Rogue of the Isles (9 page)

Ian looked up from the parchment he held and forced a smile as she approached the table. “Would ye like something to eat?”

Jillian shook her head. Although she was well into her pregnancy, she still did not care to eat as soon as she got up. The pungent smell of herring—a breakfast dish she still had not become accustomed to—made her stomach slightly queasy. “I can get something later. What is wrong?”

He didn’t mince words. “Wesley has escaped from Bedlam.”

The air left her lungs. Feeling lightheaded suddenly, she reached for the table’s edge. Ian leapt up to steady her and pulled out a chair. “Och, what an
eejit
I am for telling ye like this.”

“You are not an idiot. I…I am fine. It was just a bit of a shock.”

“One ye didnae need in yer condition.”

She managed a faint smile. “I think the bairn will survive.” Ian frowned, and she squeezed his hand. “Really. I am fine. Tell me what the letter says.”

“’Tis from Jamie. The devil escaped a little more than a fortnight ago.”

“If Wesley has not been seen, perhaps he caught a ship to the Continent.”

“I dinnae ken. It took the messenger a sennight to get here.”

“You do not think Wesley would attempt to come here, do you?”

“If he did, he would be shot on sight.”

“But you cannot—”

“This is the Highlands,” Duncan interrupted. “We have our own way of taking care o’ things.”

“Nae like yer mad King George or that fat-ass prince who prances around in fancy clothes,” Broc added with a sneer.

Jillian didn’t bother to remind them Scotland and England had been united since the 1600s or that the
mad
king was also their liege. To Duncan and Broc, the battle at Culloden was still a fresh insult, even though the battle had taken place seventy years ago.

“Dinnae fash, lass. I dinnae think the mon would be stupid enough to venture here,” Ian said.

“You are still upset, though. Surely, since Jamie is aware of the situation, he will have everyone at Newburn and Cantford be on the alert.”

Duncan snorted and Broc glared at her. Jillian frowned. “What is it?”

Ian laid the letter down. “Jamie is not at the estates. He is in London.”

“Whatever for? We left all the paperwork in order. There should be no need of a solicitor or—”

“’Tis yer sister’s fault,” Duncan interrupted again. “She hied off.”

Ian sent him a stern look. “Enough.”

Jillian’s gaze returned to Ian. “Why would Mari be in London?”

“Jamie says she wanted to do something called the Little Season. Do ye ken what that is?”

Jillian groaned. Mari was flighty and headstrong, partially through Jillian’s own fault. She had been eight when their mother died birthing Mari and their father had taken to drinking and gambling. Until he committed suicide several years later and Aunt Agnes took them in, Jillian tried to be a mother to Mari as much as a sister. Unfortunately, she let her little sister have her way far too many times.

“A number of parties and balls take place in October and November while Parliament is still in session and the
ton
is in Town. I have no idea why Mari decided she needed to attend. I promised her I would return in the spring to chaperone her.”

“Jamie should nae have allowed it,” Ian grumbled.

Jillian suppressed a laugh that certainly would not be understood by any of the three men, whose faces looked like thunderclouds. Ian’s brother and her sister argued about everything. If one of them were to remark the day was pleasant, the other would find something to fault.

“I doubt Mari would have taken kindly to an order,” Jillian said with as straight a face as she could muster.

“Aye, ye are right.” Ian ran a hand through his hair. “I can only think how that conversation went.”

Broc snorted. “English women need to know their place. Jamie should have seen to it.”

“Jamie swore to protect Mari while we are in Scotland,” Ian replied. “He couldna do so if he did nae go with her.”

“Cowardly Englishmen may let their women rule them, but Jamie is a
Scot
. He should nae let a wee female lead him about by his nose,” Duncan muttered.

“I will nae have my brother or my sister by marriage insulted by ye two,” Ian said, his voice low but with an unmistakable menace. “Ye are guests in my home.”

He picked up the letter again. “’Tis a pity Shane sailed to Ireland. I could have sent him down to see to the estates.”

“We can go,” Duncan said.

“Neither of ye can keep a civil tongue about England. Do ye think I would risk the redcoats marching north again?”

“They would nae get far,” Broc boasted.

“Do ye nae remember the Irish Ascendancy when the English took over the lands? Or the bannin’ of our kilts after Culloden?” Ian shook his head. “The two of ye would incite war.”

“You could go,” Jillian told Ian.

“I will nae leave ye here.”

“I will be fine. The babe is not due for two months.”

“For once, yer English wife makes sense,” Duncan said. “’Tis nothing wrong with her health. Women bear babes all the time.”

“My wife—”

“Please, Ian.” Jillian reached across the table to pat his hand. “The snows have not yet begun. You can ride down, find out if there is any word on Wesley, talk with our seneschals, hire some guards if necessary and be home well before the babe comes.”

He looked unconvinced, and Jillian loved him for wanting to be with her, but her practical side asserted itself. Jamie was as protective as Ian, and she was sure Mari would be safe. Ian, as laird, even though the English had banished the term, would feel an obligation to protect his clan. The workers at Newburn and Cantford were no different. “If Wesley is still in England, the people on our estates could be vulnerable. You know what he tried to do before.”

Looking grim, he finally nodded.

Jamie had his doubts whether Givens or Dobbs would ever make good swordsmen, but at least they weren’t fumbling—and
dropping
—the blades anymore. He shook his head as he walked toward the house from the courtyard, leaving the two men somewhat short of breath. By the saints! They used thin French rapiers. He shuddered to think what would happen if he attempted to use his claymore. How could grown men not know how to fight, even if they were house servants—as they’d tried to explain to him on every occasion he had them outside? Highland lads began training with sticks as soon as they could toddle and not tumble over.

