Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1 (37 page)

But his cock protested all the way to his own room. It was going to be a long night. A very long night.

Jillian wandered along the stone path that led to the small chapel behind the keep. Ian had ridden out earlier that morning and his sisters had given her a tour of the main castle that morning after breakfast. “Breaking their fast” they had called it, and once again she had felt like she had been transported to another time.

The chapel drew her. She wasn’t quite sure why since she wasn’t particularly religious. Certainly, she had never gotten caught up in the battle between the Whigs and Tories over the matter of Catholic emancipation. Why couldn’t they just get along? It seemed an irony to her that they fought when the basis for most religions was peace and goodwill. Still, something about this tiny building captivated her.

The floor was covered in the same black and white marble checkerboard as the hall at Cantford, and above the altar, instead of a cross, a leaded-glass window had been cut. The cross-inside-a-square-inside-a-circle was the same design as the window at Cantford. Before she had time to explore the rest of the room, she heard footsteps.

“Bridget said I’d find ye here,” Ian said as his large frame filled the doorway and he stepped inside.

She wasn’t sure if she was relieved to see him or if she should be piqued at him for not coming to her room last night. But no. She would not let him know how hurt she was. “It’s a quiet place.”

Ian smiled. “Aye. My sisters can be a bit wearing at times.”

She felt herself blush. “No. That’s not what I meant. They have been very nice.”

“And full of questions?”

Jillian found herself returning the smile. “Well, Fiona was.”

“’Tis what gets her into trouble half the time,” Ian agreed. “Ye doona have to answer them though.”

“So Bridget told me,” Jillian replied and then pointed to the unusual window. “Your great-grandfather must have wanted to take a bit of his Scottish home with him when he moved to Cantford.”

Ian nodded. “A wee bit of his heritage.”

Jillian wrinkled her brow. “A window is heritage? How so?”

He came to stand beside her near the altar and she inhaled the unique scent of him mingled with horse and leather. Why did just his nearness send spirals of heat pulsing through her?

“The design is special,” Ian said. “It’s called
Rosarium Philosophorum
—the key to knowledge and the sum of all things.”

She forced herself to concentrate on the conversation. “But I thought you said there was a window like this at the church by Edinburgh.”

“Aye. Rosslyn Chapel. ’Tis a very interesting place, if ye know what to look for. But this chapel was built long before the Sinclairs built Rosslyn.”

“Just how old is it?”

“The cornerstone says 1320. The Bruce deeded the land himself.”

She felt her eyes widen. “Did your ancestor fight at Bannockburn?”

“Aye. He did. Our
seannachie
tell tales of how Godfroi Payns fought beside the Bruce. Some even say he helped turned the tide of that battle.”

“Godfroi sounds like a French name.”

“’Twas. He married a Macleod woman and took her surname.”

“How unusual for a man to give up his name.”

“It was safer. King Edward had been ordered by the Pope to imprison any French knights in England, and since he thought Scotland was rightfully his—”

“Wait. Edward was instructed to hunt Templars… Oh! Are you telling me that your ancestor was…?” Jillian felt a chill run down her spine. Just last night she’d almost expected to see armored knights in the courtyard, but she’d been thinking about King Arthur’s, not Templars… There definitely was a time distortion. She gave herself a mental shake. Next thing she’d be believing in faerie magic. Scotland was having an influence on her. “Are you telling me that your ancestor was a Knight Templar?”

“Aye. Although it had to be kept secret for years. That’s why this chapel was built. Any Templar entering here and seeing that window would know it was a symbol of knowledge. And, if a mon wasna sure, he only needed to look at the floor.”

Jillian looked down. “The floor?”

“Aye. They were also known as the Knights of the Black and White for their flag—the
beauseant
—was half-black and half-white.”

“Was your great-grandfather a Templar?”

Ian frowned. “I doona know. If they still exist, they have kept it well-hidden.”

“Like the treasure that was never found?” Jillian asked.

He raised an eyebrow. “For a lass, ye know your history.”

