The Pleasure of the Rose Read online

  The Pleasure of the Rose

  The MacNeil Legacy - Book One

  Jane Bonander

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Jane Bonander

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition August 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-68230-288-0

  Also by Jane Bonander

  Heat of a Savage Moon

  Wild Heart

  A Taste of Honey

  Fires of Innocence

  Secrets of a Midnight Moon

  Warrior Heart

  Dancing on Snowflakes

  Forbidden Moon

  Winter Heart

  The Dragon Tamer

  Especially for Richard.

  A big thank you to Nancy Pirri and Jill Barnett.

  Prologue

  When the night was dark and the moon hovered over the flat Texas horizon like a giant white ball, Shamus MacNeil told his son of his homeland, where ancient ghosts still roamed the castles, where wee people hid inside bluebells or under stones, and where a great “beastie” lived in a loch of immense depth.

  Young Fletcher had hung onto every fanciful word. He heard high tales of his two uncles who lived back in Castle Sheiling on the Isle of Hedabarr. Stories of their prowess with the bow and rifle made Fletcher practice his bow until he could do it with his eyes closed. Tales of their bountiful fishing made him cast his line for hours. All that Shamus MacNeil had done as a lad, he passed on to his son. To die and leave behind no remnant of Scotland would mean the MacNeils had no past.

  Only when his father spoke of lineage and inheritance did Fletcher’s mind wander to subjects more interesting, like tracking a bear or watching an eagle soar overhead. At the tender age of nine, Fletcher’s world was Shamus. There was only the two of them.

  Then his father remarried, and everything changed.

  Fletcher, Maker of Arrows, pressed one knee into the grass beside his father’s grave and rested his forearm on the other. He had thought he would weep; he could not. His sorrow went deeper than tears.

  Under this pile of loosely packed earth was Shamus MacNeil, the man he loved more than anyone else in his life. He had guarded that love possessively, even jealously.

  Soft footsteps sounded behind him over the coarse, dry grass, stopping close by.

  “He forgave you long ago.” The old man slowly lowered himself to the ground beside him.

  Fletcher could hear the creaking of his grandfather’s ancient bones. “And now I will never forgive myself.”

  The old man gazed up into the clouds. Fletcher studied his profile—hawk nose, sharp cheekbones, both of which Fletcher had been granted. He resembled his mother’s people more than the other siblings.

  Grandfather spoke. “I was not happy when my daughter married a white man. It took me time to discover what Gentle Dove saw in him from the very beginning. Shamus MacNeil was a kind man, a gentle man who knew that although we were different from him, we were equal. He lived as we did, embracing our ways, but he never forgot where he came from.” Grandfather continued, his voice holding humorous warmth, “And he spoke unlike any white man I had ever known, his words sliding and gliding across my mind long after he had stopped talking.”

  Fletcher remembered his father’s Scottish burr, the gentle humor he found in life, the kindness in his heart. All of the things Fletcher had abandoned when his own small, petty pride made him leave home so many years before.

  “When your mother died, I was saddened. No father should outlive his children,” Grandfather was saying. “But when your father followed tradition and married my other daughter, I knew that he was a man who believed in the strength of family.”

  Fletcher had received the news of his father’s and stepmother’s deaths only days before. Running Deer had been washing clothes at the river. Fletcher’s grandfather and Shamus went to check on her and had found her floating face down in the water. His father swam out to get her and after pulling her body ashore, his chest seized and he fell over dead.

  “I was always unkind to Running Deer,” Fletcher admitted. He had been jealous when his brother and sister, Duncan and Kerry, were born and he had to share his father. But when Shamus rescued and adopted Gavin after a raid on his family’s ranch, Fletcher had felt completely abandoned. “I didn’t want to help care for them; I wanted to hunt and fish with my friends.” He had been so young and so selfish. “I wouldn’t do my chores; instead, I did what I pleased. When I returned, he would ignore me. That hurt more than anything, to be ignored by him.” Fletcher had overheard Running Deer defending his antics, explaining to his father that it was only his age that made him distant, surly, and unruly. Emotion made him disinterested in the stories his father now told his brothers and sister.

  “You were young, and hurting.”

  “That was no excuse for my behavior, Grandfather.”

  “No, but it is the truth.”

  Not long after his fifteenth birthday, Fletcher turned his back on his family and left. Until today, he had not returned. Foolish pride had prohibited it.

  “What will you do now?” Grandfather asked, using Fletcher’s knee for support while he attempted to get to his feet.

  Fletcher helped him up. He’d come to a decision, albeit grudgingly. “I will stay.”

  Grandfather’s rheumy eyes were shrewd. “Is that what you want?”

  Fletcher’s gaze slid away. “Of course it is.”

  “You feel guilty, but that shouldn’t be your reason for staying. We will be fine. You have your job with the army. Go, my son.”

  Fletcher’s relief could not dissuade his guilt, but he would have to live with that. He glanced at the house one more time. It looked solid, like it wasn’t in need of any repair, but it wasn’t home anymore. His brothers and sister played nearby. They hadn’t recognized him when he returned. At least they would remember him now and his job with the army would guarantee they would have food and shelter. They didn’t need him to stay, either.