He entered through the back kitchen, sniffing appreciatively. “What fine treat do ye have for a hungry mon this afternoon, Una?”

The plump cook gave him a big smile. The first time he had called her by name, she had looked startled, telling him everyone just referred to her as Cook.

“Ye were given a name
,” he had said, “
and I will be using it if ye dinnae mind.”
That seemed to please her immensely. In any event, Una always made sure she had something tucked away for him.

“Scones, fresh from the oven,” she said as she placed one on a plate and dolloped clotted cream over it.

“My favorite,” Jamie said as he took the plate from her.

“You say that about everything.”

Jamie grinned. “’Tis because ye are such a good cook. I can nae decide.”

She blushed. “Be off with you then.”

He eyed the silver platter with the little fancy sandwiches that were hardly more than a bite. “Are there callers?”

“Just Miss Winslow. She and Miss Barclay are in the front parlor.”

“I will take the plate in.”

Her eyes widened. “Mr. Givens will not like it.”

Jamie laughed. “I left him a wee bit disheveled in the courtyard. I’m thinking the mon will nae want to put in an appearance at the moment.”

He picked up the platter before Una could protest further and headed toward the parlor. Mari would probably make some remark about being improperly dressed again, since he wore only his shirt, trews and boots. His mouth twitched at the thought of showing Mari what
undressed
really meant. He was half tempted to remove his shirt just to catch her reaction, but Miss Winslow was present. While it might be fun to rile Mari’s temper—he enjoyed the heated looks she probably didn’t know she was sending when she was angry—there was no point in having her friend swoon from shock.

Both girls looked up from the sofa as he entered, stopping their chatter abruptly. Mari’s mouth opened and then snapped shut.

Miss Winslow giggled. “Are you playing butler, Mr. MacLeod?”

He set the sandwiches down and took a seat across from them. “Givens is…indisposed.”

“Have you made the poor man practice swordplay again?” Mari asked, apparently having found her voice.

“He is getting better. He dinnae drop his sword this time.”

Miss Winslow giggled once more, but Mari shot him an annoyed look. “As I have explained before, Givens is not only a house servant, but as butler, he is in charge of the household staff. It is demeaning to expect him to engage in physical combat.”

Jamie lifted an eyebrow. “Mayhap I should take him to Gentleman Jack’s—”

“The pugilism place?” Mari stared at him. “You cannot be serious.”

“Why not? A mon should ken how to fight.”

“Really.” Mari’s eyes flashed blue flames. “Why do you think men must always fight? There are civilized ways to deal with problems. Violence is not the answer.”

Jamie shrugged, trying not to smile at Mari’s fiery reaction. He wondered if she’d have as much passion if he kissed her. The thought made his cock stir and he shifted in his chair. “Men are civilized only when they ken they will land on their arses—or worse.”

Maddie gasped. “Did you just say—”

“He did,” Mari interrupted. “There is no need for a repeat. Perhaps we could get back to a more
civilized
discussion without resorting to fisticuffs?”

Jamie grinned at her and stood. “I will leave you ladies to it then.” He turned as Mrs. Fields appeared in the doorway, the salver in her hand.

“Givens is freshening up,” she said to Mari, “but this just came in the post. I thought you might want it right away.”

Maddie clapped her hands. “Oooh. An invitation. Who sent it?”

Mari took the silver letter opener from the tray, slit the seal on the ivory envelope and then gave a shriek.

Jamie moved forward. “What is wrong, lass?”

She shook her head numbly as Maddie reached for the invitation. Jamie watched her eyes grew large. “Oh, my goodness. It is from Lady Jersey. She is hosting a rout this Friday and requests your presence.”

“Yes!” Mari reached out to hug her friend and they both screamed.

Jamie backed out of the room, covering his ears. For the love of St. Michael, why on earth would a lass scream about an invitation?

Even though the invitation had come directly from Lady Jersey, Mari was apprehensive about the party, but this time around, the atmosphere turned much more friendly. Several of Almack’s patronesses made a point to greet Mari at Lady Jersey’s rout, thus ensuring that other matrons of the
ton
would not dare shun her—or do so at the risk of their daughters not receiving vouchers for the spring Season.

Even Violetta and Amelia engaged her in idle talk, although from the way their fans fluttered along with their eyelashes, Mari was pretty sure the chatter was more for Jamie’s benefit than hers since he was standing next to her.

She had to admit he cut a handsome figure, even if he refused to wear a cravat. The tartan sash seemed to intrigue the small bevy of girls clustered around him, or perhaps it was his Scottish burr. The soothing deepness of his voice did have a pronounced effect even on the matrons. The debutantes blushed and giggled when he called them lass. Mari frowned slightly. Really. Jamie called
her
lass too. Did the girls have to act so silly over something that simple?

A short time later, she and Maddie had been pushed aside as more young ladies wandered over. Jamie seemed not to notice.

Maddie rolled her eyes at Mari when Violetta and Amelia tried to block the rest of the girls from Jamie. “Those two are going to kill each other someday,” she whispered.

“If their beaus do not murder them first,” Mari whispered back, gesturing toward two young men across the room. “Yancy and Nevin do not look happy.”

“Neither do several of the others,” Maddie replied. “Do you think there will be a brawl?”

“They would have to be nodcocks to try,” Mari said. “Jamie stands nearly a head taller than any of them and has more muscle too.”

“Yes, he does.” Maddie’s glance slid over to Jamie and she sighed. “You are so lucky to watch him practice swordplay.”

Mari looked at her friend in surprise. Was Maddie interested in Jamie? “You had better not let your mother hear you say that.”

“I suppose not. She would swoon, and I daresay Papa would keep me sequestered in my room. Still,” she added with a giggle, “it does not hurt to
look
.”