Highland Jewel (The House of Pendray Book 3)

by Anna Markland

  Hannah Kincaid dabbed her eyes with a kerchief. “Just like when Munro came home from England.” She tousled Gray’s hair. “Goodness knows what this one will get up to when he eventually leaves Kilmer.”

  “What makes ye think I’ll ever leave?” Gray asked.

  “He’ll be fine,” Jewel replied. “Ye proved to be a good traveling companion, brother. And a brave one. Ye helped rescue me and Faith.”

  Predictably, he blushed at the praise. “Aye, now it seems I’m Faith’s hero.”

  Jewel smiled but then realized she’d been remiss. “Where is Sarah?”

  “Mother and babe are resting,” her mother replied. “Marten Addison is two days old and both are well.”

  “I canna wait to see him,” she replied, but didn’t reveal she wanted to talk to Sarah about childbearing. She had a feeling Garnet had already planted a babe in her womb.

  She noticed Munro’s foster sons standing off to the side, frowning as they watched the approach of a bevy of girls. “They’re good lasses,” she told them, giving each a hug, “but they’ve been through a lot. Gray only rescued Faith from a rather unpleasant employer the day before we left.”

  “Aye,” Giles replied. “Dinna fash, Miss Jewel. We understand.”

  “Ye mean Mrs. Barclay,” Luke admonished his foster brother. “Have they nay brothers?”

  Jewel marveled that after less than a year living in Scotland the English lads sounded like they’d been born in Ayrshire, though there was a trace of a Welsh twang as well. Resisting the temptation to tease, she replied, “Nay. So ye’ll be good for each other.”

  “Whose dog?” Giles asked.

  “I forgot he followed me,” Jewel exclaimed. “His name is Plato. He belongs to Maggie.”

  “Which is she?”

  “The redhead,” Jewel replied, chuckling inwardly, certain the lads would have their hands full with the minx.

  When her gaze settled on the broad-shouldered Highlander walking with Munro and the girls, her heart swelled with love. Garnet was a precious find indeed.

  She took his hand and proudly introduced him to her parents.

  Walking across the meadow, Garnet tried to convince himself every new husband was probably nervous about meeting his wife’s parents for the first time. And the Pendrays were titled.

  Munro’s enthusiastic greeting had bolstered his courage, but he wasn’t looking forward to explaining Jewel’s abduction had come about because of his carelessness.

  He saw immediately where Jewel had inherited her red hair when Morgan Pendray shook his hand with a bone-crushing grip and embraced him with a hearty slap on the back.

  “Thank you for bringing my daughter home,” Pendray said hoarsely.

  “My lord,” Garnet replied.

  “Morgan,” his father-by-marriage insisted. “I prefer it to my lord.”

  “And I’m Hannah,” Jewel’s mother said, standing on tiptoe to give him a hug. “We’re very happy our daughter has found the right man.”

  He wasn’t sure how they knew that since they’d only just met him, but he smiled in reply. “She’s precious to me.”

  Murtagh had been standing nearby, watching. “Barclay’s a genuine Highlander—honest, loyal and true,” he declared.

  Pendray arched a brow. “High praise, indeed, from my blacksmithing friend.”

  It was clear the two men knew each other well. Garnet had learned some of their history from Jewel. They were comrades who’d endured hardships together. He was happy for his mother, but wondered how the earl would feel when Murtagh told him he planned to leave for Blairgowrie.

  Munro joined them and deposited Maggie on the grass. She immediately ran off after Plato. “She’s a chatterbox,” Munro said with a grin.

  Soon, four Cameron lasses and two English lads Garnet had yet to meet were chasing the puppy along the front of the manor house.

  Garnet relaxed his shoulders as his wife linked arms with him and pressed her breast against his bicep. “’Twill be all right,” she whispered.

  Peace filled his heart as he looked out over the meadow, then at his wife’s happy face. “I ken,” he replied.

  That night, Jewel kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the bed fully clothed. Garnet closed the door of their chamber and joined her. She reached for his hand as they lay staring up at the ceiling.

