For a moment he feared she might burst into tears, but then she lifted the thing off her head and put it on the desk. “It’s a wig. My hair is a mess.”
To his eye, the lovely blonde curls were far preferable. “Yer hair is beautiful, Lady Charlotte. Best not to cover it.”
The urge to sift his fingers through the mass of curls was overwhelming, but he feared it might offend her. He’d rarely seen a woman without a head covering, but did that mean they’d allow their hair to be touched?
She picked up the quill, twirled it between her fingers, then set it down again. “I’m not aware that Robert Stewart was married,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t.”
“How can we find out?”
He suspected two reasons lay behind her hesitation—she didn’t believe his story and genuinely didn’t know. But she was visibly intrigued, drumming her long fingers on the desk. “You said the man you spoke to in the cells was George Robertson?”
“Aye. He told me his clan pursued and captured the assassins.”
“Clan Robertson was indeed credited with tracking down the regicides, but as to the details…”
“George recommended me to his chieftain at Dunalastair, but I dinna ken where it is.”
Her beautiful green eyes brightened, lifting his spirits. “I do, but it’s a long way from here. The elderly Robertson chieftain fought with the Jacobites and may not have survived.”
This brought up a question that bothered him. “Tell me about the Jacobites,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “You truly don’t know?”
“Help me understand.”
IN A NUTSHELL
Braden had to be sure he’d understood. “Bonnie Prince Charlie is Charles Stuart, not a descendent of the same Stewarts of my day?”
Charlotte frowned. “Well, yes he is, from a junior branch of the line. They changed the spelling of their name to the French version.”
Braden scratched his scalp which seemed to be itchier by the minute. “Therefore he has the right to be king instead of the Hanoverian who’s king now.”
Charlotte made an unsuccessful attempt to tuck an errant curl behind her ear. “No. Charles Stuart is the son of James Stuart, half brother to Queen Anne who claimed the crown of Scotland when she died.”
Braden was still confused. “But ye told me Scotland and England combined into one kingdom.”
Charlotte got up from the stool and paced. “James the Sixth of Scotland became James the First of England when his cousin Elizabeth of England died.”
Braden’s mind rebelled. “I canna believe a woman ruled as Queen for so many years. Are ye sure that’s true? And she never married?”
Charlotte sat down again. “Oh yes. Elizabeth ruled with an iron hand, and in my opinion was a better monarch than many of the men who preceded her on the throne. However, as I told you, it was she decided the fate of Mary, Queen of Scotland, though the Scots had driven out the Catholic Mary eighteen years before her execution in Fifteen Eighty-Seven.”
“They beheaded an anointed Queen?” he asked, shaking his head.
Confusing as the history was, Braden admired Charlotte’s obvious intelligence. She had no hesitation expressing her opinions. It was refreshing. However the notion that many Scots now rejected the Catholic faith he espoused was difficult to swallow. He wasn’t sure what his opinion was of this Presbyterianism she spoke of. “And ye claim Elizabeth and Mary were cousins, yet Elizabeth had her beheaded?”
Charlotte put her elbows on the desk and rested her chin on her palms. “It’s complicated.”
His heart fell. She looked like an exasperated tutor trying to teach an awkward child. “I apologize I’m slow to digest all this.”
She smiled. “No. I don’t mind. It’s three hundred years of history you’re trying to comprehend.”
Hope flickered. Was she starting to believe him? “Let’s see if I understand then,” he said, holding up one finger. “Mary Queen of Scots had a son, James the Sixth of Scotland who was also James the First of England.”
“Right.”
He put up another finger. “Charles the First was his son, but he was executed by the Puritans.”
“Right.”
“’Tis a dangerous occupation, this kingship,” he quipped, sticking up a third finger. “Charles the Second was his son and he was restored to the throne, then lost it, then got it back.”
She grinned. “You were listening.”
Fourth finger. “Charles died without issue and his brother James became king, but he was driven out by the Protesters after three years.”
She clapped her hands together. “Protestants, but yes, now we’re getting to it.”
He stuck out his thumb. “William of Orange and his wife Mary were invited by the English Parliament to become joint monarchs because they were the grandchildren of Charles the First.”
“You’re amazing!”
He wanted to strut like a peacock. “Then Anne became Queen.” To his frustration, his memory failed. “What was her claim again?”
“She was a Stuart, the daughter of the James they kicked out.”
“Right.”
They laughed at the same time at this reversal of roles. Her bright smile fired his blood. “Then her half brother claimed the throne after her death, but it went to her cousin, the Hanoverian George, father of the George who is king now.”
She nodded vigorously. “Because the Protestants didn’t want a Catholic king.”
“So the half-brother, James, launched a rebellion in Seventeen Fifteen. It failed, and now thirty years later his son, Charles has failed again with his rebellion.”
“That’s it in a nutshell.” The grin disappeared from her face. “Except this time I fear the consequences for Scotland will be dire. The king’s brother, the Duke of Cumberland, believes any possibility of future rebellion should be stamped out. He’s bloody-minded. My uncle says there’ll be more widespread devastation and retribution than we’ve already seen.”
