The Rogue of Islay Isle (Highland Isles) Read online

  Cullen exhaled through his nose. “It will come in time, like your voice.”

  A breeze blew in against Rose’s skirts as the door behind her opened.

  “Errol,” Cullen said. “I asked ye to see Rose to my mother.”

  Rose turned as Errol walked in alone, his hair in disarray. What had he done with the lunatic shrew?

  Cullen’s cousin straightened his sash. “I had a bit of a problem with Bea. Sent her to eat a tart or two in the kitchen. I was coming to find Rose,” he said, looking at her. “I’m sorry she struck ye.”

  “Beatrice hit Rose?” Cullen asked, his voice hard. He tipped his head to examine Rose’s face in the dim light, but as his palm came closer, Rose backed up.

  “A slap.” She shrugged.

  Cullen dropped his hand and frowned at Errol. “Ye let Beatrice slap her?”

  “I wasn’t expecting it,” Errol said, his hand open.

  “I was,” Rose said, causing them both to look her way, twin confounded expressions. “I baited her.” She shrugged and looked at Cullen. “The woman has very little control.”

  “Ye wanted her to hit ye?” Errol asked.

  It had been worth the sting to watch Beatrice lose all composure, flying apart. “A worthy risk for the outcome.”

  “But ye lost,” Errol said. “Ye didn’t even react to her.”

  Did he jest? “Who lost all control?” Rose asked. “Who became an animal that had to be lifted from the ground and subdued?”

  “Uh…Beatrice,” Errol answered.

  “Bloody hell,” Cullen swore. “Lifted from the ground? Are those scratches on the side of your face?”

  Errol swiped at a thin line of blood near his temple.

  “And who had the last calm words that didn’t include incoherent rage and unbecoming cursing?”

  “I am guessing that was ye,” Cullen said, his frown relaxing.

  Rose nodded, turning to Errol. “And who walked away with dignity?”

  Errol’s lips pinched and curled upward. He nodded while still dabbing at his bleeding cheek. “Aye, ye won.”

  Rose turned back to Cullen. “Your bedmate is quite passionate. Perhaps she would like to be tied up. Excusez-moi.” She purposely slid to the other side of the narrow corridor to step around Cullen’s large frame, though her arm still brushed his. He caught it, halting her.

  “Beatrice MacDonald is not my bedmate.”

  A lie, but she was not ready to jump immediately into another battle. “I would retire now to rest. Am I permitted to use the bedroom I’ve been sleeping in these past days or will you escort me to the dungeons instead?”

  “Och, lass,” Errol said, but didn’t answer.

  Cullen’s hard gaze met hers. “She is not my bedmate.”

  Rose ignored his statement. “Where shall I sleep tonight?” Her eyebrow rose as she pointedly looked to his hand manacled around her upper arm.

  “Not in a dungeon,” Cullen said and released her.

  “Cull, what’s keeping ye?” Broc yelled down the corridor toward them. “The captains are mounted and ready to ride.”

  He turned to Errol. “Do ye think ye can handle walking Rose to her room?”

  “Humph. Aye.”

  Cullen’s gaze touched her, powerful, arresting. Without another word, he strode back toward the great hall, his boots clipping on the stone.

  …

  “I knew she was a spy,” Farlan called out, standing from his seat at the long table.

  Cullen strode in through the entryway, having spent the last six hours riding along a small portion of Islay’s massive shoreline, plenty of time for him to mull over the horrendous scene in the garden. He’d left Garrick and four other MacDonald warriors with the captains and their men to stay with a fisherman overnight.

  They would continue the next day and most likely give up the search by horseback and return to Oban. Captain Thompson didn’t look like he appreciated traditional Scottish fare and would be grumbling by tomorrow. And Captain Taylor, with his scar across his face, looked like he’d rather be commanding his legions than searching a rocky coastline for weeks. Cullen had suggested they return to Oban and sail around the island to search from the water.

  “Did ye hear me?” Farlan asked, his deep voice cracking like thunder.

  “Unfortunately,” Cullen said. He grabbed a quaff of ale from the sideboard.