  “Welcome to Kilmer,” she sighed. “I’m exhausted.”

  “As am I,” he replied, lifting her hand to his lips. “But things will get better.”

  “I hope so. I suppose ’twas to be expected the lasses would be over excited about their new chamber. Getting four bairns to bed after they’ve consumed the biggest meal they’ve likely ever had…” she yawned. “I think we’ll need more servants.”

  “Aye, my lady,” he quipped, gathering her into his arms.

  “And Faith is still treating Gray like a conquering hero.”

  Garnet chuckled. “I think he was a wee bit embarrassed by her blushing adulation all the way here.”

  Searching for the Cameron girls had consumed many hours each day and they’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms every night. In the cramped conditions of the house they shared with the Guthries, then on the road, there’d been no opportunity for intimacy. She cuddled into his chest, inhaling the healthy male scent that was uniquely Garnet. “I’ve missed ye.”

  He kissed her curls. “Are ye too tired to christen our matrimonial bed?”

  “Nay, but are ye sure ye want to settle in Kilmer?”

  “Aye,” he replied. “I feel at home here already. Munro and I discussed some of his very ambitious ideas. I’d like to be part of it.”

  “I love ye,” she said. “Take off yer clothes.”

  Despite their fatigue, they soon lay naked together. She opened her mouth, inviting his kiss, but he reached for a small box on the chest next to the bed and offered it. “For ye…and me, I suppose.”

  Puzzled, she accepted the box with trembling hands, sat up and pulled off the ribbon. Inside, lay two beautiful emerald pendants nestled in velvet.

  He removed both and held the stones together. “Herriot pointed out a natural flaw in one of our emeralds. When he cut and polished it, the two halves formed…”

  “…A heart,” she whispered as he fastened one of the pendants around her neck. The cold stone nestled in her cleavage, heating her body.

  “Perfect,” he breathed. “I didna have a ring to give ye when we hand-fasted, and I thought of having Herriot make one for ye. But then I remembered how beautiful ye looked with emeralds cascading off yer breasts, and I decided…”

  Unable to wait any longer, she kissed him into silence, sucking his tongue into her mouth, wanting him to savor the love she bore him. He didn’t resist when she pushed him down onto the bed and straddled him. Coming up on her knees, she slowly lowered herself until his manhood was sheathed to the hilt inside her, where he belonged.

  “I take it ye like the wee trinket,” he quipped with the smile that always sent winged creatures fluttering in her belly.

  She removed the second pendant from the box and fastened it around his neck. The emerald twinkled in the soft black curls of his chest. “Aye, my precious beloved,” she replied. “I’ll treasure it always.”

  He put his hands on her hips, inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. “Ride me to heaven, my Jewel,” he rasped.

  She was more than happy to oblige.

  Just in case you missed Books One and Two of the series, Highland Betrayal, and Kingslayer’s Daughter, you can click on the links. Here’s an excerpt from HIGHLAND BETRAYAL.

  Captain Morgan Pendray took up his usual post on the winding path that eventually led to the fortress gates. Once he’d given the order to load he preferred not to stand too close to the cannon. It had proven impossible to shake from his memory the tale told him as a lad by his Welsh grannie about a Scottish king blown to bits when his favorite Mons Meg exploded next to him.

  It made no difference that the saker can
non was a vast improvement on the bombard that had severed King James’s legs nigh on two hundred years before.

  The boom of the explosive charge was intolerably loud in any case, and he wouldn’t be surprised if eventually his hearing became impaired. Better to leave the cannon to the gunners. They were used to it. Most of them were losing their hearing and sometimes didn’t hear his command to Fire. He hadn’t reported their impairment, aware that doing so would result in dismissal. Even their uniforms would be confiscated. A bleak future awaited English lads stranded in the wilds of Scotland. They repaid his silence with unswerving loyalty. The youngest gunner was trained to keep a keen eye out for the exaggerated arm movement he made when he barked the order. Smythe was a willing lad who also served as his batman.

