The Highland Earl

by Amy Jarecki

  Of course, he added all the proper apologies and stridently vowed that Evelyn would never again fall victim to such treachery and that the circumstances were a painful lesson for such a young, newly married noblewoman.

  When confident his plea would be accepted and he would be forgiven, John folded and sealed the parchment with a dollop of red wax, using the stamp from his signet ring.

  Sir Kennan entered. “Ah, my dueling partner.”

  “I must ask your forgiveness on that count.” John pushed his chair away from the writing table and stood. “It seems my life has been shattered for the second time within a year.” He hadn’t thought of Margaret as much in the past several weeks, but in this moment, he missed her terribly. Margaret never would have deceived him. Goodness, merely the thought of sneaking into the library to read John’s correspondence would have mortified his first wife.

  “Things cannot have been easy for you, I’ll say that for certain.” Sir Kennan offered his hand. “When my sister Janet cries, I always give her my shoulder. I’m sorry if I led you to believe something more was afoot.”

  John shook the captain’s hand. He needed allies, and if Cameron was extending an olive branch, he’d take it. “Honestly, when I saw you I didn’t ken what to believe.” He’d been hot with anger and ready to bring the man to blows. How could Evelyn have managed an affair? John was certain he’d kept her satisfied in the bedchamber, if nowhere else.

  “Well, I’m no saint, but I’ve never bedded another man’s wife. On that I will swear on penalty of death.”

  “Fair enough.” John held up the missive. “I need to dispatch this forthwith. When will we arrive in Edinburgh?”

  “That depends on the wind and the seas, but if everything proceeds as planned, I hope to moor alongside Leith by sundown on the morrow.”

  “Very well.”

  “I trust your letter will put an end to Argyll’s allegations.”

  “It ought to. The queen might not be the most beloved monarch Britain has ever seen, but she assesses people well. She kens Argyll to be a power-hungry buffoon.”

  “And I take it she thinks you to be a good man.”

  “I believe she does.” John rubbed the back of his neck and looked Sir Kennan in the eye. “Unlike so many of my countrymen.”

  Wisely, the captain held his gaze. “Lady Mar told me to give you a chance.”

  “I’m heartened to hear it.”

  Sir Kennan placed his spyglass on the table. “Your lads have made up pallets alongside my cabin boy’s on the lower deck.”

  “Thank you. I’d best find them.” John bowed and started for the door. “Lord save us, two days asea and they’ll be cursing like seasoned tars.”

  Chuckling, the captain cleared his throat. “May I ask you a question, m’lord?”

  “You may.”

  “You seem to ken a great deal about James’s plans.”

  “It has been my duty to ken all I can about the queen’s brother.”

  “I see, but when the time comes, whose side will you be on?”

  John opened the door then looked back, affecting a serious mien. “The right side.”

  Without another word, he made his way down the ladders and found his sons using their fingers to eat from bowls containing some ghastly-looking concoction. “What is that?”

  “Fish stew,” said Oliver, licking his thumb.

  Thomas inclined his head to a dirty-faced older lad. “Did you meet Runner? He’s two years older than Lady Phoebe and works on the ship—earns his own coin and everything.”

  “Runner?” John asked. “I had no idea that was a Christian name.”

  The lad was quite sturdy even for fourteen. “My real name is Baltazar, but the shipmates call me Runner on account of I do most of the running across decks—I run with missives when we’re ashore as well.”

  “You have a great deal of responsibility, then.” He also had the strangest name John had ever heard. Baltazar? No wonder the sailors gave him a moniker.

  “He does, and he’s an orphan—no parents at all,” said Oliver, holding the foul-smelling stew under John’s nose. “Would you like some, Da?”

  He’d rather eat straw. “You finish it.”

  Thomas held up a bit of rope. “This is a lark’s-head knot.”

  Oliver did the same. “And mine’s a double overhand.”

  John admired them both. “Fine work, men.”

