Rogue of the Isles (16 page)

“Ye are doing fine,” Jamie said as they ambled along Serpentine Road around the small lake.

Mari smiled tentatively. “I think I am beginning to see why Jillian likes riding so much—not that I will ever be that good.”

“Ye might. It takes practice and being familiar with your horse.” Jamie ran a hand along Nero’s silken neck and the stallion nickered softly. “Ye need to think of the animal as yer friend. He depends on ye for food and care, and ye can depend on him for the good sense God gave horses.”

“Good sense?”

“Aye. When a mon is travelling in the Highlands, he trusts the surefootedness of the steed, as well as its ability to seek shelter in times of need.”

“What kind of need?”

“Storms mostly. They rise swiftly in the mountains. The wind can howl like a demon through the passes and the rain comes hard and fast, turning a safe path to a slippery, muddy slope before ye can even wrap yer plaid around ye to stay dry. Nature does nae take kindly to those who get caught out. ’Tis the time to trust the horse to find its way.”

“Well, we do not have to worry about such in London,” Mari replied.

“Nae,” Jamie agreed as they reined in to watch two yellow barouches align themselves nearby on Rotten Row. Both teams of horses were bays with silver-mounted harnesses. The young men holding the reins were dressed identically in drab coats offset by huge mother-of-pearl buttons and yellow-striped blue waistcoats.

“Who are they?” Jamie asked.

“Members of the Four-Horse Club,” Mari replied, her eyes widening as the two young drivers traded good-natured insults. “They normally assemble at Cavendish Square on alternate Thursdays to drive to Salt Hill along the Bath Road. Jillian told me it originated with a group of reckless youths racing over rough roads years ago.”

“It looks like they are getting to ready to race now.”

“That is against the rules. Sir Peyton and Mr. Annesley are the patrons who oversee Rotten Row. I know Jillian said they absolutely forbade racing.”

“Lads dinnae always follow rules, lass,” Jamie said and pointed across the way. “It looks like they are attracting an audience.”

Mari shaded her eyes and looked over to where Yancy Newell and Nevin Faulkner sat astride their horses along with a small group of onlookers. Yancy tipped his hat to her, then narrowed his eyes at Jamie while Nevin just stared at him.

Jamie quirked up a corner of his mouth. “I dinnae think those two much like me.”

“Only because Yancy is keen on Amelia and Nevin fancies himself Violetta’s beau.”

Jamie shook his head. “They are welcome to those lasses. Neither one thinks past the next party. ’Tis nae—” He stopped as a man fired a pistol into the air and the bays half reared before their handlers whipped them into racing. He watched as the carriages careened wildly, the spokes of the wheels getting much too close for safety. The young men whipped their horses again, and Jamie flinched.

“I would like to tan the hides of those two fools,” he said as he set his mouth in a grim line. “’Tis nae need to whip the beasts.” His words were almost drowned out as the small group watching yelled for their favorite to win. The carriages nearly rolled as they finished in a cloud of dust. Jamie couldn’t see who won, not that it mattered. “
Eejits
,” he muttered. “Idiots. Simpletons. They put those animals at risk by running too closely.”

Mari looked as though she might actually agree with him for once, but before she could say anything, Yancy and Nevin rode up.

“That is a mighty fine piece of horseflesh,” Nevin said as he looked over Nero.

“Aye, ’tis an Andalusian,” Jamie answered, “one of Lady Newburn’s bre—er, stock from Spain.”

As if he knew he were being spoken of, Nero arched his silvery neck, and his short ears perked forward while he blew softly through flared nostrils, his large, velvety eyes watchful.

“Can he run?” Yancy asked.

“Aye.”

Nevin’s lip curled. “Do you want to put that to the test? Perhaps for a slight wager?”

Jamie studied him. “Nae. I have nothing to prove.”

“One might interpret that as not having enough confidence in your mount,” Yancy said.

“Or perhaps not enough confidence in your ability,” Nevin added as he edged his horse closer.

