopping shy of kissing it. A gentleman.

  Broc took her hand and bowed his head, his lips leaving a feathered touch over the backs of her uninjured knuckles. Still bent, his gaze raised up to meet hers. “Third-in-command but first in masculine beauty.” His eyes shone with humor and the glint of sexual prowess.

  “Let off, Broc,” Cullen said, his voice low.

  One of the ladies whispered in another’s ear, making her snort. She slapped a hand to her mouth, trying to catch the sound before it escaped. The two women on the outside of their little trio looked alike, both wearing condescending grins. But it was the voluptuous one in the middle, smiling sweetly, who seemed to be the leader.

  Rose nodded to her, and the woman nodded back. Friend or foe? It was obvious that the woman didn’t like the attention Rose was receiving. Since she’d staked her ground in the middle of the small group, she preferred to be the center of attention.

  The woman tipped her head side to side. “This is Blair and Bonnie McDougal. They’re sisters, twins.”

  “I’m the bonnier one, even though her name is Bonnie,” Blair said.

  Bonnie frowned at her sister. “I’m the talented one. I weave cloth, the loveliest in the isles.”

  The middle woman studied Rose. “And I am Beatrice MacDonald. My mother is Agnes MacDonald, the woman caring for ye.”

  Rose could see Agnes’s sharp features in the woman’s long face. She remembered Beatrice from the hallway when Cullen had first carried her up into Dunyvaig Castle from the shore. Beatrice had been in her chemise, exiting what Rose knew now to be Cullen’s bedroom. Were they lovers? The thought left a hollow feel in Rose’s stomach. If they were, Cullen’s attention made Beatrice even more dangerous. For jealous women were a deadly poison, sometimes fast-acting and sometimes working slowly to bring down the mightiest rival.

  Rose nodded her head in greeting, her face grateful and one palm against her heart. She was thankful to Beatrice’s mother for her help, despite the jealousy obvious in her daughter’s narrowed gaze.

  “Ye seem to be feeling better,” Beatrice said. “Although your poor neck.” She tsked, shaking her head.

  “It’s sure to scar,” Blair said.

  “Scars show a warrior’s heart,” Cullen said. His relaxed features had soured into an uncomfortable frown.

  “A battle scar,” Bonnie retorted, looking down her nose. “Not a…” She gestured toward Rose’s neck. “A hanging scar.”

  “Well, I suppose a hanging scar could show a person’s heart,” Blair added, her eyes wide like she was helping, instead of insinuating that Rose was a criminal with a black heart.


  Rose’s fingers curled as the heat rose in her cheeks. Her lips parted on a retort, a sly comment to knock the woman down a peg, something brief and knowing, delivered with a coquettish bend to her lips. But Rose had nothing. She physically couldn’t utter a word without further damage, and for all she knew, she had been sentenced to the gallows. All three women gave Rose a pitying look that fed the blush in her cheeks and the subdued anger in her blood.

  “Many an innocent lass and lad have suffered hanging these days,” Cullen said, his words washing the clever glances away. He shrugged into the linen shirt he held and offered Rose his arm. “Would ye like a tour of the village?”

  “Not strong enough yet for a walk beyond the walls,” came a voice from the doors of the keep. Agnes MacDonald stepped out, her lips tight. “I’ve heated some more of my honey tincture for your throat.” She looked pointedly at Rose. “We need to get ye talking as soon as possible. Don’t ye think?” Her comment was completely appropriate, but the tone questioned if Rose was feigning illness despite the obvious injury.

  “Another time,” Cullen said, disappointment in the quirk of his lips.

  “Ye three need to bathe anyway,” Bonnie said and wrinkled her nose.

  “We’d be happy to help,” Blair added, making her twin giggle and nod ferociously.

  Agnes tugged Rose behind her. “Silly chits. Let’s get ye inside out of this cold breeze.” She led her from the fresh air into the dark keep. Although the wind couldn’t reach her, the castle still felt icy, like a crypt with the heavy stone surrounding her. Rose walked directly toward the hearth where a fire leaped about the grate.

  Charlotte stood holding a clay pot. “We have some more of Agnes’s throat tincture for ye. And salve for the rope burns.”

  Rose returned Charlotte’s smile and sat in the chair that Cullen’s mother tapped to take the warm cup of soothing brewed herbs. She sipped at it and let the heat slide against the soreness. Slowly the muscles in her throat relaxed.

  Agnes came forward, her gaze on Rose’s neck. “The scabs could scar.” She shook her head. “But this will hopefully make them less noticeable.” She indicated the little pot.

  Cullen’s two uncles stomped into the great hall from the entryway. “Is she talking yet?” the round one with the darker beard asked.

  “Not yet, Farlan,” Charlotte said. “But we have the swelling down, and she’s healing nicely.”

  “Has she communicated who she is or where she’s from?” asked the thinner one with a bald head and full, but combed, white beard. She thought his name was William, Charlotte’s other brother.

  “No, I don’t think she can remember,” Charlotte said.

  Farlan snorted, and William glared at Rose, like he wished to crawl inside her mind. If he could coax her memories out, she’d let him. Whatever her mind was keeping secret was very important to her.

  “Her nature is obstinate,” William said.

  “How so?” Charlotte asked, hands going to her hips.

  “She doesn’t look away from my stare. Willful,” William said.

  “Obstinate, richly dressed, being hanged,” Farlan ticked off on his sausage-like fingers.

  Rose opened her mouth to defend herself, but only a breath came out. A mere whisper that couldn’t be heard above the snapping conjecture of the two elderly men.

  “Possible thief,” William added. “Of pearls.”

  “One pearl being a black variety, highly valued,” Agnes said. She tapped her pinched lips.