  “A French spy.” William followed his brother to stand. So Bea had filled them in on Rose’s recovered voice.

  “She was not a simple passenger on that French ship,” Charlotte said from her spot at the hearth. She set aside her needlepoint. “She was tied up and escaped during the storm,” she continued. “That certainly doesn’t make her a spy.”

  “I’d wager she remembers who she is,” Farlan said, puffing up his already round chest. “Keeping secrets, probably about how she came by her rich clothes and those pearls.”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Why are ye determined to see only evil in the lass?” She strode closer to her brothers and jabbed her finger at each of them. “The both of ye. Our country has always kept ties with France, and yet ye act like the woman is speaking the Devil’s language.”

  William looked down his bulbous nose at his sister and then turned to Cullen. “If the English find her here, ye will bring war to Islay. Ruin us.”

  “She is still an injured, lost lass who happens to have been born in France,” Charlotte said.

  It was true. Rose couldn’t help where she’d been born or what accent curled off her tongue. Yet his uncles’ dire predictions about him destroying the peace on Islay, throwing away his duty to his clan like his father threw away his mother’s money, twisted inside him, making Cullen’s head ache. He rubbed at the back of his skull. Despite all of that, the fact remained that he would never surrender Rose to Captain Taylor. Never. Cullen crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze shifting between both of his scowling uncles. “If ye two would stop being so frightened of the bloody English, ye might see reason.”

  Farlan’s face turned red, his breath coming out with blustering force. William opened his mouth to speak, but Cullen beat him to it. “If ye wish to continue to yell and puff up like ornery cocks because I won’t throw an injured lass to the English dogs, ye can do it elsewhere. I’ve heard enough.”

  “Heard enough?” William asked, his mouth snapping with his words.

  “Frightened of the English?” Farlan sputtered at the same time.

  Cullen turned away from the two men while they decided if they wanted to push him further or leave off for now. His hand itched for his sword, but his very tired patience still held him in check. They were his mother’s brothers, after all. He looked to her. “Where is she?”

  “Upstairs. I brought her some food when she wouldn’t come down for the evening meal.”

  “Did she tell ye anything?” Had she cursed him? Told his mother that he was bedding Beatrice and had forbidden her to speak with her French accent?

  Charlotte shook her head. “Nothing except merci. She only stared into the fireplace from her perch on a chair.”

  The lass was brave enough not to hide her language. Or proud enough. Although the gardens proved her to be exceedingly brave. Behind him, he heard his uncles stomp out, probably to plan Rose’s interrogation.

  Rose. A beautiful, frustrating mystery. Her stalwart courage showed through every graceful movement. Even before she could utter a word, he’d realized how different Rose was from the manipulative, eyelash-flapping lasses around him. Everything about her lured him in. Her lush curves and expressive eyes. Her silken, wavy tresses. But it was the strength of her character, her challenging spirit, and her refusal to meekly hide away that drew him. Och. She’d wanted to know where she should sleep for the night. “My chambers” had been on the tip of Cullen’s tongue, but luckily stayed put after her accusation of him sharing a bed with Beatrice.

  His mother bid him good night, and he threw himself into a chair before the hearth, r
eveling in the silence of the empty hall. The fire crackled and warmed his damp hair after he’d washed off the day’s grime in the soldiers’ quarters.

  English soldiers were sleeping on Islay, and his uncles were likely planning a mutiny. His gaze turned toward the stairs, and all he could bloody do was think about the French woman sitting above.

  …

  The fire danced in the tiled hearth. Rose watched the shapes in the flames, ladies with their partners, hopping and turning around in the light galliard dance. She could almost hear the strains of a viola, the caress of a harp, and the soft trill of a flute. Her blood thumped in her ears, and she laid one hand over her exposed neckline where her heart beat.

  Mon Dieu. The memories tried to surface. Trapped under ice that seemed to encase her past, she could almost make them out. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to catch the colors and movements. Dancing, the changing cadence of music, deep laughter, and clinking sounds. A fête? Layers of damask and brocade with birds and flowers embroidered in gold threads. The fabrics whispered with movement, sliding together to complement the tinkling chirps of women laughing, the mirth as fake as the birds on their dresses.

