The Highland Earl

by Amy Jarecki

  She signaled the butler to refill her wineglass while Phoebe yammered about sailing toy boats at the park. “When I fell, my schooner was pushed into deep water and I called to Evelyn to rescue it.”

  “Yes, and His Lordship is well aware of what happened next.” Evelyn took a healthy sip of wine, stealing a glance at the earl, who sat beside her. “There is no need to hash through the details.”

  Phoebe sniffed with a pout. “But I was just coming to the good part.”

  “It was a fun day out,” Mar said. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, Lady Phoebe.”

  “How many glasses of wine have you had?” asked Frances, gaping across the table.

  Not enough. Evelyn set her glass down. In truth, it had been two glasses and her head was beginning to swim. But given the day’s news, she felt entitled to an extra glass or two even though she was still technically a maid. She gave her sister an evil eye—the one Evelyn used whenever she wanted them to know she was in no mood for jesting.

  Lord save her, to her horror, she was engaged to marry someone exactly like her father.

  At the head of the table, Papa sat back while the footman placed a bowl of apple tart in front of him. “I’ve had a word with the vicar at Saint Paul’s. Told him you were rather anxious to move ahead with the wedding, and he’s already prepared the banns.”

  “That’s so romantic,” said Frances. “When will it be?”

  Mar turned to Evelyn and arched his eyebrow. “A sennight hence?”

  She wrapped her fingers around her dessert spoon. “How can a woman possibly plan for a wedding in a week?”

  “A fortnight, then,” said Papa. “I’ll send for the modiste first thing in the morning.”

  “New gowns for all of us?” asked Phoebe, clapping her hands—easy for her. She wasn’t marrying a man known as Bobbin’ John.

  Papa sat back while the footman refilled his glass. “Of course, I’ll have all my daughters dressed in London’s latest fashion.”

  Evelyn took a gulp of wine. In two weeks she would be the Countess of Mar, married to a man she hardly knew and most likely would never love. At least he was handsome—that might make time in the bedchamber bearable. Shuddering, she nearly drank the entire contents of her glass. Dear Lord, in a fortnight, she would no longer be a virgin.

  Frances scooped a bite of tart with her spoon. “You must be over the moon with excitement.”

  “Quite,” Evelyn managed, her head swimming. Either she’d imbibed too much burgundy or she was ill for the first time in her life. What will Mr. Dubois say about this alliance? Though he’d advised her to get closer to Mar to garner information for the cause, he surely would be appalled that her father had negotiated the union between Kingston-upon-Hull and Mar.

  I am doomed.

  Mar slid his fingers over the tablecloth, stopping before he reached her bowl of untouched tart. “You look a bit flushed. I imagine all this ado a bit overwhelming.”

  Overwhelming seemed like an understatement. “I believe you may be right.” She slid her chair back and stood. “If you would excuse me, I’d like to adjourn to the courtyard for a bit of air.”

  Mar immediately rose to his feet. “I’ll accompany you.”

  Good gracious, when would she have a moment to herself? Evelyn ignored his arm as she wove her way through the corridor, the movement making her feel better—or was it the effects of the wine?

  “Och, the night’s air is much improved over the stuffy dining hall,” said the earl as they stepped into the courtyard.

  Evelyn opened her arms and let the breeze cool her face as she strolled around the garden of herbs and vegetables—so minuscule compared to the vast acres of manicured gardens at Thoresby Hall.

  Walking with his hands clasped behind his back, Mar fell in step beside her. “’Tis pleasant, quiet.”

  “I miss the country.”

  “I do as well.”

  “Surprising. A man like you is required to spend so much time in London, I would think you’d be more inclined to call Town your home.”

  “Never. And with luck my responsibilities will lessen, enabling me…er…us to enjoy Alloa more.”

  Evelyn paused at his use of “us.” “Oh? What will the queen think of your plans?”

  Shrugging, he plucked a sprig of rosemary and drew it to his nose. “Mm.” Then he held it out to her. “This scent is soothing enough to calm a hairy beast—mayhap even your dog.”

