Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1 (3 page)

“Was breakfast not to your liking, Lord Cantford?”

“I have nae complaint about the food.”

Jillian took a sip of tea. “Was one of the servants rude?” She could easily imagine the servants below stairs exchanging comments on his unusual dress. If he had overheard one of them, she needed to address that.

“Nae.”

She set her cup down. “Then why, pray tell, do you look so angry?”

“The sun’s been up near half a day and I havena accomplished anything.”

Jillian smiled. “It’s but half past ten, my lord. Actually, quite early.”

He gave her a look that clearly indicated she might be lacking some of her wits. “Aye. I’ve wasted the morn doing nothing. At Glenfinnan, the lads and I would have worked up a mighty sweat by now.”

An image of Ian Macleod’s hard muscular body shirtless and glistening with a damp sheen jarred through Jillian’s mind and she choked on a scone. Where had
that
thought come from?

He moved so fast he was but a blur, and then he was beside her, lifting her from her chair, his strong arms pressing up under her breasts, holding her tightly against him.

He smelled of fresh, clean linen and that other scent that she was beginning to think was uniquely him. Then heat seared through her body as she realized how close his hands were to her breasts.

“What…do…you…think you’re doing?” she gasped, not sure if the breathlessness was from the bit of scone stuck in her throat or not.

“Ye were choking. I thought to keep ye from dying.” He released her and stepped back.

Her skin felt suddenly cool as he removed his warm hands. “I wasn’t really at death’s door, my lord. I’m afraid it was most improper of you—”

“A mon dinna let a lass keel over because he fashes over what’s proper.” He glowered at her before he slid the chair next to hers back and sat. “Ye might thank me.”

She stared at him. For a moment she thought she’d seen a look of hurt flash across his strong features, but it disappeared instantly. She’d had no intention of hurting his feelings. The man, after all, wasn’t used to Society’s ways.

“I do thank you,” she said. “I just wasn’t prepared…that is, no one has ever… Well. Thank you.”

“Umph,” he said, but his brow smoothed. “So, lass—my lady—I would like to get to the practice field. Will ye tell me where it is?”

“Practice field?”

“Aye. Each morn I practice with my sword.”

This time Jillian furrowed her brow. “London doesn’t have fields, my lord. We do have fencing salons.” The thought of Ian swinging his huge claymore over his head as the white-clad dandies jumped out of his way almost made her smile. Of course, it would do nothing to ingratiate him with his peers. “However, gentlemen use rapiers at such places, not swords like yours.”

“I ken what a rapier is,” Ian said. “A blade light enough for a lass, but deadly.”

Jillian was surprised. “How do you know that?”

He shrugged. “When Napoleon was exiled, some of his men preferred to keep their heads attached to their shoulders and found their way to Scotland. It was nae long ere we learned to have respect for their weapons. So, if ye’ll tell me where I can find this…salon? I’ll be on my way.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to postpone that,” Jillian answered. “I’ve already made an appointment for you.”

“For what?”

“To meet with a tailor.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “Why? I brought jerkins and breeches and my great plaid as well as a coatee and jabot if I’m forced to dress for an occasion.”

The idea of presenting him to the
haut ton
with those tanned, sculpted calves bare would make half of the ladies swoon, no doubt, but it would bring jeers by the dandies.

“I fear your native attire would provide too much of a distraction, my lord.”

She tried not to look at the part of his thigh that was showing since he’d draped one ankle over his knee again.

He followed her look and then he let his gaze travel over her slowly. His eyes glittered briefly and, although Jillian’s morning dress was high-necked, she suddenly had the feeling he’d mentally unbuttoned the whole thing. Her breasts began to tingle and she placed her hand against her chest.

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Would distraction be a bad thing, lass?”

Oh, Lord
. “The Prince of Wales is not paying me to be distracted.”

The half-smile vanished and he sat straighter. “Ye are being paid?”

