The Rogue of Islay Isle (Highland Isles) Read online

  He exhaled long and studied her. “I’ve been busy,” he said.

  Busy? Too busy to eat a meal inside or stop by her room. Non, he’d realized his folly in swearing to protect her. Her lips parted and then shut. She took a deep breath, tipping her head slightly. “I relieve you of your oath.”

  His brows drew low. “My oath? To protect ye?”

  “You obviously wish I hadn’t washed up on your shore, a Frenchwoman, a barb in your family peace, a harbinger of English retaliation.”

  “I have never said any of that,” he said. “My vow stands.”

  She broke away from his gaze and moved down to the next stall where a gray horse munched. The mare eyed her suspiciously but continued to wrestle hay from its feeding trough. “You didn’t have to say those things. They were painted all over your face in the garden.”

  “When the captains were here?”

  “Before that, when you heard my voice for the first time, my French voice.” She turned to lean her back on the stall door and widened her eyes. “Shock, horror, regret.” She punctuated each word with a flick of her hand before crossing her arms to mimic his stance. “Don’t deny it.”

  The words were out, and somehow their release weakened her. She’d shown her hand. Mon Dieu. The released truth cut through the tightness in her chest, making her eyes ache. She blinked, her features stiff. “Don’t deny it,” she repeated, her voice soft.

  “Even not speaking to me for days, I can read your actions, Cullen Duffie. I am a danger to your clan, and you do not want me here. I release you from your oath.” With that she turned, walking to the sled where the lowering sun didn’t reach. It was harnessed, ready for two horses to be tethered. She stepped up on the runner to climb inside, sitting on a sheepskin throw in the shadows. Should she leave Islay? How could she run when she didn’t know from what she was running? Alone, in the dark, Rose’s body stiffened with silent worry.

  After a long pause, Rose heard Cullen walk over. In one fluid motion, he grasped the sled’s curved wooden rail and climbed aboard. Rose slid farther across the seat with a little gasp as he nearly squashed her. The wooden bench was made for two, but one of the current occupants was huge.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, pressing over the side of the seat where the wall held her from toppling out.

  Cullen turned to her, giving her a little more room. His face was dark with shadows as the daylight surrendered incrementally beyond the walls of the barn. “Ye say ye can read my actions? Can know what is in my mind merely by watching what I do?”

  He was going to deny his repulsion of her. Rose tipped her chin up. “I certainly can. You’ve made it clear you wish me gone, that you do not want to be anywhere near me.” Which sounded ludicrous with him sitting so close. She cleared her voice to strengthen it. “Your actions speak louder than your silence on the matter, monsieur.”

  “Well, then,” he said, and she watched his mouth form a smile. “If ye’re so damn good at reading actions…” He leaned across the chasm between them, his warm arms circling behind her back. “Read this.” Rose’s breath tangled with her pounding heart as he lowered his face to hers.

  Chapter Eight

  Pressing his mouth against her softly parted lips, Cullen held on to his last scrap of discipline. For days he’d thought of kissing her. His cousins’ advice to stay away had only fueled his thoughts of Rose, the fire he sensed under her composure, the strength of her spirit, the warmth and softness of her skin.

  Her hand came up to his chest. If she beat against him, he’d retreat immediately despite the marvelous feel of her lips. But her palms rested flat. With gentle guidance, he tipped her face to deepen the kiss.

  “Cullen,” she whispered. Her breathy voice was the spark to Cullen’s brittle kindling, torching his discipline. Cullen’s arms crushed around her, drawing her across the small seat of the sled into his lap. He cupped her cheek, in awe of the smoothness.

  With a small noise somewhere in the back of her throat, Rose opened her mouth farther, inviting a taste of her sweetness. All thoughts of staying away, even the constant press to be the opposite of his gambling, irresponsible father, burned to ash in the inferno rushing through Cullen’s blood. Rose lifted higher in his lap to wrap her arms around his neck. They slanted across each other’s mouths, delving and exploring, hands wandering in the darkness. Without sight, Cullen’s other senses sharpened, memorizing the brush of her loose curls against his cheek, the fresh scent of her hair, the sound of her rapid breathing mixing with his, the taste of her building passion. If her actions revealed her mind, Rose hungered for him as much as he did for her. Had she, too, spent the last four days imagining this kiss and more?