  She couldn’t help but let a giggle slip as she imagined Brutus being tamed by rosemary. But then her breath caught when Mar brushed her cheek with the fragrant herb. The scent not only soothed her, it enlivened her as well, not that she cared to be enlivened in the least.

  “Remember when I said you’d enjoy a ceilidh?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Highland gatherings are my favorite celebrations as well.”

  “Not royal balls?”

  He tossed the sprig away. “Royal balls are for fops and Whigs.”

  She smiled. “I never thought I’d hear you say such a thing. Are you not both of those?”

  “Mayhap to anyone on the outside looking in.” He hummed a few notes, his deep bass resonating between the courtyard walls. “At a ceilidh everyone—man, woman, and child, no matter their rank—is welcome to partake. There’s always a hog on the spit and singing and dancing well into the wee hours.”

  He sang a verse of a Gaelic folk song, his voice haunting and beautiful, making gooseflesh rise across Evelyn’s skin. “That was very good.”

  “It is an ancient Celtic tune, passed down at my clan’s campfires through the ages.”

  “It has a lovely but sad overtone. What is it about?”

  “The story of a woman sending her man to sea. Only through the depth of her love will he return to her arms.” Mar grasped Evelyn’s hand and hummed this time. “And the dance to this wee tune is lyrical. My kin have performed it for over a thousand years.”

  He pulled her around in a circle, showing her by doing. Singing and smiling as he watched her eyes.

  For the moment, Evelyn forgot the turmoil surrounding her life and let him lead her in this new, yet ancient, reel. Together they flowed with half turns and glissades. At the far side of the courtyard, he stopped and clasped her hands in his big palms while they swayed to his humming.

  “This is why I like a ceilidh,” he whispered. “Because all the worries of the world are lost on the breeze. And then there is only you…and me.”

  For the first time since they’d met, Evelyn really looked into his eyes—not the beauty she saw on the surface but what lay in the deep pools. They weren’t filled with hate or mal-intent. Mar’s eyes were gentle and kind and nothing like her father’s. How did he manage it?

  Before she asked, he took her face between his palms, his gaze dropping to her lips. The blood in her veins turned molten as he neared, his breath sweet with the overtone of apples.

  And then he kissed her.

  Evelyn gasped at the sensation of his warm mouth brushing across hers. But he didn’t just give her a tiny peck, as she’d expected. He lingered while the effects of the wine swirled in her head. She closed her eyes and grasped his shoulders to steady herself. His tongue slid across the parting of her mouth while tingles fired across her skin.

  How should she respond? Was this done?

  His tongue teased her again.

  Ever so slightly, she opened. Mar eased his hand to the back of her neck while he entered her mouth with unexpected wildness. Evelyn sank her fingers into bands of thick muscle and held on with all her strength as he showed her not just a kiss but a passionate joining of the mouths between man and woman—between lovers.

  Except they would never be lovers.

  Chapter Six

  John popped his head through the door to Swenson’s rooms. “Please order two dozen dog rose plants to be added to the Alloa gardens.”

  The butler looked up from his ledger as his sagging jowls grew deeper with his frown. “Dog
rose, m’lord?”

  “Aye.”

  Swenson stood a bit slower than usual. “I must caution you on your choice. I’ve heard reports that rose has some association with the Jacobites.”

  Yes, John was well aware of the symbolism. The white five-petaled rose had been a prominent feature in the Stuart crest for centuries. But if the daughter of a man like Hull, a staunch royalist, loved dog roses, then so be it. Besides, Tullibardine would enjoy a good laugh when he came to dine at Alloa. “I’m certain I’ll not come under Her Majesty’s suspicion for adding white roses to my garden.”

  “Very well. Shall the gardener make a hedgerow out of them?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” Dressed for a visit to court, John stretched his neck against his neckcloth’s snug knot. “Do you believe that would be best?”

  “The flowers of the dog rose are rather plain, but they do sprout ample foliage. And the vines are ideal for hedgerows, if I may say.”

  “Very well. Tell the gardener to order what he needs for a hedgerow on the south wall.”

  “Straightaway, m’lord.” The butler reached for his quill.