  He’d grown supremely bored in the ten long days since he and his gunnery crew had arrived to bring about a speedy end to the siege. Cromwell was becoming increasingly impatient. Morgan privately thought the Protector’s obsession with the destruction of the Scottish crown jewels somewhat indecent. Provisioning an army fighting far from London was expensive and there was widespread opposition in England to already high taxes imposed to finance the Dutch War.

  The nerve-wracking experience of transporting artillery, gunpowder and ammunition from Edinburgh to Dùn Fhoithear had necessitated changing the team of six horses every hour in the rocky terrain. The last stretch up the steep path to get within range had resulted in the loss of two valuable steeds, shot when their legs became entangled in the wheel spokes. The small garrison would have capitulated eventually, but now the proud old castle would be left in ruins, its defenders torn to shreds.

  The tedious days consisted of repeating the same orders over and over under the watchful eye of General Abbott. Morgan’s presence was in truth superfluous, though he hoped the notion never dawned on his commanding officer. The gunners could likely load and fire the cannon in their sleep. The castle wasn’t a moving target. Once he’d calculated the angle of trajectory, and used the trunnions to raise or lower the barrel, the scything down of walls and men was relatively easy. Not that the brutality sat well in his gut. War was a ghastly business, but what was a landless Welsh nobleman to do in order to make his way in the world, especially with his wife dead and gone.

  He supposed he should be grateful his older brother had obtained a commission for him. Aneurin had inherited the small family estate and was glad to see the back of him, but at least he wasn’t destined to be cannon fodder in Cromwell’s infantry. There was a faint hope his service would lead to some reward from the Protector and his parliament—if he gave a good account of himself. A man could only tolerate so many taunts from fellow junior officers about a Welshman fighting in Scotland for an English army.

  When the latest round of shot chewed into the wall, he deliberately averted his gaze from the cloud of yellow dust to the distant cliff path. He narrowed his eyes against the late afternoon sun, startled by the unexpected sight of a raven-haired lass struggling up the steep slope from the beach. She was bent double under the weight of a basket she carried on her back. The checkered shawl most women wore around their shoulders was tied around her hips.

  She paused at the top, slid the basket straps from her shoulders, straightened and stretched to touch the sky. It was a vision of innocent beauty amid the sickening slaughter. He sucked in a breath as the sight of her proud breasts and shapely figure stirred the interest of his tarse. In a trice she evoked wants and needs he thought grief had drained out of him.

  He was tempted to rush over and offer his help when she crouched to lift the basket back onto her shoulders, but that was out of the question.

  She’d likely taken advantage of the unusually warm weather to minimize the risk of injury on the rocky shore. He wondered idly what there was to collect on such an inhospitable beach. Seaweed mayhap?

  He thought the lass was barefoot. He was too far away to tell properly, but most of the folk in nearby villages seemed to have no footwear.

  His mind wandered. Surely they didn’t go barefoot in winter? What would they use seaweed for? Was it the girl’s flowing black hair that had caused the inconvenient arousal that swelled despite the notion tugging in the back of his mind that she was probably a camp follower. A laundress, mayhap, or a cook, or—his gut clenched—more likely a whore.

  Shouts penetrated his reverie and drew her attention to him. The gunners had reloaded. Still fixated on the girl, he slowly raised his arm. She stared back, a stunning silhouette against the backdrop of the sea—a scene an artist might capture on canvas. For a moment he was afraid she might think he was waving, but she looked away and hurried off on the path to the south.

  He thought it curious since Stonehyve lay a half hour walk to the north and Dunnottar an even greater distance to the west. If she was a camp-follower she was headed in entirely the wrong direction. He avoided the civilian encampment at the base of the hill, having seen enough of them to know they were controlled by unscrupulous sutlers. Soldiers’ wives and children often lived in wretched conditions with barely enough food to survive. This one had burgeoned into a sprawling conglomeration of tents and wagons over the eight months of the siege. Morgan preferred to rely on Smythe to deliver his laundry and procure any provisions he needed.