“I read a lot.”

“Good. Then would ye want to learn about Clan Macleod? Shane has collected as many stories as he can find.”

She smiled. “I would like that.”

“Ye can start with this.” Ian took hold of her shoulders and turned her around to face the back wall.

Her mind centered on his touch. His warm, strong fingers slid down the length of her arms, and for a moment she thought he might cup her breasts and pull her back against him his hard chest. Of course, she didn’t expect him to do much more than that. They were in a chapel, after all. But maybe a kiss…

“Do ye like it?”

She blinked, bringing herself out of her reverie and gave a little gasp. In the center of the wall, a mural had been painted, but it was no Madonna with her Child. Instead, it was a battle scene, with bodies littering the ground and a tartan-clothed man sitting astride a huge horse, a claymore lifted in one hand and a banner of crimson and yellow in the other. The man’s eyes never left her face no matter which way she turned.

“It’s very realistic,” she said slowly. “Who is he?”

“’Tis Leod, our first chief, son of Olaf the Black, King of Man,” Ian replied, “but what he carries is what is important. ’Tis the Faerie Flag.”

Jillian moved closer. Whoever the artist had been, he had been good. She could almost see the silk banner waving in the wind. “Interesting,” she said, “but what is a painting of a battle doing in a chapel?”

“’Tis in honor of Godfroi’s wife, the Macleod,” Ian replied. “The
seannachie
say it has to do with the balance of power.”

“Between husband and wife or between Christian and pagan?” Jillian asked as she studied the painting further.

“Perhaps a wee bit of both,” Ian said as he came up behind her and rested a hand on her shoulder. “If ye look closely, ye will see the Green Man etched into the tree at the side of the battlefield and, at the base of the tree, perched amid the buttercups that were left untouched by the blood and gore, sits a wee faerie. Do ye see her?”

Jillian squinted, all too aware of how close his fingers were to her breast. If she turned just a bit… No. She would
not
throw herself at him. She leaned forward. The artist had painted the faerie so ethereally that she blended in with the flowers, the reddish brown hair forming a stem while the wash of gold in her hair blended in with the yellow flowers. “I see her.”

Ian’s breath tickled her ear as he whispered, “Do ye see the streak of faerie gold in her hair? ’Tis like yours.”

Jillian felt another small chill slip down her spine, although whether from the uncanny portrait or the fact that Ian’s mouth as only an inch from hers, she didn’t know. She turned slightly and Ian’s lips brushed hers just as a shadow filled the open doorway.

John stood scowling at both of them. “Broc Moffat be here, stirring up Duncan. Ye’d better come.”

Ian cursed under his breath as he walked back to the keep. The timing couldn’t have been worse. That stolen, small kiss had just whetted his appetite for more of Jillian’s deliciously soft lips and warm, pliant mouth. Standing so close to her had inflamed every nerve ending in his body. The last thing he wanted to do was have a conversation with his hard-headed uncle and his hair-trigger brother.

“Why do ye need to protect an Englishwoman?” Broc demanded when Ian had barely cleared the doorway to the parlor where the men waited.

Duncan had lost no time in telling Broc about Jillian. Ian managed to keep his voice civil. “She’s a widow. ’Tis her own stepson that is the danger. I would expect a mon to do the same for my sisters, nae?”

Diverted, Broc looked furtively around. “Where is Fiona?”

“I believe they’ve all gone to the village. ’Tis Market Day.” Fiona had practically been dancing with impatience to be gone from their hostile visitor when he’d turned Jillian over to her and Bridget. He hoped he could conclude this visit before they returned.

Broc looked at him suspiciously. “It seems strange that your sisters would not greet a visitor.”

Ian knew Broc blamed him for Fiona’s rejection of his marriage proposal. In all honesty, even if his beautiful, impish sister had been at all interested, Ian would not have given his permission. In addition to the age difference, Moffat drank too much and his fiery temper turned dangerous when he was drunk.