  “Oh—and Swenson?”

  “Aye?”

  “Ensure he’s aware they are the favorite flower of the new countess.”

  Those beetle eyebrows shot up. “I beg your par—”

  John shut the door before the man finished. He’d already said enough, and he needed to break the news to the lads before the entire serving staff was spouting gossip about his forthcoming nuptials.

  Since taking the evening meal with Evelyn and her family, John was more convinced he’d been correct in his decision to wed the lass. He would give Evelyn a fine home and deny her nothing. She would be a good influence on the boys, and after the kiss they’d shared in the courtyard, he suspected Her Ladyship might provide good sport in the bedchamber. If they were lucky, he would give her bairns tenfold. What would be better than a dozen children running and laughing through Alloa Tower with his sons leading the brood? He chuckled, taking two stairs at a time straight up to the third-floor nursery.

  “I don’t care about Ws.” Oliver’s voice resonated down the corridor. “I’m going to be a knight. Da said so.”

  “Well, then,” Mrs. Kerr replied, “it is doubly important that you learn all your letters. Knights are vital members of the gentry and they oft compose all manner of missives.”

  “Aye, addressed to earls and even royalty,” Thomas added.

  “Now then. Fill your page with Ws, Lord Oliver, else you might have to set your sights on some other vocation.”

  Clearing his throat, John tapped open the door. “Please tell me I did not hear one of my sons arguing with his governess about the importance of his lessons.”

  “Da!” Oliver’s quill stilled in his black-stained fingers while his eyes bugged wide. “How long have you been there?”

  “Long enough and you will be writing two pages of Ws, laddie.”

  The boy’s face fell. “Aye, m’lord.”

  “Very well, and that’s the last I want to hear of any backtalking to your governess. Both of you.”

  “What did I do?” Tom balked.

  John shifted his hands to his hips. “Have I made myself clear?”

  Thomas fixated on his parchment. “Aye, m’lord.”

  Satisfied, John turned to Mrs. Kerr. “Would you mind leaving us for a moment, madam?”

  “Of course, m’lord.”

  Both boys watched him expectantly as John waited for the woman to leave, shutting the door behind her. “Come, let’s sit in the embrasure.”

  “What is it, Da?” asked Oliver.

  Thomas dashed across the floor. “Are we going back to Alloa?”

  “No, we’re not returning to Scotland yet, but I do have hopes the queen will call recess soon.” In the little alcove with opposing seat cushions, John sat across from the boys. Funny thing, he was more nervous now than he’d been when he’d dropped to one knee and asked Lady Evelyn to marry him, even with her disagreeable dog’s grumbling overture.

  In truth, she’d had little choice but to agree.

  And John wanted his sons to be happy about his decision. The lads were too young to understand the crippling effects of inherited debt, but they did need to realize that their father was acting in their best interests.

  He drew in a deep breath. “I ken things haven’t been easy for you these past few months.”

  Unable to touch the floor, Oliver swung his feet. “If only Mrs. Kerr weren’t so hard on us.”

  Thomas gave his brother a thwack. “Och aye!”

  “Your governess is doing exactly what I’m paying her to do. But that’s not what I’ve brought you over here to discuss.” Giving the boys a stern eye, John wiped his sweaty palms on his breeches. Bloody oath, this was proving more difficult by the moment. “Men cannot live without women.”

  “Why the devil not?” asked Thomas as John gaped at his son’s outburst. “Pardon me, Da, but why? Lassies are despicable.”

  Oliver returned his brother’s thwack with a shove. “I agree. They’re ’aspicable.”

  “But you…” John looked to the ceiling. As he recalled, Oliver seemed to enjoy playing with Lady Phoebe on their adventure to Hyde Park. However, the youngest always sided with his elder brother. One thing was for certain: The Earl of Mar needed to take charge of the direction of the conversation. There he sat, Secretary of State for Scotland, being sidetracked by a pair of whelps.

  He steepled his fingers to his lips and pretended to speak to the Almighty. “Och, do not listen to them, dear Father. I ken my sons loved their mother, no matter what misguided notions slip through their lips.”

