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A Rogue's Heart
By Debra Brown Harlequin Enterprises Limited
Copyright © 2002 Harlequin Enterprises Limited
All right reserved. ISBN: 0373292252
Chapter One
The Highlands of Scotland, 1213 Conall Mackintosh hated water.
Perhaps 'twas the ill-fated sea voyage he'd barely survived the year before, or the memory of being dunked in the horse trough once too often as a lad. Whatever the reason, he had a bad feeling about his brother's proposal.
"Why me?" He shot Iain a disgruntled look. "Why not Gilchrist? He's always splashing about in that bloody spring of his."
"Ye know well his clan canna spare him for such a task. Nor can ours spare me. That leaves you."
Conall swore silently under his breath. "Negotiate the terms with Dunbar, build out the docks, and make ready for the first trade boats." Iain nodded as if Conall had already agreed.
Boats. Docks and boats. His skin prickled at the mere mention of such things.
"Och, what are ye worried about?" Iain said. "'Tis no' the western sea, just a wee loch. Ye'll be done with the task and off to wherever the devil it is this time -"
"Glenmore. To hunt with your wife's cousin."
"- long before the winter sets in."
Conall smirked. "'Tis easy enough for you to say, here at home." He swept his gaze over Findhorn Castle, their birthplace and seat of Clan Mackintosh.
"So the adventurer tires of his lifestyle, eh?"
"That's not what Imeant."
"What was it ye said last spring when the MacBains proposed a match for ye?"
Saint Columba, not this again. "'I'm no' one for settling down' is what ye said. 'I prefer travel, adventure."'
Conall rolled his eyes at Iain's perfect but painful imitation of him.
"Well then, brother, here's the adventure of a lifetime."
Jupiter's deep bark echoed behind them off the stone battlement where they stood overlooking Findhorn's bailey.
"See?" Iain said. "Even your mangy partner agrees with me."
Conall glared at the mastiff. "Traitor."
"Och, come now." Iain mustered what Conall knew was his most serious expression.
Here it comes. He waited for the inevitable lecture. "Ye are third son and, as such, ye've been left with damned little to make a start of your own. Ye'll always have a place here with us at Findhorn or at Monadhliath with Gilchrist, but -"
"A lifetime of domestic boredom doesna suit me? Aye, well, that's the God's truth."
"That's no' what -" Iain closed his eyes and exhaled. Conall watched, amused, as his brother silently counted to ten.
"Hmm? You were saying?"
"I was saying, ye've traveled the bluidy world. Can ye no' tarry long enough to do this one thing for us?" Iain clapped a hand on his shoulder in that annoyingly paternal way Conall hated. "For the Chattan?"
The Chattan. The five. Mackintosh, Davidson, Macgillivray and the rest. Five Highland clans aligned in peace. Well, most of the time. It had been their father's dream, God rest his soul.
Iain had seen it through, forged the bond some ten years ago, with Gilchrist's help. Conall had been a reckless youth at the time, more concerned with horses and women than with politics. In fact, he preferred them still.
"We need the trade," Iain said. "Three hard winters in a row - we canna abide a fourth. Last year many died."
Conall shrugged out of his brother's grasp and stepped to the edge of the battlement. Jupiter nudged his hand. "Good boy," he whispered, and patted the mastiff's enormous head.
The bailey was alive with the shouts and laughter of their kinsmen: stable lads, fletchers, farriers, women with baskets scurrying between the timber cottages hugging the curtain wall.
"Will ye do it, Conall?" Iain asked. "If no' for the Chattan, then for Gilchrist and for me?"
God knows, he'd done damned little for family or clan these last years. He wasn't like his brothers, content to stay in one place with one woman. The wanderlust was in his blood. 'Twas part of him, the best part.
Perhaps he was being selfish. On the other hand, 'twas just like Iain to draw him into exactly the kind of life he didn't want to live, one small task at a time.
"O' course he'll do it! He's a good lad."
Conall bit off a curse and turned toward the familiar voice.
"Rob," Iain said. "Convince my brother here to pay Alwin Dunbar a wee visit."
"Dunbar of Loch Drurie?" Rob cocked a tawny brow and fisted chubby hands on hips.
Conall crushed his conscience long enough to fight the smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. His short, balding friend Rob oft reminded him of the rotund gnomes of boyhood tales.
"Aye," Iain said. "The same."
"'Tis a fair piece o' land he holds, The Dunbar," Rob said.
Iain nodded. "Aye, and well situated for our purpose. We shall trade game and furs for grain."
"And a bit o' drink if we're lucky, eh?" Rob winked, his blue eyes flashing mirth.
"'Tis a good plan," Conall said warily. "I'll admit that. But how do you know Dunbar will agree?"
Iain shrugged. "I don't. 'Tis your job to convince him."
Conall snorted. The only convincing he'd done lately had resulted in a thrashing from a village lass's father.
"Och, come on," Rob said. "Ye know ye love a challenge."
Iain crossed his arms over his chest. "So he says."
They had him on that, and they both knew it, damn them. "Whoresons," he muttered.
Rob grinned. "I told ye he'd do it."
Iain grunted satisfaction.
"I'll not miss that hunt with Grant, mind you." His words fell on deaf ears.
"'Twill be good for him to shoulder a bit o' responsibility on behalf of the Chattan, eh?" Rob said.
Responsibility. Even the word made him itch. His coarse woolen shirt suddenly felt too tight about the neck.
His brothers' responsibilities over the years had grown tenfold, their successes spawning only more work, not less, and staggering obligations. The years of hardship and struggle, a thousand forgone pleasures. And for what? He shuddered to think of what he would have missed of the world had he succumbed at an early age and followed in their footsteps.
Nay, 'twas not for him. "There's a fair reward for the service," Iain said. He studied his fingernails in a way that made Conall instantly suspicious. "I nearly forgot to mention it."
"What reward?"
"Oh, no' much," Iain said, not looking at him. "Some land, a bit o' cattle -" he paused and met Conall's gaze "- a bride, mayhap."
"What the -"
"Only if ye wish it," Iain said quickly. "She's a bonny lass, the youngest daughter of one o' the Chattan lairds."
Conall shot toward him. "Bloody matchmaker. I'll have none of it, d'ye hear?"
Rob - who was supposed to be his friend, the blackguard - dissolved into laughter.
"Suit yourself." Iain shrugged. "'Twas just a thought. About the bride, I mean."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A Rogue's Heart by Debra Brown Copyright © 2002 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