“An oversight. I’m sure they were anxious to see the new wares the tinkers and craftsmen have brought. So why are ye here?”

“We want to know where your allegiance lies.”

“We?”

“Your clansmen,” Broc answered. “’Tis brought to us that ye like being an English earl.”

“I accepted the title because I need the income from the lands to help the clan,” Ian said evenly. “I told ye all that when I left.”

Broc’s eyes narrowed. “’Tis said ye made a pact with the prince to marry an Englishwoman. Be it that one ye brought?”

“My marriage plans—or lack of them—are none of yer business.” Ian was getting tired of having Jillian attacked. He knew the one thing both of these crabbit men would understand. “Although ’twould not be a bad match. Her lands lie next to mine and she breeds some fine Andalusian horses that would be a boon to our own herds.”

It wasn’t altogether a lie. Even though Jillian may lose the land, Ian had concluded a bargain with Sherrington to purchase Gunnar and two mares from Wesley. They would be a surprise wedding gift to Jillian.

As he thought they would, both men’s faces lit up with greed at the idea of such wealth.

“So,” he said as he sat down and casually stretched out his long legs. “Who is this person who spread these rumors? What do ye ken of him?”

Duncan looked almost guilty. “I dinna meet him. Broc did though.”

“Aye. Louis Tredeau. A generous man, even if he were French,” Broc said.

“What was he doing here?”

“He said he had to leave France quickly because he had sided with King Louis and when Napoleon returned, he werena safe. He heard Scotland housed some French and he came searching for possible relatives.”

The hairs on his nape rose. Something dinna feel right. “If the mon fled France, how did he know what was happening in England? Specifically with me?”

For a moment, Broc looked nonplussed. “I… He dinna say… Nae. Wait. He did say he visited a friend in London who had recently left France.”

Wesley Alton. Ian had no doubt of it. But he needed to know why. “Were either of the Frenchmen living on the edge of our lands his relatives?”

“Nae,” Duncan cut in. “Neither Picard or Robillard knew him. Strange, though…” He paused.

Ian’s nape hairs nearly stood on edge. “What is strange?”

“They wanted nothing to do with him. Nearly kicked him off their places. I ne’re seen a Frenchman do that before. They usually stick together like fish guts.”

Interesting. It was time to pay a call on his French neighbors.

Jillian looked around in amazement at the bustling activity in the small village on Market Day. There was everything from a tinker selling metal wares to merchants with smooth bolts of linen and muslins to food. The smell of herring and other fish wafted across one end of the strip of road used by the vendors, surprisingly not causing her stomach to turn, while along another part came the delicious smell of warm breads and rolls, along with the spicy scents of meat pasties.

People jostled each other and laughed, the women exclaiming over new items they discovered while the few men who attended stayed mainly near the wooden stand that supplied several large casks of what probably was whisky.

Bridget had led the maids with their baskets in the direction of the vegetable stands. Shauna and Fiona were admiring a shiny silver bracelet nearby. Jillian decided to wander a bit.

Scotland was so different from the confines of dirty, sooty London. Up here the air was clean and crisp. When the sun shone, the sky was such a bright blue that she almost had to squint and the water in the tumbling burns as clear as anything she’d ever drunk, even in the country at Newburn.

It was the people, though, who amazed her the most. There was an open friendliness about them. Although she had gotten several curious looks because she was a stranger and obviously dressed as an Englishwoman, no one had been rude. They had accepted that she was a guest of the laird.

Jillian walked around a corner to where some smaller stands were set up. Here housewives were selling homemade jellies and jams as well as crafts. At the far end, almost tucked away from sight, was a table with pieces of brightly threaded cloth. She picked up an intricately embroidered square of linen depicting a battle scene similar to the one in the chapel. It even had the tree and the buttercups, but she could see no faerie. In any event, the warrior was carrying the faerie flag. She ran a finger over the material noticing the absences of knots in the well-done work and then looked at the old, white-haired woman, bent with age, who had made it. How much pain had those crooked fingers endured to produce this?