  He risked a glance at the gunnery crew, but it was unlikely they could see the girl from their position, and they seemed to have noticed nothing untoward. Only the lad watched him expectantly, waiting for his signal to unleash mayhem.

  And a wee taste of KINGSLAYER’S DAUGHTER.

  As soon as Sarah recognized the man tapping on the small glass pane in the door of her apothecary shop, she knew the Reverend Henry Grove had come bearing bad news. He was aware the shop was closed, having presided over her husband’s funeral just two weeks prior. The Guild would not give permission for the business to reopen until she took on an apprentice.

  With Reginald dead and gone, Henry Grove was the only man in Birmingham who knew the secret of Sarah’s parentage. He’d required the information in order to perform the marriage ceremony that had bound her to a man twenty years her senior.

  “Herbal tea?” she asked after unlocking the door.

  He nodded. “Something calming. You’ll need it.”

  She turned the key in the lock and led the way upstairs to the room where she’d lived with Reginald North for five long years. “The kettle’s on the hob,” she said.

  A few minutes later, she removed her linen apron, smoothed down her grey wool skirts, straightened her waistcoat and took a seat across from him at the scarred wooden table. The clergyman sipped his steaming camomile tea. She feared her trembling hands might drop the chipped cup, so she let it sit. “I’ll wait for it to cool,” she murmured. “Is it about my father?”

  She couldn’t think of any other reason for his presence. The Norths weren’t part of the flock of St. Martin’s, though the church was a scant two-minute walk from the shop. She’d never completely understood why she’d asked Grove to keep in touch with the monks at St. Mary’s Priory in Chepstow.

  “Marten’s dead, child,” he replied. “His torment is over.”

  She supposed torment was as good a word as any for a sentence of life imprisonment. A vague sense of relieved sadness settled in her heart.

  “I didn’t know him,” she said in an effort to explain her lack of outward emotion. “I was born in Oxford three years before my father was sent to the Tower to await trial. Five months after that, he was sentenced to exile on Holy Island; Northumbria was too far away for my mother to travel with an infant and her two siblings.”

  Grove sipped his tea, showing no sign of impatience that she was repeating things he likely already knew.

  “Henry Marten never set eyes on me again until five years later when he was moved to a cell in Windsor Castle. It was closer to Oxford and my mother bribed a guard to allow a short visit—of which I have no memory.

  “Three years later, King Charles II decided Windsor was too close t
o his own living quarters for comfort. My father was moved to Chepstow Castle.”

  “And your mother went to live with him in his apartments there.”

  She smiled at the cleric. “You’re an unusual priest. You’ve never once uttered a word of condemnation about my parents’ adulterous relationship.”

  Grove shrugged. “Let he who is without sin…When you look back, don’t you admire their commitment to each other, despite the difficulties they faced?”

  Sarah scoffed. “My father was unhappily wed to someone else. An adulterer as well as a traitor. But their commitment, as you call it, is the only way to explain why my mother abandoned us when she moved to Chepstow.”

  “Well, she had no income, and three little girls to provide for. Perhaps she thought she was doing the right thing, leaving you in the care of Mrs. Flamsteed.”

  Sarah nestled her hands around the warm cup and stared at the bits of camomile floating in the tea, remembering. “Peggy and Henrietta were placed in service to two noble households. I was young enough to be sent to the Blue Coat School in Greenwich.”

  “Ah, yes. A marvelous endeavor founded by Mrs. Flamsteed for girls whose families had fallen on hard times,” Grove enthused. “If only there were more kind-hearted souls in the world like her.”

  “I suppose a life sentence for treason qualified as hard times,” Sarah retorted.

  “Now, now,” he chided. “At school you learned about God and were encouraged to have a great horror of vice and a great love of virtue.”

  “The irony of that strikes me now I’m an adult,” she confessed. “Though I didn’t know the full gravity of my parents’ sins at the time.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, until Grove finished his tea. “You haven’t asked about your mother.”

  A chill crept up Sarah’s nape. “No.”

  “The monks report she has nowhere to live. She’s destitute.”