  Cullen shot fingers through the silk of her hair, raking her hairpins free to fall on the sheepskin under them. She tipped back, giving him access to her sweet-smelling throat, and he trailed hot kisses down the slender column. Her fingers curled into his shoulders as she arched.

  He moved back up to claim her mouth again, cradling her head. For the moment, there was no English army camped across the strait, no judging uncles or oaths to protect the clan above all else. There was only the warm lass in his arms. “Och, Rose,” he murmured against her lips.

  Cool fingers slid along his jawline to rest on his exposed neck. He groaned low in his throat as she ran her hand down his chest and wiggled her backside in his lap. Could she feel how much he wanted her? Reason was gone. The only two beings who remained in the world were Rose and him.

  Behind him, the door of the barn opened again, and someone cleared his throat. Bloody hell and damnation. “Cull?” Broc’s voice cut through, and Cullen pulled back, letting Rose slide off his lap. “Your ma’s looking for ye. Something to do with hauling down the tapestries.”

  Cullen held on to Rose’s hands and turned, putting her behind him so that Broc couldn’t see her. “Thought I better get ye before she comes out here herself,” Broc continued, trying to peer into the shadows. “Sorry, lass,” he said. “I’m sure he can finish with ye later tonight.”

  “Leave.” Cullen’s voice came more like a growl, but the arse just stood there, grinning.

  “Glad to see ye getting your mind off your petit bit of trouble,” he said and turned, sliding the barn door closed behind him.

  If Cullen could throw his cousin into an icy lake right now, he would. Even without looking, he could feel Rose withdraw. He exhaled long. “Ye are not my petit bit of trouble,” he said. It was difficult to see her in the shadows, but she’d pressed her back against the far edge of the seat.

  “No,” she said. “I am your grand mountain of trouble.” With unexpected agility, she hoisted herself up to stand on the sled’s seat.

  “Rose?” He stood as she raised her skirts to step over the front of the curved dash, her slippers finding purchase on the sloped iron breeching shaft. “Ye’ll fall,” he said, jumping down to dodge to the front.

  “I will do well on my own,” she snapped. She continued to inch her way down the front where it let off in a dark corner.

  “Ye’re liable to step down into a rat’s den or into horse dung,” he warned and reached up for her.

  She evaded his hand. “The barn is kept immaculate, and there are cats everywhere.”

  “Damnation, Rose,” he said and caught her around the waist to set her on the dirt floor.

  “I was fine,” she huffed, straightening her gown. She wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders. “You better find your mother.”

  “Broc didn’t know it was ye in here.”

  “I assumed that,” she said, the T being quite succinct. “But apparently, this is something you do regularly with other women.”

  “Bloody hell.” This was ending terribly. He ran a hand through his hair. Indeed, chasing a pretty lass for a kiss had been his habit before he became chief…after as well, but not now. “Blast,” he cursed again.

  “Go on.” She shooed him with a flick of her fingers. “Neither of us would want
to be seen leaving together. You go out first and take Broc with you, since we both know he’s standing out there waiting to see which lass ye were dallying with in here.”

  He frowned at her words. “Your imitation of our Scot’s tongue is lacking.”

  “And you don’t have enough nose in your speech when you say petit bit of trouble,” she countered, her teeth clenched.

  The shadows hid the details of her rage, but her gestures flitted with graceful fury. “We were enjoying each other,” he said. “And all that changed because Broc thought I might be with another woman?”

  “Go.”

  “Ye are jealous,” he said, eyebrows rising. “That I might love another.”

  “You are a rogue. I would never be jealous of a woman who’s made the unfortunate decision to give her heart to a rogue.” She flapped her hand. “And love is only a child’s tale. There is no such thing.”

  “No such thing as love?” he asked, surprised by her rejection of the feeling he thought all lasses longed for.

  She pointed toward the door. When he didn’t move, she huffed, dropping her arm, and traipsed down the stalls past his steed, Jasper. “There must be another way out, even if I have to muck past the horses,” she murmured with bite. She continued in whispered French, her words sputtering.

