Rogue of the Borders (39 page)

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Capture Her Heart

Rogue of the Highlands

Rogue of the Isles

She must tame a Highland barbarian…before he steals her heart.

Rogue of the Highlands

© 2012 Cynthia Breeding

Rogue, Book 1

With the death of her elderly husband, the Marquess Newburn, Jillian Alton is relieved that she will never have to endure another forced marriage. Until his long-lost son reappears to claim his title and holdings.

Left penniless, Jillian reluctantly accepts a tidy sum from the Prince of Wales to “refine” a Scottish Highlander who has inherited an English title—a man who shakes her resolve to never again let a man close enough to snare her in unwanted wedlock.

Ian MacLeod never planned to set foot in England, but the breakup of the clan system has left him in need of claiming the profits of his inherited English lands to support his people. When he meets the very proper Lady Newburn, he is intrigued…and determined to melt her icy heart.

It shouldn’t be much of a challenge. After all, he’s never met a lass who didn’t quite willingly succumb to him. But he quickly learns that the beautiful, auburn-haired Jillian is no mooning maiden.

And there’s something about her stepson that raises the hair on the back of his neck—a clear signal of danger that has never proved him wrong…

Warning: This book contains a sexy Highlander who will make the most proper of ladies have very improper thoughts.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Rogue of the Highlands:

With a small sigh, Jillian stood up and smoothed her dress. “Remember, the man will be a guest in this house for several weeks. I’m sure if we treat him like a gentleman, he will act as one.” She wasn’t sure if she believed that, but she wasn’t about to have her maid entertain fantasies about any skirt-lifting.

She straightened her shoulders. Time to begin earning her money. She descended the stairs and moved toward the drawing room, pausing for only a second before she opened the door. And gasped.

What on earth was the man wearing?

Ian Macleod looked around the fancy parlor the skinny mon with the fancy suit and nose out-of-joint had shown him to. Light, filmy curtains hung at the windows, hardly anything to keep a night’s chill out. Paintings of pale English men, trussed in lacy frills like some young bairn presented to the clan by a proud
maithar,
lined the walls. All of the chairs looked too fragile to hold his weight. How had he allowed that blethering idiot who had shown up at his holdings to talk him into this?

He didn’t want to be an earl. Would have preferred never having to cross the Borders. His great-grandfather may have fought with King George in hopes of saving the clan, but his great-grandmother’s people had rallied to Bonnie Prince Charlie. And all for naught. The Disarming Act had disbanded the clans and even forbidden a mon to blow the pipes or wear his plaid.

Which was why he was here. The English lands would provide enough profit for him to help his people. Once he had taken stock and felt confident he could leave an overseer in place, he would return to Scotland. He wanted as little to do with the English as possible. While it might be illegal for his people to be verbal about it, his clan still looked up to him as their laird. His younger brother, Jamie, would stand in his place while he took care of whatever he must do here. Between them, his people would be well.

Ian made a derisive sound, thinking about the suggestion the Englishman had made that some neighboring widow would give him lessons in manners. By the auld gods, he didn’t need some auld woman telling him how he should act. A mon measured another mon by the strength of his sword arm and the worth of his word. Always protect children and never hurt a woman, although if she were willing, there was no harm to tupping her thoroughly.

He grinned suddenly. If those two silly lasses who’d giggled their way past him in the hall were any indication, he’d have no more trouble bedding English women than he did Scot ones. Although he was nigh thirty, he’d ne’r had a complaint from a lass, only purrs of pleasure after the act.

He looked up as the door opened and almost gaped. The woman in the doorway was breathtakingly beautiful. Her soft, chestnut hair was burnished with faerie gold and the deep green of her eyes reminded him of the tranquil depths of the forest near his home. Her fair skin was nearly translucent and she looked like a woodland nymph, except that the rounded fullness of her breasts outlined by the well-fitted bodice were very, very real. He felt his groin tighten painfully. Whoever this lass was, he meant to have her.

“Do ye work here, lass?”

One delicate eyebrow went up as she considered him. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose one could say that what I do on a daily basis is work.”

A bit long-winded the wench was, but he’d forgive her that. Her voice was as throaty and low as a burn rumbling gently downhill.

“And what do ye do?” he asked with a slow smile.

“One could say that I…run this household.”

“Ah. Ye be the housekeeper then.” Ian took a step closer and lowered his voice. “I’m the new earl at Cantford, here to see the widow. The auld woman is going to try to teach me English ways.”

“Indeed?” The lady walked past him rather stiffly to stand at the window.

“Aye. I dinna ken why. ’Tis nae wise to try to change a mon.”

“Indeed?” she said again.

Was that all the lass could say? He hoped she wasn’t dim-witted. He liked a woman who could spar with him. In bed and out. But if she were nae bright, she was still beautiful. Standing by the window, the sun highlighted the faerie gold in her hair and accentuated the smooth curve of her cheek and the full lushness of her lips. He hoped that his sporran hid what his wayward tarse was doing. By Dagda, he’d never had such a strong reaction to merely sighting a lass before. And an English one at that.

“Is the widow taking a wee nap? I could come back later.”

“There’s no need for that.” She raised her chin. “I am Jillian Alton, Marchioness of Newburn. I believe you are my pupil.”

For a moment he was nonplussed.
This
was the widow? This young lass? Och, being on English soil had just gotten much better. “I hope ye’ll forgive the mistake. The
eejit—
the idiot—who told me about ye dinna say ye were a bonnie lass.” He gave her his most winning smile, the one his older sister always said made her forgive him for all his youthful escapades that she had to cover up for.