“Why, yes,” Jillian answered, confused by the thunderous look that crossed his face. “The prince wishes for your adjustment into your new role to be easy.”

“And just what are ye to do with me?”

“Well,” she began, unsure of how not to offend him, “you are now an English earl. There are certain things—manners, protocol, rules—that you need to learn. That’s all I’m trying to do.”

Ian leaned forward. “I warn ye, lass. Doona try to change me.”

She twisted her fingers together in her lap. “I don’t wish to change you, but you have to understand that the
ton
is a very complex society. To be ostracized by them would be folly.”

“Why? I own the land. I doona think the crofters care if I fit in or nae. I’ll treat them fairly and earn their respect.”

“Even so, you need the support of your neighbors.”

Ian laughed. “Ye are nae going to tell me they’ll rise up against me? Even in Scotland, the old clans have made peace.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Only because of English law.”

“Ah. Ye are right at that.” Ian studied her. “How is that a
proper
English lass like yerself knows about that?”

Jillian bristled. “Do you think women are too stupid to understand politics?”

He held up a hand in self-defense. “Och, nae, lass. But I wager most of yer English ladies have nae a clue what goes on in the north.”

“I just happen to like history,” she said more quietly. How many times had she gone to Rufus’s vast library to escape reality? “At any rate, you may have the title and own the land, but be careful that you don’t fall out of the Prince of Wales’s favor. Things do not seem to go well for those who do.”

Ian’s eyes narrowed. “Thank ye for the warning. Did the prince pay ye to tell me that as well?”

Jillian flushed and felt her temper rise. “I’m not the prince’s poppet, my lord.”

“Nae?”

“Nae. I mean, no.” She clenched her hands into balls, wishing she could tell him what she really thought of the prince and his extravagant lifestyle. “I accepted payment because I intend to buy back my family’s town home and give my sister a Season that she deserves. Once she is happily married—to the man of her choice—I can withdraw from the demands of Society. Until then, I shall abide by the prince’s wishes.”

His dark eyes looked deeply into hers. “And if I refuse to be trained, ye’ll not get paid?”

Jillian had the odd feeling that the Highlander was looking into her very soul. That he would know if she were lying if she said she wasn’t desperate to make this work. How she hated to be dependent on him, or anyone. She looked away, feeling her eyes sting. Furious, she blinked rapidly. She never cried. Not anymore. How could this man bring her so close to tears twice in barely more than a day?

“Lass?”

She lifted her chin and looked at him. “I would prefer to use a different term, rather than
training
, but yes, you are correct. If the prince is not pleased with your progress, I will not get paid. However, I have the skills to be a governess—”

Ian laid a finger gently across her mouth, shushing her. “Doona fash, my lady.” He gave her his lop-sided smile. “I will knock your bloody prince on his arse with my charming ways.”

In spite of herself, Jillian felt a smile begin. “That may not be the way to do it.”

“We will see.” Ian stood and held out his hand for Jillian. “I suppose the way to start is to visit the tailor?”

“It is. Thank you, my lord,” she said, and wondered if the butterflies in her stomach were fluttering out of sheer relief or if it had something to do with the way Ian bowed and brushed a kiss across the knuckles of her bare hand.

Jillian repressed a smile as she listened to muffled oaths coming from the backroom of the tailor’s shop. Ian had reluctantly agreed to purchase the appropriate waistcoats and pantaloons that were in vogue. He’d grumbled about the frock coat with its long tail. She was just glad that Beau Brummell had abandoned the wig and set the fashion for natural hair, albeit Prinny’s set wore short curls with long sideburns. She had no doubt Ian would have refused a powdered wig and probably wouldn’t consider cutting his hair either. Better not to choose that as a battle ground. Truth be told, she rather liked the shiny raven hair that curled slightly about Ian’s collar.

She was flipping through a copy of
Mirror of Graces
and wondering what it was doing in a men’s tailor shop when Ian roared and there was a crash. The small, dapper tailor came running out of the room, his face ashen.