  “I showed ’em how.” Runner pushed his bowl aside. “I’ve never met a real earl afore.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve had many opportunities to do so.”

  “You seem kinda stiff to me.”

  “I’d rather think of it as composed.”

  “You need to be polite and say ‘m’lord’ when you address my father,” said Thomas.

  John mussed the lad’s hair. “We ought to be able to dispense with such formalities when we’re eating fish stew with our fingers.” He spotted an open bale and started in spreading it beside the boys.

  “What are you doing?” asked Runner.

  “I’m fashioning a pallet alongside my lads.”

  “But aren’t you going to sleep with Countess?” asked Thomas.

  “I thought I’d sleep with you tonight—this being the first time you lads have camped below decks.”

  “I like it down here,” said Oliver.

  Thomas stood and nudged the straw with his toe. “Did you do something to upset her?”

  Bloody hell, my own sons have become mutineers.

  Oliver looked up, pulling two fingers out of his mouth. “If you did, you ought to apologize.”

  “I agree,” said Tom. “We do not want Countess to be mad at us.”

  John spread his cloak over the straw. “I assure you she isn’t mad at anyone.” Aside from herself—and she bloody well ought to be.

  When the stew had been eaten and the lads had fallen asleep, John stared up at the timbers above. The ship creaked and swayed, tacking its way northward. Aside from Margaret’s death, this had been the worst day of his life. Clan and kin meant everything to him—more than his country, more than his duties to the crown. That his own wife would betray him stretched the limits of his tolerance.

  Damnation, he’d entered into the marriage with Evelyn because she was the daughter of a duke. A bloody English duke. As such, John had assumed she would be properly schooled and fit to be his wife.

  After all these years at court, I’m still too trusting.

  Aye, he’d witnessed enough deception and skullduggery to turn any man sour. He’d been propositioned with bribes. He’d been betrayed. And for some godforsaken reason, his own countrymen had labeled him with the name Bobbin’ John.

  Worse, if what Evelyn had said was true, he’d misjudged Hull. No wonder the man was wealthier than the queen.

  Sighing, John draped his arm over his eyes.

  What am I to do with her now?

  To that question, he had no answer.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Evelyn gripped the back of the chair and stared at the locked door while Lucinda tied her stays. A sennight had passed since they’d arrived at Alloa Tower and she’d barely seen her husband. After depositing her in her chamber, Mar had walked through their adjoining door, shut it, and then the bolt had creaked as if it hadn’t been used in a century.

  Worse, the door continued to remain locked. The only time Evelyn saw John was at evening meals with the children. And while he seemed content to engage the boys in conversation, he responded to her in monosyllables.

  Thank heavens the servants from London had arrived yesterday with Brutus in tow. “Don’t you think, my lady?” Lucinda asked. Ever since the lady’s maid had arrived, she’d prattled on about her adventure.

  “Think about what?” Evelyn asked, grunting with the maid’s next tug on the strings.

  “I was saying that everyone ought to travel by ship—it is ever so fast.”

  “I suppose that depends on whether the sea is nearby. And you
must not forget a great many ships are lost—along with their cargo and passengers.”

  “Mr. MacVie says the earl always takes them to London on a transport and there’s never been a mishap.”

  “MacVie?” Evelyn glanced over her shoulder. “Are you still interested in His Lordship’s valet?”

  “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t…and I know ’tis not proper to speak of such things—but he kissed me on the deck at sunset.” Lucinda sighed, her hands stilling while the stays slackened.

  Evelyn stole a deep breath. “Might I suggest you maintain your focus whilst you’re swooning about your kiss. Now you’ll have to retighten the laces.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “Not to worry.” Though her heart was twisted in a knot, Evelyn smiled. “I’m happy for you, my dear.”

  Lucinda tugged, making Evelyn’s breath whoosh. “Is something amiss, my lady?”