  “Even though I don’t understand ye,” he called quietly, “I can tell ye’re swearing. Very unladylike.”

  “Tais toi,” she hissed and pushed through the narrow corridor beside the sheep pen.

  Cullen couldn’t help his grin. He turned and slid the barn door open and then closed, striding toward Broc on the keep stairs. Broc looked at Cullen and back at the barn. “Aren’t ye forgetting someone?” he asked.

  “Get inside, ye arse,” Cullen said and dragged him by the arm into the entryway. “And keep your mouth shut. Every time ye say something, I get in trouble.”

  Broc chuckled. “Trouble? If it’s trouble that’s brought back your good cheer, I’ll find ye more.”

  “Bloody hell,” Cullen said, but smiled broadly. He’d had a taste of grand trouble, and he wanted more. She may have fled cursing and denying that love existed, but that didn’t change the fact that Rose was jealous.

  …

  His hands trailed down over her breasts, sending jolts of sensation deep into her pelvis. Wet kisses seared her neck. “Mon Dieu,” she breathed, clawing at Cullen’s naked back. Sleek muscles under hot skin, she slid her fingers across the expanse as he kissed down her body. Her clothes faded away, leaving her nude. Skin against skin, his mouth clamped down over—

  Knock. Knock. “Rose? Are ye awake, dear?”

  Rose’s eyes snapped open, her parted lips framing rapid breaths. The thin bedsheets coiled around her legs, and she kicked at them to loosen herself. “Oui,” she called. “Yes.”

  “Good,” Charlotte called through the barred door. “I am in need of your help below, stringing holly. The Macleans could show up any day.”

  Rose glanced at the window where the frosty glass looked gray. Mon Dieu. It was barely dawn. “Of course, I will be down soon.” As soon as her traitorous body stopped aching for that blasted man’s touch. She raised a hand to her peaked breasts and felt a clenching below. Closing her eyes, she flopped back onto the mangled bedclothes.

  After the barn incident, she’d taken her meal alone in her room, barred the door, and forced herself to forget the feel of Cullen’s hot mouth on her throat and lips. She’d suspected that he was a charmer from the start, but the giggling women and Broc’s words last night, not to mention Cullen’s acceptance of her accusation, all proved him to be a rogue.

  Don’t lose your heart to les coquins. Don’t believe their words of love. There is no such thing as love. Someone had warned her about scoundrels and their lies. Rose didn’t like the feeling of anticipated betrayal. Once a rogue, always a rogue. It was better never to start something that was doomed.

  She could guard her unwanted thoughts while awake, but her dreams continued to betray her. “Zut,” she cursed. With such detailed imaginings each night, it was no wonder she’d opened under his skillful hands in the barn. She huffed and rolled onto her stomach, but the bunched blanket rubbed against the V of her legs, reminding her of the hardness she’d felt yesterday through her skirts when sitting on Cullen’s lap.

  Rose punched her fist into the mattress and continued to the far side of the bed, sliding her legs out. Cold water. That’s what she needed to combat Cullen’s heat. “Damn Scot,” she hissed and hurried to slam her arms through the sleeves of the robe Charlotte had found for her. With the door barred, no one had been up to tend the fire, and it had grown cold overnight. The chill in the room gave her something else to focus on, and slowly the ache in her body released its hold. Oui. Ice, snow, and frozen feet would help keep her body in line.

  A quarter hour later, Rose stepped lightly down the steps to the great hall. She’d quickly braided her hair, letting it fall down her back, and wore one of the dresses Ellen had found for her to work in. It was gray and without adornment, so Cullen would hardly notice her.

  “We must air the castle and string up garlands of holly and some mistletoe,” Charlotte instructed Broc and Errol as Rose rounded the corner out of the alcove. “Errol, help Cullen lower the tapestries, so we can beat them outside.”

  Cullen balanced on a ladder at the far end of the room, his upper half lifting under the ponderous tapestry. Only his muscular legs showed above the lip of his leather boots. The strength in them made Rose’s stomach flutter, and she turned away.

  Broc yawned. “It’s hardly light out.”