“He has a knife, my lady!”

“What?” Jillian stood up as a furious Ian stormed into the room, holding a short, black-handled knife in one hand. “Lord Cantford! What do you think you are doing?”

“The mon tried to touch my privates!”

“I was trying to measure his inseam, my lady, nothing more.” The little man dabbed a linen square at his bald pate with a shaking hand. “I didn’t know he was bare… Oh, begging your pardon, madam. My brain is addled to say such a thing in front of you.”

Dear Lord. The man was naked beneath his kilt? Jillian felt her face grow warm at the thought.

Ian continued to glare at tailor. “What kind of a mon puts his hand under another mon’s plaid? Are ye a wee touched in the head?”

“No! No. I’m a married man,” he stammered. “I simply needed to know what length to cut the cloth…”

“I put up with being poked and prodded about the shoulders and arms. I’ll nae have ye touchin’ me where only a lass should.”

The tailor gasped and fanned himself and Jillian was afraid the man would faint. Ian’s indignation over something that was a routine procedure would have been comical if he weren’t still holding that double-edged knife.

“Lord Cantford, please put the knife away. Mr. Jones needs those measurements to insure a proper fit for your pantaloons.”

Ian turned his dark-eyed gaze on her. For a moment, he said nothing, and then a speculative glint came into his eyes. He sheathed the knife inside his sock and straightened. “If ye want me to wear pantaloons, my lady, ye’ll have to measure me yerself.”

Jillian’s face flamed and the heat spread through her body, striking a strange vibration at her core. The man was impudent beyond belief. As if she would want to run her hand along that tanned, well-muscled thigh so unlike Rufus’s white, spindly ones. The tips of her fingers tingled and she clenched her hands into fists. What on earth had come over her? The man must be the devil’s own spawn to even let such a thought enter her head. She wanted no involvement with any man. Allowing one to get close meant surrendering control to him. She had her freedom and intended to keep it. Which, she reminded herself, was fulfilling her mission for Prinny.

“I believe Mr. Jones has some ready-mades that you could try on, my lord. I’m sure he can take his measurements from the pair that fits best.”

“Oh, yes,” the tailor nearly squeaked. “I can do that. Not a problem. Not at all.”

Ian ignored the man and kept his gaze on Jillian. “I doona think any of them will fit, lass.” A corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “But if ye fear touchin’ me, I can wear my plaid instead.”

The tailor gasped again and sat down abruptly, as though his legs would not support him. Jillian could almost sympathize, since her own knees were feeling wobbly. Clearly, this barbarian needed to be taught a lesson in deportment.

“A gentleman does not make such suggestions to a lady, my lord.”

His smile grew. “Aye. But I’m only learning to be a gentleman. Ye said so yerself.” Then he shrugged. “’Tis yer money ye’re about to lose if I doona become one.”

Jillian worried her lip. Only a rogue would throw her words back at her like that. She needed that money and Prinny certainly wouldn’t pay her if she couldn’t even get the Highlander to wear proper English clothes. Ian was laughing at her. He didn’t think she’d have the courage to do it. She lifted her chin and held out her hand to the tailor.

“Give me the tape.”

The little man blanched. “Lady Newburn! This is most improper.”

“I’m a widow, Mr. Jones, not an innocent maiden. Give me the tape.”

Surprise flickered for an instant in Ian’s eyes and then he grinned. “How can I accommodate ye, lass?”

“Just stand still.” Jillian stepped over to him and placed one end of the tape on the top of his plaid near where the inseam should be measured. As her hand held it there and she bent to lower the rest of it, she felt something thick and long nudge the side of her hand. She almost dropped the tape. Sakes! Was that his member? It felt as hard as a steel weapon. Rufus’s had never felt like that. Not once.

“I think ye may not have the right spot, lass,” Ian said in a husky voice.