  In her mind, Rose turned in a circle, the feel of her skirts brushing her legs. A deep voice boomed from a corner, drawing all attention. Her heart thundered as his black eyes pierced her with his gaze.

  Knock. Knock.

  Rose blinked, her eyes opening to rest on the dancing flames in the hearth, and the images submerged back under the ice. She breathed deeply and ran a hand up her forehead to her bare head.

  Knock. Knock.

  She glanced over her shoulder to the door that she’d bolted. She pushed out of her chair and tied the belt of the robe tighter around her waist as she walked.

  “Who is it?” she asked, her lips hovering near the firm oak of the door. Why was her pulse so rapid? No one could get through the thick plank that she’d lowered. Much safer than a lock that could be opened with a key.

  “Cullen Duffie.” The mellow timbre caught her inhale. “I wish to talk to ye if ye’re still up.”

  Her stomach tightened, her wounds still raw from his disapproval in the garden. She rested her palms on the door. “’Tis not proper. I am undone.”

  There was a pause. “I hoped to talk. About the garden today. It was…bloody awful. I was bloody awful.”

  An apology? Even though being hoisted and thrown in Dunyvaig’s dungeon didn’t seem forthcoming, she hadn’t expected to hear an apology from the lips that had twisted in shock and repulsion.

  Rose lifted the bar, letting it scrape in a controlled fall to the floor. She backed up, anticipating his push inward, but he waited. She wrapped her fingers around the curved iron handle and pulled.

  The narrow corridor was painted in darkness. Cullen stood, framed by black, a picture of restrained power with his hands braced on the sides of her doorframe. Serious and full of masculine strength, his handsome features were drawn tight. He didn’t try to enter until she stepped back, a little motion with her hand.

  He shut the door behind him and stood, his hands tucked in opposite armpits. Rose leaned her rigid back against one of the four posters surrounding the bed. Quiet and shadows fell like a veil between them. Did he expect her to say something? She’d learned, from somewhere, that it was best to hold her tongue, especially now that she knew it was distasteful to him. The thought soured in her mouth.

  “So, ye are French,” he said, his voice breaking the thin web of silence.

  “Oui,” she answered and raised her chin. “Apparently the kind who speaks through her nose.”

  Cullen dropped his hands and rubbed a fist across his forehead. “Broc didn’t mean anything cruel by the observation.” He shook his head. “Or his comment about tying ye up.”

  A blush prickled up Rose’s neck, but she ignored it and kept her expression firm. “We can move on from Broc’s attempts to help and onto your bloody awfulness. That is what you mentioned outside my door.” She let contempt lace each succinct word.

  He exhaled, his gaze connecting with hers. “It was the best story I could come up with at the last second. I didn’t mean to insinuate that ye…desire or would ever allow me to tie ye up in my bedchamber. I apologize for the embarrassment and the taint against ye. Broc and Errol will make certain that no one who might hear the details believes them to be true.”

  So the “bloody awful” in Cullen’s mind had to do with the ruse about her bedchamber theatrics. Not the expression on his face when he realized she was French. Disappointment saturated Rose like a sponge left out in a cold, driving rain. She wrapped her arms around herself to fend off the chill.

  Pushing away from the bed, she walked toward the hearth and held her hands out to the flames. Disappointment was something she had dealt with previously, the ache in her chest pressing against old scars. Even if she couldn’t remember the details, she knew she’d survived before. The knowledge gave her strength. “Do you think that I am a French spy?” Her words came out harsh with her anger. “Hoping to bargain with you about allowing a French battalion to land on Islay, creating it into a post for attack on England?”

  The silence stretched for long enough to carry Cullen’s answer, and Rose’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

  Cullen walked up behind her. “I had not. Are ye remembering things?”

  She turned to him without bothering to hide the ferocity in her stance. He hadn’t believed that tale before, but now he could. She narrowed her eyes. “Not anything as broad as being a ringleader for a French invasion.” Her lips pinched tightly together. She turned back to the flames and breathed to release some of her anger. Unchecked rage made one foolish, like Beatrice in the garden.