Lady Newburn ignored it. “Regardless of my age, Lord Cantford, what is expected by the Prince of Wales is that I prepare you for your new role.”

Ian’s grin widened. “Ye’ll find me a verra apt…pupil. I aim to please ye, Jillian.”

He’s sworn to protect her from any danger…even himself.

Rogue of the Isles

© 2013 Cynthia Breeding

Rogue, Book 2

What a pity Jamie MacLeod had to be such a good-looking man. And so tall. With such broad shoulders. Because he’s quite possibly the most annoying male Marissa Barclay has ever met.

No matter what her sister’s new husband seems to think, Mari has no need for his brother, a hulking, kilted Highlander, hovering over her through London’s Little Season.

Family or nae, Jamie has enough on his plate overseeing his family’s English estates without the added annoyance of keeping an eye on Mari. Especially since she seems as determined to slip by him as he is determined to do his protective duty. In truth, it’s quite a job keeping the willful little minx out of trouble.

But when an old enemy strikes at the heart of the McLeod family, Jamie whisks Mari away from London’s glitter to the wilds of his homeland. Where a stormy love blooms…and danger lurks in the hills.

Warning: This wee book contains a stubborn English lass and a braw Scottish lad with bull-headedness in his blood. Aye, and romps in the heather ye’ll not want yer mither tae be seein’.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Rogue of the Isles:

What a pity Jamie MacLeod had to be such a good-looking man. And so tall. With such broad shoulders.

Because he was quite the most annoying male Marissa Barclay had ever met.

He was doing it again. Mari tugged at the collar of her pelisse to cut the chill of the autumn air and sighed in exasperation as Jamie blocked the door to the carriage the footman held open for her.

“I dinnae think Jillian will approve of ye leaving for London,” Jamie said.

Mari refrained from rolling her eyes since it was quite unladylike. She might get by with such practices here at the Newburn country estate, but London’s
ton
would surely judge such action as boorish and common—terms she did not wish applied to her.

“My sister is in Scotland, happily married to your brother, Ian, in case you do not recall.”

A breeze ruffled Jamie’s longish, dark hair as he raised a brow. “Do ye think me daft, lass? I recall quite well yer sister said she would return to chaperone yer Season—in the spring.”

“That was before she found out she was preg—with child.” Mari reminded herself she would have to watch her vocabulary in London. One simply did not use words like pregnant in polite Society. “I see no reason to wait for spring. The Little Season will do quite nicely for an introduction into Society. Besides, I already sent a post to Aunt Agnes. She will be awaiting my arrival at the townhouse. Now please step aside.”

He didn’t budge. Mari moved to the right, and he countered with a move to his left. When she stepped the other way, he blocked her again, solid as a castle curtain wall. The footman snickered but quickly sobered before Mari could glare at him. Instead, she glared at Jamie.

“You are not my guardian, sirrah!”

“Nae? I seem to
recall
that Ian left me in charge of the estates.”

“Your estate!” Mari nearly stamped her foot in frustration. “
Cantford
. Not Newburn.”

He shrugged. “The lands are linked by marriage, are they nae? Ian left me in charge.”

“Of the
land
, not me!” How could one man be so maddeningly obtuse? And instead of apologizing for agitating her, he actually grinned.
Grinned
. And showed that disarming dimple in his right cheek that left her feeling flustered.
Gads!

As if he realized the effect it had on her, his golden eyes turned the color of malt whisky. “Ye are only seven and ten. Yer sister asked me to protect ye.”

“As if you are that much older.”

“I am four and twenty,” Jamie replied, “and have been using a claymore for nigh ten years.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It proves I am able to protect ye.”

“You cannot go around London’s streets brandishing that thing.” How could Jillian do this to her? And without even a by-your-leave? This was not the Middle Ages. Mari did not need some rakish rogue ordering her about.

“She asked me to protect ye,” Jamie repeated patiently as if speaking to a slow-witted child. “’Tis what I intend to do.”

“Oooh!” Mari took a deep breath, summoning what little patience she had. Arguing with this stubborn Scot would do no good. She’d watched that happen between her sister and Ian. Ian always won, although for some reason, Jillian did not seem to mind. Thinking about it, Ian usually gave in when Jillian looked sad.

Mari managed to look contrite, although it irked her to do so. “Would you deny me an introduction into proper English Society?”

His grin faltered. “Nae, lass. Can ye nae wait for spring when this matter can be settled?”

“I will have missed two entire months of
soirees
and luncheons and teas.” Jamie would not understand how important a girl’s first Season was. “My friend, Madeline, has already written about a special ball planned for Almack’s in November.
Everyone
of the first stare will be there.” Including eligible bachelors that the likes of Violetta Billingsly and Amelia Tansworth would sink their claws into.

Jillian had endured an arranged marriage to an abusive old marquess who’d eventually cocked his toes up, so that Mari would have a proper Season and be able to marry a man of her choice—one whom she could love. Mari felt tears spring to her eyes.
That
was the whole purpose of this entire endeavor. Jillian wanted Mari to have a choice.

Mari wanted to find a true gentleman—one who was refined, cultured and even-tempered—not prone to violence. Lord knows, Jillian had been beaten whenever the old marquess’s temper had flared. Mari wanted no part of that, and if she missed the Little Season, her dream husband might already be taken.

She started at the feel of Jamie’s hand beneath her chin, tilting her face upward. His thumb swiped a tear away. She stared at him as if moonstruck, unable to move. His big, calloused hand was surprisingly gentle.

Lowering his hand, he frowned. “Does it mean so much to ye, lass?”

Swallowing hard, she could only nod.