  “I will send you my army pay.” Fletcher pulled out his buckskin money sack and handed it to his grandfather. “This should help you for a while. I’ll send more.”

  Early the next morning, Fletcher waved goodbye to his family and rode away.

  Chapter One

  Fort Wiley, Texas—1857

  The rough muslin bed sheets lay in a tangle around them, the air still musk-scented. Fletcher glanced at his partner, whose breathing was as ragged as his own, and whose face was bathed in sweat. It had been a month since he’d bedded a woman. He stretched, flexed the muscles in his legs, and put his hands behind his head. He’d sure as hell made up for it tonight, he thought, feeling satisfied and just a little bit smug.

  Hours earlier, she had opened the door wearing only a flower in her hair. Her luscious breasts with their big, brown nipples had jutted straight out, as if reaching for him, begging him to put his mouth around them—which eventually he had. The thatch of dark hair between her thighs had looked inviting; he went down on his knees to have a taste. From her scent, he’d thought he was going to burst the seams of his buckskins; his erection ached. She had tasted sweet and tart, and she was v
ery, very wet, her labia swollen and her clit as round and hard as a pea.

  Before she came, she had pulled him to his feet, reached down, and unbuttoned his pants. She pulled out his erection and then hopped into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist, pressing her wet, naked center against him.

  He’d barely made it to the bedroom. They collapsed on the bed, already hot, sweaty, and eager. She’d almost torn his shirt off of him; had there been buttons, they would have flown all over the room. The first time was short, hot, and intense. She screamed when she came; he’d had to close his mouth over hers to muffle the sound. Then she dragged him into the kitchen, swung her arm across the table, sending the cloth and a basket of wildflowers flying, and perched on the edge. Spreading her legs wide, she invited him into her pink wetness with, “Come inside.”

  He liked it that way, standing so he could watch himself move in and out of her, watch the moisture glisten on his erection as she became wetter and wetter, so hot and ready for him that her ankles were shaking as she balanced them on his shoulders.

  Now, four hours after he had arrived on her doorstep, she reached over and moved her hand to his groin. “Are you ready for me, half-breed?”

  He was already hard.

  She squeezed him; he got harder.

  “I can make it stand up again and salute that flag.” Her voice was heavy with seduction and the promise of sexual delights as she nodded toward the window, where the flag from the fort flapped in the dry wind.

  He watched her closely, saying nothing. But as she continued to stroke him, he knew he wanted her again. In spite of his reluctance to stay, he couldn’t resist the urge to reach for her breast. Her nipple pebbled at his touch. He licked it, then the other. He raised his head. “When does your husband come home?”

  “There’s time…” She purred and moved closer, nuzzling him like a big, warm cat. She threw one leg across his thigh and rubbed her calf over his groin. “He won’t be home until morning. I told you that.” She made more catlike sounds in her throat. “You sure feel ready, honey.” Then she pushed even closer and caught his thigh between her legs, pressing herself against his skin.

  He slid his hand up to the furry patch between her thighs. “Some nice, proper white girl you are; you stay so damned wet.”

  She gave him a lazy chuckle and spread her legs wide. “It’s you that makes me wet, half-breed.”

  She had never used his name, although he was sure she knew what it was. Hers was Lindsay Bannerman. Her husband was a captain, an arrogant son of a bitch. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but she radiated sex like it was perfume. She had an ample ass—something that usually didn’t excite him, but once they had fallen into bed, it was there for him to grab as he battered into her while she begged him to do it harder and harder.

  If he had any respect for her at all, he wouldn’t be lying here, exploring her wet and swollen folds. But like other white women of her kind, all she wanted was an Indian in her bed. He was half Indian; that was enough. He had no respect for a woman who cuckolded her husband.

  He could bed them; he just didn’t respect them.

  Early in his youth he had learned that his looks and silence drew women like this one, eager for what was between his legs and for the native wildness they thought came from his Comanche blood. The first time had been nearly ten years ago, when he was eighteen. He had screwed on horseback, with his partner facing him, her legs wrapped around his back and him deep inside her.

  “C’mon, honey,” the captain’s wife murmured against his ear, nipping at the lobe, her hand touching him in long soft strokes. “I want you inside me, now.”

  He heard a sound across the room and flipped her on her back, his hand over her mouth.

  She fought him, clawing at his fingers.

  “Shhh!” He listened for the sound again.

  She pried free and tried to hit him. “You son of a bitch!”

  All at once he faced a gun barrel. And the room exploded in light.

  Solicitor’s office, village of Sheiling, Island of Hedabarr, Scotland

  Geddes Gordon had feared this moment, had dreaded it. The old laird was dead and in no time at all, the laird’s grandnephew, Fergus MacBean, came sniffing around, waiting to be handed the estate. The prig sat before him now, buffed and polished, smug and arrogant.