  Groaning, she tightened her grip on the chair. She’d endured the past week without anyone to talk to. In fact, it felt as if her lady’s maid might be Evelyn’s only ally between Alloa and Nottingham. “Mar is angry with me.”

  “Angry? Who could remain angry with you for long? You are the kindest gentlewoman I know.”

  “Believe me, I’ve given him cause.”

  Lucinda tied the strings and gave her work a pat. “There was a great deal of talk among the servants.”

  Evelyn straightened and arched her back to gain some breathing room. “I suppose they all hate me.”

  “I don’t think so, but everyone’s gossiping about what they think happened.”

  “What are they saying?”

  Lucinda collected a maroon overskirt, pulled it over Evelyn’s head, and tied it in place. “That we were forced to leave London because of something you did—and everyone has their ideas on what that might be.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “And now we’ve arrived, come to find Mar’s army patrolling the grounds around the clock with lookouts posted at the four corners atop the tower.”

  “I know.”

  “What is this about?” Lucinda asked, holding up the matching bodice. “Are we in danger?”

  Evelyn slid her arms into the sleeves, then turned her back for lacing. “I know one thing: We’re far safer here than we were in London.”

  “But what happened?”

  “I trusted someone I shouldn’t. Remember my walks with Brutus?”

  “Of course I do.” Lucinda tucked the bodice’s laces into the skirt. “Did it have something to do with the coffeehouse?”

  “Not the Copper Cauldron itself, but a person who’d lured me into his traitorous scheme. I thought I was taking action to support the Jacobite cause and help fight for better lives for our countrymen and women, but I was playing into the hands of a tyrant planning France’s invasion of England.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. And it is all my fault.”

  “Oh, how awful. But surely you cannot be blamed when your actions were meant to be good.”

  “If only that were the case.” Sighing, Evelyn dropped to the settee. “But Mar refuses to talk to me. I know he’s written to the queen requesting clemency, but my husband will never trust me again. My marriage is over.”

  “Oh dear, surely his anger will pass, my lady.” Lucinda kneeled alongside her. “Once he gains the queen’s pardon, you’ll be able to put all this behind you and I’ll wager he will do so, too.”

  Evelyn took the maid’s hand and gave it a pat.

  But Lucinda chuckled—quite unfeeling of her.

  “My life has fallen to pieces and you laugh?”

  “I just remember how reluctant you were to marry His Lordship.”

  Glancing away, Evelyn scraped her teeth over her lip. “True, and now I would do most anything to win him back.”

  “Have you thought of what that might be?”

  An idea suddenly popped into Evelyn’s head. For the first time since she and John fled the Copper Cauldron, the weight crushing her chest eased. Standing, she pulled Lucinda to her feet and squeezed her hands. “Now I know why you’re so dear to me, my pet. I think you may have touched on something brilliant.”

  Seated at his writing table in his private library where family records were kept dating back seventeen generations, John sorted through his most recent correspondence, irritated to see a plethora of bills and invitations to weddings, balls, recitals, and Lord knew what else. But there wasn’t a single missive from any of his friends in London. Even Hull hadn’t written.

  Though it had only been eight days, he expected someone to write. And there he sat like a medieval knight in a tower waiting for his enemy to make the first move.

  Blast Argyll and blast Evelyn. It drove John insane to have her living in the chamber beside his. Perfume wafted from beneath her door. Soft, feminine voices carried though the timbers when Her Ladyship was conversing with her maid—her voice oft strained and higher in pitch than usual. He could hear the water trickle when she was in the bath, imagining her fair skin exposed and glistening with droplets reflecting the firelight. He fought his urges to go to her—to gather her in his arms and tell her all would be well. Damn it, everything he’d worked his entire life to preserve was under threat because of her. But sleeping just beyond her door proved enough to drive him to the brink of madness.

  The door to the servants’ entrance opened. “I brought your tea service, my lord.”

  John didn’t bother looking up from his reading. “Set it on the table.”

  “Straightaway.” Light footsteps brushed the woolen carpet. “Shall I pour for you?”

