Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1 (33 page)

Her daughter’s flush deepened. “Yes, please,” she managed to say.

Jamie’s gaze sharpened on Delia for a moment before he served Abigail. Then he turned to his left, “Mari?”

She raised her chin. “I do not believe we know each other well enough for first names, Mr. Macleod.”

Jamie grinned. “I can change that if ye’ll do me the honor of strolling with me later.”

Mari’s eyes widened. “That would be most improper.”

“It would,” Ian added with a glare towards his brother.

Jamie regarded his brother for a long moment and then he turned back to Mari. “My brother seems to be most protective of ye and your sister. Perhaps I might have the pleasure of your company in the parlor then?”

“I believe I’ll retire after dinner. I have a bit of a headache,” Mari said.

Jillian frowned. Mari was on the brink of being rude and Jillian didn’t understand why. Jamie had carried on an easy banter with both girls through the afternoon, although poor Abigail seemed only to retreat further into her shell at such attention. Mari usually reveled in it, but Jamie seemed to irritate her.

Jillian studied Ian’s brother through lowered lashes. He wasn’t quite as tall as Ian and his shoulders weren’t as broad, but the saffron shirt and kilt he wore did little to hide well-defined muscles in arms and legs. His shoulder-length hair was dark, although burnished with streaks of auburn rather than the ebony black of Ian’s. His unusual tawny-colored eyes gave his angular face a rather exotic look. She wondered why her sister wasn’t more intrigued. Delia had lost no time in trying to flirt with him, much to Wesley’s consternation.

Jillian’s stomach cramped suddenly and she laid down her napkin. “I believe I might need to retire as well.”

“Are ye ill?” Ian asked.

Jillian forced a smile. “I’m just tired. It’s just taking me longer to recover from the accident than I thought it would.” She turned to Mari. “I believe one of us should remain as hostess, don’t you?”

Her sister looked as though she were about to disagree, and Jillian frowned slightly at her.

“There’s no need for her to remain if she’d rather not,” Delia said sweetly. “I don’t mind being hostess. After all, it’s the reason Lord Newburn asked me to stay while you recover.”

Jillian was quite sure that wasn’t the reason Wesley had asked Delia to stay, but the woman did keep him occupied and away from her. With Ian leaving, the last thing she wanted to do was insult Delia and have her leave too.

“Of course,” she said. “We’d be most grateful.”

“You go upstairs then,” Delia answered. “I’ll send up a draught to help you sleep and you’ll be fine in the morning.”

Jillian’s stomach was threatening to empty its contents. With a quick nod, she left the room. Once there, she let Darcy help her undress and crawled under the covers just as the door opened and a maid stepped inside with a goblet in her hand.

“Lady Sherrington said ye were to drink this.”

Darcy took it and sniffed suspiciously. ‘What’s in it?”

The maid shrugged. “Chamomile tea, I think, with a bit of mint.”

Darcy took a cautious sip. “It seems all right.”

“Of course it is,” Jillian said as she took the cup. “We may not like Lady Sherrington, but she has been helpful these past few days. I really think she’s making an effort to apologize by coddling me. You run along, Darcy. I’ll be fine.”

The maid extinguished the oil lamps but left a candle burning by the bedside. Jillian sipped some of the tea as she thought about the coming days without Ian. She missed him already and he wasn’t even gone. What would she do when he was married?

She set the cup down. The tea suddenly started to taste bitter as the wine had. If she didn’t stop torturing herself about Ian, soon she would not be able to eat anything.

With a sigh, she blew out the candle and closed her eyes. Tomorrow, she would have to say good-bye.

Chapter Eighteen

Ian almost changed his mind about going to Scotland when he saw Jillian the next morning. She was pale and there were circles under her eyes as though she hadn’t slept at all. He had gotten little sleep himself, with his cock hard all night wanting the satisfaction of plunging itself deep within her hot, wet sheath.