  She collected her composure to give him a taste of her memories, else it would look like she truly was hiding everything. Despite her anger, she needed allies. “I lived somewhere very different from Dunyvaig Castle, more lavish and cultured, definitely more beautiful.” Somehow attacking his castle and home with her insulting description didn’t make her feel any better. She watched the flames dance lower in the grate. “Yet…” She let the word trail away.

  “Yet?” Cullen touched her shoulder, turning her around to face him.

  She clutched his arm that tethered him to her, ready to strain away if need be, and inhaled through her nose. “Yet dangerous.”

  …

  Dangerous? Cullen looked down into Rose’s lovely face, her almond-shaped eyes dark with shadow. Smooth, pale skin lay across her cheekbones like moonlight on the flawless surface of a frozen pond. “Ye were in danger there?”

  “Oui, but I can’t remember from what or from whom. A man, I think.” A slight wrinkle appeared between her brows. “That is all.”

  “For now,” he said. “That is all for now, but it will come back.”

  Some of the anger dimmed from her gaze. “What if…what if I don’t want it to come back?”

  Cullen’s muscles tightened as he glimpsed Rose’s fear, the first he’d seen in her. She’d bravely baited Beatrice, had fought him off when she’d woken drenched and broken, and had acted with grace and dignity when confronted by the English captains. Rose was strong and courageous, but whatever was in her past was enough to bring fear to the surface when she didn’t even know what it was.

  Strength and conviction rushed through Cullen, readying him for battle. He might not know the extent of Rose’s past, but one thing was certain. She did not deserve to live in fear, and he wouldn’t allow it. The thought of her gentle body being tortured or her courage plundered until she was bereft of all but terror, struck at him like a sword point through the gut. Nay. He wouldn’t allow it.

  His voice was low as he stared into her gaze. “I give ye my oath. No harm will come to ye again as long as there is breath in my body and strength in my arm.”

  His damned body was responding to her nearness and the light scent of flowers she gave off, but he didn’t pull her in to him. She didn’t trust anyone,
so he relaxed his hold and stepped back. “I will let ye sleep.” He shoved away the images of Rose’s dangerous past to allow a smile to spread across his lips. He bowed his head slightly, keeping his gaze on hers, and turned to the door.

  “Cullen Duffie,” she called out as he opened it, and he looked back at her. The flames behind her cast her like a mythical goddess in her robes, hair flowing free and darkly golden in the light. “Merci,” she whispered.

  He nodded one more time. Shutting the door, he leaned against the rough wall in the pitch-dark corridor until he heard the scratch of the bar fall. He traipsed to the stairs leading to the rooftop where a cold, brisk wind would cool his blood and untangle his thoughts.

  Cullen climbed the stone steps to emerge on the roofline of the keep. The moon hid behind clouds that raced toward the mainland where the rest of Captain Taylor’s regiments watched and waited for a reason to invade Islay.

  “So, the thick, round captain—” Broc’s voice shot toward Cullen from the far wall.

  “Thompson,” Errol finished.

  “Aye, the sot, he asked if all Scottish ladies liked to be tied to the bed.”

  “Rose doesn’t,” Cullen said as he strode close, frowning. “Make sure everyone at Dunyvaig knows that.”

  Broc cocked an eyebrow. “Ye know that for certain?”

  “’Tis not something I’m ever going to ask her, but make sure it doesn’t circulate as truth,” Cullen said. “What did ye say to Thompson?”

  Broc’s grin grew until his white teeth showed. “I said that Scotsmen’s yards are so large, that the lasses like to have a rope for some leverage. Ye know, something to hold on to while we pound into them.” Broc thumped his fist into his palm. “’Tis why we can’t wear trews like the English.” He finished by adjusting himself through his plaid.

  Errol choked, coughing into his fist while he shook his head. “And he believed ye?”

  Broc shrugged. “Couldn’t say, but I did catch him spying on me when I was taking a piss.”