  Thomas picked up a pillow and squeezed it. “We were no’ talking about Ma.”

  “You think not?” With a wee scowl, John looked from one lad to the next. “I’ll tell you true, lads, every time you speak ill of the fairer sex you disrespect the memory of your mother. And I’ll not have it.”

  Hanging their heads, both lads looked as if they were on the verge of tears. Devil be damned, had he been too hard on them? Blast it all, women were better suited for child nurturing. John’s duty was to turn his sons into men, not to mollycoddle them. “Och, I did not come up here to grumble at you. I came bearing good news.” Though, given their aversion to females, he wasn’t convinced they’d see it as a boon.

  Bless it, they need a bloody mother whether they understand it or not.

  Oliver slid down from the bench, then climbed up beside his father, leaning against John’s arm. “I like it when you come to the nursery and talk to us, Da.”

  “Thank you.” John slipped his arm around the lad. “Both of you have met Lady Evelyn.”

  “Aye,” said Thomas, his arms tightly clutching the pillow.

  May as well blurt it out. “She’s going to be your stepmother.”

  Oliver tensed and, across, Thomas stared, saying nothing, his lips quivering.

  “But what about Ma?” whispered the youngest. “We cannot forget Ma.”

  John shifted Oliver onto his lap, then hoisted Thomas across the gap as well. Sitting with his arms around both lads, he let the news sink in before he continued. “I ken Her Ladyship will not replace your mother, but she’s the daughter of a duke and she’ll help you pair grow into fine noblemen.”

  “I think we’re doing well without a stepmother,” whispered Thomas.

  Oliver looked up with big, sad eyes. “And Mrs. Kerr has been making us practice our bows, pleases, and thank-yous every day.”

  John gave a nod. “And I’m very appreciative for Mrs. Kerr. But the root of the matter is you will have a stepmother who is a fine, well-bred woman and we have naught but to show her the utmost respect at all times.”

  He gave each wee Highlander a kiss on the head. “Now, I’ve received a summons from the queen and I must leave for court.”

  “When will you be home?” Thomas asked.

  “Knowing Her Majesty, she’ll k
eep the cabinet until the wee hours.”

  “The queen isn’t very nice,” said Oliver.

  “She has a thankless position, but she perseveres, just as all of us must accept our lot and make the best of it.” That was all John would say about the queen. If only his sons were fifteen years older with a bit of hair on their chins, he might offer them a whisky and have a good yarn. Unfortunately, their queen was poorly educated and unprepared to be the supreme leader of Britain, completely ill suited to the throne. But such words were not to be uttered, especially to children who were supposed to believe in the utmost authority of their monarchs.

  Sitting at the back of the Copper Cauldron, Evelyn let out a long breath when Mr. Dubois finally stepped through the door. She’d put the sunflower in the window yesterday, but this afternoon when she hadn’t seen him at his table, she had nearly turned and taken Brutus home. She glanced down at the ferocious Corgi asleep at her feet, then looked to the Frenchman approaching with a grimace.

  “Two dishes of coffee in the back, s’il vous plaît,” he said to the maid before he slipped into the chair with his back to the wall—right beside Evelyn. “I hope you do not mind my sitting beside you, m’lady.”

  “Not at all.” Regardless of what she’d said, it was awkward, and Evelyn shifted to her usual seat across the table. “Since I arrived before you, I felt uncomfortable with my back to the door.”

  “’Tis a good thing—shows you’re a natural-born spy.”

  Choked by the ribbon on her bonnet, she tugged open the bow. “Unfortunately, my spying days are coming to an end.”

  “Oui? Is that why your sunflower graced your window again so soon?”

  “Yes. My news is dire, but this time ’tis of a personal nature.”

  The maid set two dishes on the table. “You’re in luck. We cleaned the cauldron this morn and the coffee is freshly brewed.”

  Evelyn looked to her bowl, doubting the taste would be any more palatable than before.

  “You have me addicted.” Mr. Dubois acted as if the woman had just placed a bowl of manna before him. “I cannot go a day without sampling your brew, ma chérie.”