  “Abandoned by a ship during a storm, with a noose around her neck,” Farlan said. “They could have wished to get rid of her. Did she have signs of disease?” He glanced her way, paling.

  If only she could sneeze at that precise moment. She sniffed but no tickle was evident.

  “None.” Charlotte shook her head. “Only bruises, scrapes, and the rope burn.”

  “We certainly don’t need a plague in our midst,” Agnes murmured.

  “She certainly is a beauty,” Charlotte said. “Who would want to hurt a sweet lass?”

  “Ye don’t know she’s sweet,” William said without looking at her. “Maybe she’s bewitched someone.”

  “Or even killed someone,” Farlan said, his bushy eyebrows going high on his broad forehead. “I feel in my bones that she’s a danger.”

  A danger?

  Charlotte planted hands on her hips. “She’s a wee thing. How could she kill someone?”

  “Poison?” Agnes said.

  Rose sat while the four of them stood. No one looked at her now, just talked about her as if she wasn’t present. The uncles switched to their foreign tongue while Charlotte continued in English.

  “Well, I wouldn’t know that,” Charlotte said, her cheeks growing red. “I’m not planning to do that thorough an examination either.”

  Examination? Were they discussing her maidenhead? The men continued to say things, and Charlotte answered, switching to their language. But Rose could tell they were all discussing her, intimate details about her, like she was a horse to breed.

  Rose’s pulse thrummed in her neck as her anger grew. Even Charlotte had turned away from her now, tossing retorts back at the uncles. Rose stood, but no one noticed. She was merely a new fixture in the castle, and they couldn’t figure out where to put her or how best to use her.

  “She is under the protection of Dunyvaig Castle and Cullen,” Charlotte said, switching back to English.

  “But ye don’t know her background,” Farlan insisted. “Traitor, thief, harlot, witch…”

  Imbécile. Rose felt tears press behind her eyelids and forced them away with her anger. This feeling of being only an object, ridiculed and discussed, was all too familiar. The memories sat on the edge of her mind, frustrating her like an itch she couldn’t reach. Was the whole world full of cruelty?

  Rose strode to the prominent table near the entryway. Grabbing her skirts, she stepped on the seat of a chair and onto the table. With her ire licking through her like a flame, she turned toward them and stomped her feet, her borrowed boots banging on the hard oak planks.

  All four turned to stare, and for the moment, they were silent. She held out her hands at them, palms outward to signal that they should stop and wait.

  “God’s teeth! She’s daft,” Farlan said.

  “Come down from there,” William said.

  Rose stomped her foot, pointed a finger at him, and raised her palm to stop him. He crossed his arms in tight defiance. She flapped her hands before her, making both her hands look like ducks quacking in imitation of their continuous bickering. She shook her head, pointed a finger toward herself, and stomped her foot.

  “What does that mean?” William asked.

  Farlan lowered his bushy brows. “I tell ye, she’s daft. Does she have a weapon on her? We could be in danger.”

  “She’s trying to tell us something,” Charlotte said and nodded encouragingly. “Go ahead, Rose.”

  “Rose,” William scoffed. “It’s not even her name. Her name could be traitor for all we know.”

  “Her name could be princess,” Charlotte volleyed back.

  Rose stomped her foot and made her hands into squawking ducks again.

  “I think she means that ye are talking a lot,” Agnes said. Her bored glance plainly excluded herself from the group.

  Rose nodded. Behind her, the door banged open, but she wasn’t giving up the stage yet. She moved her hands in a circle to encompass them and made the squawking sign. Then pointed to herself and to the space under her feet. I am here. They should talk with her, not about her.

  “I missed that,” Charlotte said.

  “Completely lost her mind,” Farlan grumbled and gestured toward her. “She’s bloody standing on the table.”

  “What are ye trying to say to us?” Agnes asked, though her voice was terse. Rose went through the hand motions again. Pointed at herself and drew a line in a circle around them all, turning to include herself.

  In mid turn, she stopp
ed, her stomach dropping. Standing with his two friends, and the waspish Beatrice, was Cullen Duffie.

  He watched her from the entryway arch. Beatrice wore a comical expression while Errol and Broc studied Rose’s signals. Only Cullen kept a neutral look, as if seeing a woman stomping on a table was the most natural sight in the world.

  “Cullen, carry her down from there,” William said.

  Rose braced herself as Cullen strode across toward her. Would he grab her, drag her from her perch in front of Beatrice and his terrible uncles who asked questions that made Charlotte blush?

  Cullen stopped at the chair she’d used as a ladder and planted his own boot on the seat. Swiftly he propelled himself up onto the surface of the table to stand next to Rose. He didn’t try to touch her but turned out to look upon her audience.

  “She’s trying to tell ye to stop talking about her, without her.” He made the duck motion with his one hand. “Ye squawk without including her in the discussion.” He drew a circle in the air with his finger, imitating Rose. “She doesn’t want ye to talk about her as if she wasn’t in the room.”

  Rose pulled in a full breath of air and nodded. She looked outward and pointed to the ground.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Cullen said, taking her arm to lay along his. “I rather like it up here.” He grinned. His touch shot like hot wine through Rose, both relaxing her and making her pulse speed.

  “Ye look foolish,” Beatrice chided, her face growing hard like her mother’s.

  Cullen surveyed their audience. “Aye, but if it gets their attention, the foolishness is worth the profit.”

  Broc came over as Cullen helped Rose down. “I’d like to see the view from the table, too.”

  Charlotte slapped his shoulder. “No more boots on my table.”

  “Have ye seen the kitchen garden yet?” Cullen asked Rose.

  She shook her head, and Cullen led her toward the back. Beatrice began to follow.

  “Are ye here for something, Beatrice?” Charlotte asked.

  “Aye…to pick some tansy from your herb garden.”

  “I’d be happy to take ye,” Errol said.