  With a jolt of his heart, John paused his reading. The maid clearly had an English accent, and furthermore, she sounded…He looked up. “Why in all of Jehovah are you bringing in the tea service?”

  Evelyn’s smile reflected a bit of insecurity. “Would you like it on your writing table or on the pedestal table by the fire?”

  John slapped the invitation he’d been reading on the table. “If you were a servant, you would ken where I take my tea.”

  “Forgive me.” The cup and saucer rattled as she set the tray beside him, nearly knocking over a stack of correspondence ready to be dispatched.

  As she bent over and poured, John caught himself staring at her neckline. Good God, he’d missed those creamy breasts.

  She straightened and spooned in a bit of sugar—a half of a teaspoon, just how he liked it. “I’ve arranged to have the lads measured for new suits of clothes.”

  He opened his ledger and feigned interest in his factor’s entries. “Do as you will.”

  Moving beside him, Evelyn placed the cup at his elbow along with two oatcakes. Must she smell like a vat of simmering lilacs in summer? “Thank you, my lord.” She shook out a serviette and placed it on his lap, her breasts practically spilling out of her bodice.

  John shifted in his seat and growled for good measure. “You are not a bloody serving maid, and I will not have you acting as one.”

  “But I pour the tea all the time.”

  “Pouring tea and bringing in the service are two entirely different things.” John grabbed the serviette from his lap and threw it onto the table. “Furthermore, you are a matron and ought to be wearing a privacy panel over your bosom. Those breasts are too distracting for any man to ignore.”

  A hint of a smile flashed across her lips, but it disappeared before John could be sure. “Interesting, I’d never thought of my chest as a distraction.”

  Glowering, John jammed the spoon into the sugar bowl and added a heaping serving to his tea, just to spite her.

  “Have you thought about Eton?” she asked, moving a bowl of jam beside the oatcakes. “Thomas is at an age—”

  Ah ha! Now there was something with which John could spar. “Are you suggesting I send my sons away when Mrs. Kerr is doing a fine job managing their education?”

  Evelyn took a step back and folded her hands. “I said no such thing. I’m simply posing the questio
n since so many well-born boys near Nottingham spoke fondly of the alliances they made at the school.”

  “I did not attend Eton. I was educated at home—learned to manage the estate as Thomas will do.”

  She curtsied. “Of course, my lord.”

  “Is there anything else about the rearing of my sons you feel you need to discuss?”

  “Oliver wants a pony like his older brother.”

  “Aye, he does. He wants everything his older brother has, and he will receive his pony on his next birthday—Thomas was the same age. I will not favor one lad over the other.” He picked up an oatcake and pointed it at her. “They are my sons and I will decide upon every facet of their education, including when they will learn to ride a pony, when they will receive their first full-sized horse, and when they will learn to drive a team. Is that clear?”

  Evelyn stared at him for a long pause, her head held high, her turquoise eyes glistening and sharp as an eagle’s. Composed as a queen, she’d affected a façade of indifference, clearly hiding the hurt from his callous berating. “Perfectly,” she finally said, dropping into a deep curtsy before she hastened out the door.

  John threw the crusty oatcake onto the plate. Fie, he’d handled his wife’s inquiries like a sore-headed beast. But blast her for coming into his private rooms when he was tending to correspondence. The last place he wanted her was anywhere near his writings. And why had she brought the tea, anyway? Did she not realize being in her presence was nothing short of torture?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Evelyn found her straw gardening bonnet in her withdrawing room and moved to the full-length mirror to put it on.

  “Oh, I didn’t expect to see you here, my lady,” said Lucinda as she came in, her arms laden with bed linens. “Do you need some help with that?”

  Tying the ribbons beneath her chin, Evelyn glanced at her lady’s maid in the mirror. “I can manage, thank you.”

  The maid pulled back the bed’s coverlet and tugged away the linens. “How did His Lordship react to his tea service this morning?”