Jamie refrained from clenching his fist and kept his face impassive. The two were baiting him. Nero snorted and pawed the ground. The stallion wanted to run, and Jamie had no doubt he could leave both lads eating his dust, but he didn’t want to put Nero at risk for breaking a leg. He’d seen how those carriages rocked over the ruts that needed to be smoothed out. The terrain was too uneven.

“Ye will have to wait until another day to find out,” Jamie answered.

Yancy nudged his horse nearer. Nero flattened his ears. “Move back,” Jamie ordered. “Dinnae close him in.”

It was too late. Nero bared his teeth, slicing at Yancy’s horse. Jamie reined him in, but not before his sharp hind hooves delivered a kick aimed at Nevin’s animal, who reared, front legs flailing. From behind him, he heard Mari’s roan squeal, and then Mari screamed as her horse bolted, thundering down Rotten Row.

Cursing, Jamie lashed out, but both men backed their horses away. He turned Nero, giving the stallion his head as he leaned over the withers to allow the powerful hindquarters to work. The gelding ahead was running full out, and Jamie could see Mari’s position was precarious as she swayed dangerously on the side-saddle. He made a silent vow he would teach her to ride astride if only God would keep her upright until he could reach her.

The hope was short-lived as the gelding veered suddenly, coming to an abrupt halt as one of the returning barouches cut across his path. Mari sailed over the horse’s head to land with a hard thump that Jamie could hear as Nero skidded to a thundering stop.

Jamie slid from the horse before the gravel quit flying. Oh, Lord. How badly was Mari hurt? Or worse… She was so still. He knelt beside her, half-crazed. This was all his fault. If he hadn’t insisted she learn to ride…

Mari moaned, her eyes fluttering open slowly.

“Dinnae move,” Jamie commanded, holding her shoulders as she started to stir.

“What happened? I remember—”

“Ye took a nasty spill, lass.” She blinked, and he was glad to see her pupils were normal sized. Bumps to the head could be dangerous. Very carefully, he traced his fingers along the sides of her neck, over her shoulders and down her arms, checking for broken bones. When his hands encased her ribs, she gasped.

“Ye are in pain? Tell me where.” If Mari had broken ribs, he’d need to wrap them before trying to move her.

“Not too much,” she managed to say.

“Well, lie still until I know ye have nothing broken.”

Her eyes widened as his hands slid down her hips, thumbs stroking the pelvis bones, but she remained quiet. Jamie tried not to think about how close his fingers were to the tantalizing juncture between her thighs. He forced himself to concentrate on her legs, although his wayward cock didn’t think that was much of a distraction. Christ, he should be ashamed of himself for lusting after her
now
.

“I dinnae think ye have any broken bones,” he said as Yancy and Nevin approached. If Jamie had not been so concerned about Mari’s condition, he would have throttled the both of them.

“Is she all right?” Nevin asked.

“No thanks to either of you
eejits.
”

Yancy cleared his throat. “Is there anything we can do?”

What they could do was go jump in the Thames, but Jamie held back the retort. “Aye. One of ye can get the carriage from the townhouse and bring it back. The other can get the doctor and have him waiting when we return.”

“I will retrieve a carriage since I live closer,” Nevin said, turning his horse.

“I will call on the doctor then,” Yancy added, as he spurred his mount to follow Nevin.

Jamie sat back on his haunches after they left. “Are ye sure ye feel all right?”

Mari nodded as he helped her to sit. “I think I just had the breath knocked out of me.”

“’Tis my fault this happened. Ye said ye were nae comfortable with the horse—”

“It is not your fault or the animal’s,” Mari interrupted. “You always tell me to pay attention, and I let the reins go slack.”

“Ye dinnae blame the beastie then?”

She shook her head. “If there is one thing Jillian instilled in me regarding horses, it is the rider is always at fault.”

Jamie gave her a look of admiration. “’Tis the mark of a horsewoman to think like that.”

