Also by Shannon MacLeod
Arcana Love Series
The Celtic Cup
The Gypsy Ribbon
Rogue on the Rollaway
ROGUE ON THE ROLLAWAY
By Shannon MacLeod
LYRICAL PRESS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/
For Taylor and Nolan, the two halves of my heart
Acknowledgements
Angela Bird for always leaving the light on and for the best “remember the time we…” stories, most of which are still protected by the statute of limitations.
Antonia Tiranth for being the most patient editor in the known world, securer of wandering body parts and squasher of sibilant utterances.
Renee Rocco for hitting another one out of the park with the gorgeous cover art.
Tricia Warren for My Love of the Leporidae, for constantly inspiring me to do my best and reassuring me that the sleep deprived look is “in” this season.
Carrie Clevenger and Nerine Dorman, who challenged me to pull up my big girl panties and learn to write better.
Alisha Fairley for being my favorite superhero ever and for unwavering courage when faced with apple crisp of dubious origins.
Richard and Virginia, who love me anyway.
And last but not least…
To my favorite Rogue who keeps me smiling. Shine bright, ET.
Prologue
In the year of our Lord 1403–Edinburgh, Scotland
Ah, damn me…this is going to hurt.
Faolan MacIntyre lifted his head and closed his eyes, relishing the tang of the early spring North Sea on his face. The wind whipped at his long, coal black hair and tore it free from the leather thong binding it. He longed to braid it away from his eyes and he would have, had his hands not been tied securely behind his back.
The dour magistrate droned on and on, proclaiming Faolan’s multitude of sins and transgressions while the priest and hangman waited behind him on the wooden scaffold. “Sedition, heresy, the practicing of witchcraft and consorting with demons, horse thievery…”
“Borrowed,” Faolan muttered.
The hangman gave him a heavy cuff on the back of the head in warning. Faolan turned and took a threatening step toward the man, who shrank away even though the taller, powerfully built Celt was obviously in no position to return the favor.
“…impersonating a priest, fornication…”
Faolan yawned. “Could ye speed it up a bit? It’s a might drafty up here.”
The gathered crowd erupted in laughter and the official’s face reddened. “Silence!” he bellowed. Relocating his place in the leather bound ledger with a bony finger, he continued his litany. “Public drunkenness, adultery, slanderous language…”
“Christ in heaven above,” Faolan roared. “Could ye just get on with it? I’m going to freeze to death afore ye get around to hanging me.”
“Blasphemer,” the portly priest gasped.
Apparently deciding enough damning evidence had been presented to justify the punishment, the official slammed the book closed and gave a nod to the hangman. With a grim smile, the executioner placed the noose around the condemned’s neck and tightened it. Faolan took a small amount of pleasure that the shorter man had to hop to get the heavy rope over his bowed head. He shook his head at the proffered leather hood.
“I wish for the man of my dreams”
The faint feminine whisper pulled at the edge of Faolan’s consciousness, sounding as if it were coming from a great distance and a slow grin spread across his face.
Witnessing the unseemly smile, the priest made the sign of the cross and clutched his pudgy hands together. “’Tis obvious your imprisonment has driven you mad. Admit your sins and repent now, my son,” he pleaded. “Show regret for your actions before these good people and mayhap your death will be a swift one.”
Faolan managed a contrite nod. With a heavy sigh, he gazed at the magistrate and said, “Yer Honor, ’tis truly sorry I am I dinna bed yer wife when she begged it of me, but to be honest, there wasn’t whisky enough in all of Scotia to make that wench appealing.”
The crowd roared with laughter once again. The magistrate sputtered with outrage, turning a rather apoplectic shade of purple. “Do your duty,” he demanded with an imperious wave. The hangman leaned forward to pull the lever releasing the trap door beneath Faolan’s booted feet. The priest’s voice grew louder, beginning the recitation of the final prayer. “Pater Noster, qui es in coelis…”
Faolan gave a roguish wink to a tearful maid standing near the scaffold steps, and blew kisses to two more just before the weathered boarding beneath him creaked loudly and gave way.
Part 1
Where dips the rocky highland of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats; there we’ve hid our faery vats,
Full of berries and of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses the dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses we foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances, mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight; to and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles, while the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.
–The Stolen Child by William Butler Yeates
1