  Errol jogged over to help Cullen as the ties gave way.

  “’Tis best to roll it to carry outside,” Charlotte advised. “Broc, help them.”

  “Ye know it’s snowing,” Errol said. The heavy tapestry collapsed over his head, muffling his words. Cullen stood above his cousins, hair in disarray after having been raked by the dust-filled depiction of a dragonfly-encircled lady and unicorn.

  “The snow will freshen them,” Charlotte said, propping hands on her hips.

  Footsteps pattered from the corridor with the sound of wooden wheels on the floorboards. “There now,” Charlotte called and waved Ellen, Dunyvaig’s head maid, over to the table. “Rose can help me dust these extra candles to put on the mantel.”

  “My mother never let anyone decorate before Christmas Eve,” Broc called, his words strained as he rolled the tapestry. “Said it was unlucky.”

  “We will cut holly and string it,” Charlotte said, “but won’t put it up until day after tomorrow, which is Christmas Eve.”

  “Bloody,” Broc said. “She’s right.”

  “Stop yer gabbing,” Errol chided.

  Cullen jumped down from the ladder. He looked Rose’s way, but she pretended to be already turning toward the table. Would he start ignoring her again, walk past her since his cousins were there? Or would his cousins wonder why he wasn’t ignoring her? It barely matters, she told herself.

  Charlotte wiped her hands. “I need to get some girls from the village to clean the extra rooms today. My father never had visitors after Mother died. They’re probably thick with dust.”

  Rose pulled a large pillar candle out of the crate. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Cullen moving the ladder to the next tapestry, depicting courtly ladies. Errol and Broc stomped toward her, carrying the rolled unicorn tapestry between them. Broc yawned again, his eyes red and his skin dull.

  “If you didn’t stay up so late drinking whisky,” Rose said, “mornings wouldn’t be such torture.”

  He frowned sourly. “Have ye been spying on me?” he asked and stumbled, almost dropping his end.

  “Bloody hell,” Errol cursed, but Broc ignored him, his sleep-filled eyes opening wider.

  “Not that I think ye’ve been spying on me,” Broc said. “Or anyone…here. Or anywhere, that is.”

  Rose graced him with a grin. “Good to know.”

  The men spent
the rest of the morning outdoors, thumping the massive tapestries that Cullen’s grandfather had brought from Edinburgh decades ago. Rose felt Cullen’s gaze on her nearly a dozen times as he traipsed in and out. He desired her, that was obvious. At least for now. Men want what they can’t easily acquire. And she wasn’t planning on falling into his embrace again like in the barn. Despite his actions, she couldn’t erase the memory of his face in the garden.

  He walked past her twice, close enough to brush her skirts. The sound of his voice, and the strength of his stride, made her stomach flutter until she was slightly nauseous, like consuming too much wine and sugared fruits. Non. She would not submit to the pull she felt and kept her gaze from following him, though she still knew exactly where he was, as if he were a lodestone, pulling her.

  Rose dusted and set the candles in small groups on the mantel. Beatrice and her friends wafted inside with a few other girls from the village, brooms in hand. When she saw Rose, Beatrice sniffed condescendingly. Would she be so triumphant if she knew that Rose and Cullen had nearly set the hay ablaze in the barn with their passion? Was there really nothing between Cullen and Beatrice?

  This was maddening. The imprint of Cullen’s warm, hard body pressed to hers was still fresh, the lure of his kiss still strong. Mon Dieu. But she was French, and he was the leader of a Scottish clan that didn’t want her on their island.

  …

  Rose sat before the tiled hearth in her room. Supper had been a stilted affair with haphazard frowns from Cullen, mumbles from his uncles, and a worrisome diatribe from Charlotte about the state of the keep. As soon as polite, Rose retired to her room without even a glance in Cullen’s direction.

  Would he come to her door? If he did, would she let him in? Her head shouted “absolutely not,” which only made her loins demand a beheading. Rose let her face fall into her hands. She ran fingers through her hair, releasing little knots that her natural curls bred. The soft mass mimicked her predicament. Every time she raked through one knot, more threads wound around each other into a new knot, making a glorious mess.