“Well, I do not know I will ever be a horsewoman,” Mari answered as she stood, holding on to Jamie’s shoulders for balance, “but next time I will follow your instructions.”

He could hardly believe his ears. “Ye are finally going to follow my orders?”

“Not your
orders
.” Mari paused and then gave him a tentative smile. “But I might be open to
considering
what you have to say.”

Her smile was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. To think the lass could have been seriously hurt
or even worse… Jamie stared into the depths of her eyes, blue as any Highland loch, and he circled his arms around her waist.

Mari stared back at him. She swallowed, the tip of her pink tongue darting out to wet her lips.

Jamie drew her to him and bent to capture her mouth with his. The warm, lush softness of her lips nearly overpowered him. Mari’s hands crept slowly around his neck until she twined her fingers in his hair. When he heard her moan deep in her throat, he deepened the kiss. To his delight, she parted her lips, allowing him entrance. He slipped his tongue inside, letting himself leisurely explore the sweet taste of her mouth. When her tongue tangled with his in response, his cock swelled painfully against his breeches, and he twisted his hip away, not wanting to frighten her with the hard, thick length of him. Mari mewled softly, melding against him, and he reluctantly broke off the kiss before he embarrassed himself like a green lad.

He had promised Ian and Jillian he would protect Mari—and that meant from himself as well.

The lass really was going to be the death of him.

Chapter Thirteen

Jillian awakened to bright sunlight shining through the expensive glass window Ian had installed in her bedchamber. She had overslept again. With less than a month before the babe was due, Bridget had given strict orders to the household to allow Jillian this small luxury. “Ye will have yer hands full enough once the bairn arrives,” she told Jillian more than once.

Jillian suspected, however, that her presence at the morning fast-breaking was still not appreciated by either Duncan or Broc, and Bridget thought to prevent any unpleasantness that might have an effect on the babe. Superstitions prevailed in the Highlands, with most Highlanders firmly believing that if the
máthair
were happy while carrying the child, the bairn would be less fussy. And who knew? Perhaps they did have a point.

Still. It seemed she was tarrying later and later in greeting the day, perhaps because Ian had been gone nearly three weeks and she missed him constantly. Only two missives had arrived, the last just several days ago saying he would be going to London to see Jamie before returning to Glenfinnan.

Jillian swung her legs over the side of the bed and pushed herself into a sitting position, patting the great bulk of her stomach. “Soon,” she said as the babe gave her a good-morning kick. “Soon.”

As she entered the dining hall a short time later, Bridget and Shauna, Ian’s middle sister, were deep in conversation at the table. Helping herself to the still-warm pot of porridge on the sideboard, she joined them.

“You two look gloomy for such a nice day.”

“’Tis our uncle and his brother,” Shauna said.

“Nothing for ye to worry about,” Bridget interjected.

Jillian looked from one sister to the other. “Are they upset with me? Taking me to task for being a slovenly sleep-in?”

“Nae,” Bridget answered. “’Tis just spoutin’ off they are doing.”

“But they are not happy with me.”

“’Tis nae ye in particular,” Shauna replied. “They just hate the English in general.”

“Culloden was a long time ago.” Jillian sighed. “Scotland is part of the English Crown. Can they truly not accept that?”

“Och, they can. They like to blether on about it though,” Shauna said, “but this has to do with the burnings last year.”

Jillian frowned. “Burnings?”

“Nothing for ye to fret about,” Bridget said firmly.

“I want to know. I promise not to let it upset me.”

Shauna looked at Bridget. “Jillian is Ian’s wife. She has a right to know.”

Bridget grimaced. “I suppose ye are right.”

“Ye have heard of the Scottish Clearances?” Shauna asked.

“Yes, to some extent. The lands were cleared for sheep-grazing and people moved to the coast to work in the kelp industry.”

Shauna gave her a skeptical look. “That is the English version?”

“Is that not what happened?”

“Aye, it did. Yer version leaves out the fact most crofters were burned out of their homes and
forced
to leave by the lairds themselves.”