By the auld gods. He had intended to spend their last night together making wild, passionate love in as many different positions as he could think of before he left. He wanted to lie with her spooned against him when they were both exhausted and bury his nose in her rose-scented hair. Scents and memories that would stay with him while he was gone. But Jillian had truly been ill, whether she admitted it or not, and he worried about leaving her.

“Are ye sure ye are all right?” he asked for what seemed like the hundredth time as he stood by his horse in the courtyard.

“I’m just tired,” she said with a wavering smile. “I promise I’ll rest and recuperate while you’re gone.”

He wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her and slant his mouth across hers in a long kiss, but there were others in the courtyard waiting to see them off. With a small sigh, he took her hand and bent over it.

“Take care, Lady Newburn. I’ll return to Cantford as soon as I can.” He straightened and gave her a look that he hoped conveyed the message that he would be returning for her, and then vaulted on to his horse. His small band cantered out. He turned to wave to Jillian before the bend in the road obscured his view.

They rode for several miles in silence before Jamie finally spoke. “Ye are needed in Scotland, Ian.”

“Aye. Am I nae going?” Ian barked and then sighed as his brother arched an eyebrow. “’Twill be good to see the Highlands again,” he said in a calmer voice.

“But your heart is with the lass, I think,” Jamie replied. “Will ye marry her?”

“She wilna have me.”

“What?” A look of righteous indignation crossed Jamie’s face. “Ye are a laird. Are the woman’s wits addled?”

“Nae.” Ian supposed he should be grateful that Jamie didn’t decide to tease him unmercifully about a woman turning him down. They’d always had a friendly competition about their ability to charm the lasses. His misery must truly be showing in his face. “She says I need a wife who will give me an heir.” He took a deep breath. “She canna give me a child.”

A corner of Jamie’s mouth lifted. “I take it ye tried?”

Ian started to glare at him, but saw only sympathy on his brother’s face. “I doona wish to discuss it.”

Jamie shrugged. “I’m only trying to help. Though if she’s as cold as that sister of hers—”

“She is nae cold.” Ian thought about the brittle ice that Jillian had wrapped her heart in when he first met her. He knew he’d melted some of those layers, but would he ever be able to convince her that her heart was safe with him? “Mari is barely more than a child.”

“A self-centered one.”

“Are ye sure ’tis not your pride that’s hurt?” Ian asked.

“Nae,” Jamie denied and then grinned. “Well, a wee bit maybe. The lass is comely, after all. Perhaps I’ll have to be more persuasive.”

“Mari has her heart set on her Season next year. Ye’ll not fit in any more than I did. If ye wish to woo an English lass, why not think about Abigail?”

“That timid mouse?” Jamie laughed. “She would be better suited for Shane’s serious discussions of scientific theory.”

Ian thought about that. Their cousin, even though he had been raised to fight as all Highlanders were, much preferred to stick his head in a book when he had time. They might make a good pair at that. Then he shook himself. What was he doing, trying to play matchmaker? A mon dinna concern himself with such.

They halted the horses beside a river when the sun was high in the sky. Taking the soft bread and hard cheese from his saddlebag, along with a skin of wine, Ian sat down in the shade with his back against a tree.

Jamie flopped down beside him and tore off a piece of his bread. “Tell me about the light skirt that is staying at Newburn.”

“She is little more than a whore,” Ian said grimly, “although she is the Earl of Sherrington’s wife.” He went on to tell Jamie of his suspicions regarding her trysts with Wesley and how he, himself, almost came to duel with the earl.

Jamie listened in silence until he had finished. “She wanted her husband dead? A woman that is cunning enough to pit ye against her husband is dangerous.”

“Aye,” Ian replied, “but Newburn set her up to it. I think he hoped the earl would shoot straight and I would be the one turning up my toes.”

Jamie frowned. “Why would he do that?”

“He wants my land. Originally, it was part of his before King George gave it to our great-grandfather.” Ian hesitated. “He also wants to marry Jillian.”

Jamie choked on the last bit of bread he was chewing and hurriedly washed it down with some wine. “What? Does the English church allow a stepson to marry his mother?”