  “I don’t see the problem, Mr. Gordon.” MacBean flicked an imaginary piece of lint from his fawn-colored pantaloons. “The old man is dead and I’m a legal heir.”

  “Aye,” Geddes answered, “but there is still the question of Shamus.”

  MacBean expelled a derisive snort. “No one has heard from him in decades. He could be dead for all we know.”

  “But we don’t know that for certain, do we?” Geddes countered.

  MacBean stroked a bushy sideburn with a stubby finger. On an impatient sigh, he said, “My wife and I are traveling the Continent soon; we leave within the week. We’re spending a lengthy time in Paris, then we’re off to Vienna. She has relatives in Switzerland who are anxious for us to visit, then we’ll leave for Barcelona. Trust me, Mr. Gordon, I will return in one year to collect my inheritance. Make no mistake about it.” With that, he stood, picked up his greatcoat and his top hat, and, without so much as a nod, went to the door. Before he left, he added, “By the way, I’ll be requiring a new staff and will hire my own solicitor. Your services will no longer be necessary.” Then he was gone.

  Geddes rubbed his hands over his face. If this entire estate was going to be saved from that spendthrift braggart, something had to be done. And Geddes feared he knew what it was. The idea did not appeal to him at all.

  • • •

  Six weeks later, Geddes Gordon looked out the stagecoach window, trying not to compare the hot, dusty, dry, monotonous landscape to the fresh, clean hills on the isles of Scotland. He failed miserably. This was where the old man’s heir lived? He closed his eyes against the harsh scenery. It was unfathomable that anyone with Scots blood in his veins could tolerate the hellish heat and constant dust. By the holy, it was winter and still hot as the very devil!

  He tried to relax and gave himself up to the rocking of the coach, his thoughts returning to his last conversation with his sister, Rosalyn. It irked him to think she found him so weak. Yet he knew she was right—he detested traveling even as far as Edinburgh, but as the late Duke of Kintyre’s solicitor it was his duty to see the complicated terms of the will fulfilled. To do that, he had to find the new duke, the youngest son, Shamus MacNeil.

  If he were unsuccessful, the fortune would go to Fergus MacBean and his profligate family, and then he and Rosalyn, who were living at the castle and caring for the estate, would be forced to find other lodgings. Not that they couldn’t, but they both loved the castle and its grounds. It would be a shame to see it all pissed away by MacBean.

  “Do you remember much about Fergus MacBean?” she had asked him that same night.

  He had related to her his last meeting with MacBean but did not go into detail or tell her of the prig’s plan to replace them. Rosalyn had looked worried, then asked him about Shamus. He told her what he knew: that Shamus was a good, God-fearing young man, whom many had thought might enter the church, until he suddenly left Scotland, almost overnight. Perhaps he knew that as the third son he had no reason to stay, perhaps wanderlust called to him. Soon after, Jamie died suddenly, but there was still Munro. Who’d have thought he would die, too? The MacNeil believed he would never die, and Geddes wondered if he had believed that, too. No one ever tried to locate Shamus and no word came back from America.

  He remembered looking at his sister and again being amazed at how lovely she was. Rosalyn had perfect skin, a pert little nose, and thick hair the color of wheat shimmering in the sunshine. It was so fortunate that she was the pretty one, with her smaller features instead of his big ears and pointed beak of a nose. When he said as much to her, she scolded him.

  “You are a handsome man, tall, broad-shouldered, and charming whe
n you wish to be. And you have always been the cleverest and kindest man I know, Geddes, although you are a bit stubborn.” She had looked up from her sewing. “What will happen if Shamus is dead?”

  “I can only hope that he has a bairn, Rosalyn, and let’s pray he’s a wise, upstanding young man, just as Shamus was, one who will continue to need our services.”

  She had laughed then, a truly amused sound that had annoyed the very devil out of him. Rosalyn had this uncanny ability to laugh at the situations he found most distressing. She had told him he was too serious. He supposed he was. Yet her greatest liability was that she was too stubborn by half. When they were children, they had gotten into their mother’s garden and eaten berries until their faces were stained and their bellies so full they were ill. Their mother, not usually a violent woman, whipped them with a switch. Had she told them she was going to bake a pie for a very special visitor, they might not have partaken, Geddes had whimpered as each of the blows came. But Rosalyn had not. She stood straight and tall, unwilling to even flinch. Even her breathing did not change. Rosalyn did not show the world her pain.

  “And what if this heir is a rakehell and a rogue, like his brothers and his grandfather?”

  “Then God help us all,” he said aloud inside the coach. He had no idea who he might find at the end of his voyage. At the last stage stop there had been a message waiting for him. Shamus MacNeil had died a number of years before, but at the fort outside Cedarville, he would find Shamus’s son, the MacNeil heir, the next Duke of Kintyre. It gave him some hope that the heir would be an army man; the MacNeils had always been excellent soldiers in the service of their kings.

  The stagecoach rocked as the whip master shouted, “Cedarville!” then stopped next to a dreary building.

  Geddes got out, brushed off his gray wool trousers, buttoned his black cloth frock coat, and stared at the stark platform.