“I doona know. But it seems that this Prince Regent makes laws as he pleases,” Ian said. “It’s grateful I am that the countess has kept Newburn occupied.”

“What does Jillian have to say?”

“She says she will never marry.”

“Does the whore know of this?”

“I doona know. Why?”

“Well, ’twas clear as a summer day that the wanton was fair smitten with Newburn. If she thinks his affection lies elsewhere… We ken what hellcats can do.”

Ian became thoughtful. Did Delia know about Wesley’s boasting? Sherrington had been at the club that night. Would he have mentioned it? He doubted that Delia was the kind of woman who would share her lover, even though Jillian was totally innocent in all of this. Still… What if the shooting hadn’t been an accident? And the bullet wasn’t meant for him at all, but for Jillian? He rubbed a hand across his forehead. The arrow that had whizzed past them…that had occurred after the remarks Wesley had made at the club. Was that also an attempt on Jillian’s life?

Jamie took another swig of wine and handed the skin to Ian. “’Tis good wine.”

Ian stared at the skin as though mesmerized. “Wine.”

“Aye,” Jamie said with a grin. “Are ye entering your dotage that ye are looking at it that way?”

Ian shook his head. “Nae. I am thinking. Delia’s kindness to Jillian these past days…bringing her food, preparing draughts…last night, she poured the wine.”

“Aye,” Jamie said again, looking puzzled. “What is it ye are trying to say? The woman poured wine for all of us.”

“But she went for a new skin before she poured Jillian’s, and then she took it back to the kitchens. I thought that odd at the time since the servants normally do that.” He paused. “Jillian has been feeling ill when she should be fully recovered
…
”

Even as he said those words, the hair on his nape rose and his head nearly split as the kenning hit him like a broadsword. If Delia tried to get her husband killed in a duel, she wouldn’t stop at trying to do away with any competition for Newburn.

Ian leapt up, spilling the skin. “I should have seen this earlier. I’ve got to go back. I’ve left Jillian in a pit of vipers.”

Jillian groaned and clutched her stomach as she tried to find a comfortable position in the bed. Darcy wiped her brow with a damp cloth.

“Something is wrong, my lady,” she said. “You shouldn’t be having stomach pain because of a head wound.”

“It was probably the fish I had earlier,” Jillian said weakly as another spasm racked through her.

Mari turned away from the window where she was standing. “I had the fish too.”

“Then what could it be?” She closed her eyes as she cramped again and then opened them slowly.

“I think you’re being poisoned,” Darcy said.

Jillian widened her eyes even as Mari gasped in astonishment. “But who…why?”

“I would wager my best bonnet that it’s that she-devil who ought to have left when her husband did,” Darcy said firmly.

“Delia? But she’s been nothing but kind.”

Darcy nodded. “Exactly. Why did she suddenly become your friend?”

“She has a point,” Mari said as she came to stand by the bed. “Since when did that woman ever do anything that wasn’t to her advantage? I remember Maddie’s mother saying that the countess was nothing more than a contriving trollop. Of course,” she added hastily, “I wasn’t supposed to hear that. Maddie and I were hiding behind a tapestry in the parlor that day.”

Poison? The soup that Delia had brought when she came to apologize had been all right, but perhaps that was just a red herring. The question was why Delia would want Jillian dead. The answer came suddenly and Jillian felt her blood chill.

Wesley. Delia was clearly besotted by him. Ironically, Jillian had been grateful that the countess was always by his side. It made life for Jillian so much easier. If Delia thought he was stilling pursuing the marriage idea, or if she realized that Wesley still gave Jillian sly, leering looks when Delia wasn’t watching, she would be ruthless in obliterating her enemy. Even when the
enemy
kept herself well away from him.

Jillian shivered, even though coals burned brightly in the brazier near the bed. How could she have been so stupid as to trust that woman? Was Wesley collaborating with her? Jillian had rejected him. Would male pride demand that he get his revenge? Poison killed slowly if given in small amounts. Did he wish her to have an agonizing death?