Braden thought of the wretches in the cells, but then it dawned on him what she’d said. “Yer uncle?”
Her face reddened. “You met him. The Duke.”
~~~
Charlotte sensed Braden had indeed not known of the complicated history of the Scottish monarchs. Her heart was starting to believe he’d travelled from the fifteen century, but her mind refused to accept it.
Retelling her country’s story had unsettled her. She was strongly on the government side, and was fully aware of the unsuitability of the wastrel Bonnie Prince, yet the Jacobites did have a legitimate claim to the throne.
Now she’d blurted out her identity. It was difficult to tell from Braden’s facial expression if he’d suspected her relationship to the Duke.
On top of that, she’d barely written a word. They’d spent hours in discussion, yet she knew little more about him. However, it had been stimulating. She was comfortable with him.
Her uncle had paraded many eligible young noblemen before her in the hopes of a good marriage, but she was more at ease with this rough diamond than with any of them. And nary a one had caused the peculiar sensations that crept up her thighs and into her womb when she raked her eyes over his braw body.
He’d a ready smile that sent hot and cold shivers up and down her spine, and he’d refrained from using the word Bollocks after her first look of indignation. Now she wished she hadn’t been so judgmental. It was a good word in that it conveyed exactly the speaker’s feelings. She couldn’t wait to see Augusta’s reaction when she blurted it out.
He’d mentioned his sister’s censure of the expression.
His sister. She’d forgotten his concerns. “Now you’re up to date, we must devise a way to find out about Margaret.”
His eyes lost their glow. “Aye. We must.”
She tapped her fingers against her chin. “The closest university is King’s College in Aberdeen, but that’s three days away, through territory where many fugitive Jacobites might b
e hiding.”
“Mayhap yer uncle will have a suggestion.”
She tried not to appear startled, but he wasn’t fooled.
“He isna aware ye’ve taken me under yer wing, is he?”
No point lying, Braden was too perceptive for that. “No, but perhaps it’s time to tell him.”
“Does he share yer interest in history?” he asked, locking his gaze with hers.
Had he guessed she was devising a plan to explain her rescue of Braden to her uncle? Did he sense she was hiding something?
She became nervous when he sauntered over to the desk and picked up the wig. “He’ll be angry. I should leave Inbhir Nis now. I dinna want to bring ye trouble.”
The prospect of losing him left her distraught. She grabbed the wig out of his hands and clamped it onto her head. “Nay. You’re not guilty of any crime, but it would be a punishment to cast you out now. Where would you go? You don’t know anyone in this cent—”
God help me, I do believe him.
She wondered if he smiled because he recognized her epiphany, or because the wig made her look ridiculous.
Of all the men in Scotland she was drawn to one who was more than three hundred years old—that was ridiculous, so she may as well look the part.
VESUVIUS ERUPTS
Charlotte hastened along the corridor to her uncle’s office, afraid she might be too late. Perhaps he’d already left for the midday meal. The wig teetered precariously, tempting her to toss the contraption to the floor.
She tapped on his door, relieved to hear his voice bid her enter.
His mouth fell open when he saw her.
The sergeant who served as his secretary rose too quickly, jostling his desk and causing the inkwell to clatter to the floor. He cursed under his breath as he fell to his knees to retrieve it. Black ink trickled out, staining his hands. He reached for paper to mop up the mess.
One of the two chained prisoners gaped at her wig, the other sniggered at the sergeant when he bumped his head on the desk. It dawned on her that the acrid odor filling the office emanated from the Jacobites. She thought of Braden who’d endured the stench of the cells. No wonder he feared he’d arrived in Hell.
She wrinkled her nose, toying briefly with the notion of offering the wig to the sergeant in lieu of a mop.
She’d come in search of her uncle’s favor, but had instead caused an embarrassing disruption. He scowled at her. “What is it?”
While she appreciated he hadn’t used her name in front of the prisoners, she didn’t recall him ever addressing her so abruptly. “My lord,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster. “I was hoping for a few minutes of your time.”
He drummed his fingers on his desk. “As you can see, I am rather busy. Can it not wait until luncheon?”
Since she wished to invite Braden to the midday meal, this wasn’t an option. “Er, no. It’s urgent.”
He let out an exasperated breath as he came to his feet. “Sergeant, escort these men back to the cells. We’ll deal with them this afternoon. And send a servant to clean up the ink.”
The black-fingered sergeant glowered at the prisoners who made no effort to conceal their amusement as he shoved them out into the corridor. She too was tempted to smile. The man was unaware he’d smudged ink across his nose.
The Duke stared at her as he regained his seat. “I might ask why you’re wearing a formal wig in the middle of the day, but it looks uncomfortable, not to mention slightly ridiculous. Why don’t you take it off and tell me what you want?”
The headache disappeared as soon as she lifted the thing off her head. He didn’t look pleased when she plopped it down on his polished desk. Lacing her fingers together, she decided to be forthright, or at least as forthright as circumstances allowed. It was imperative she not reveal her secret identity. “I wish to speak to you of Braden Ogilvie.”
He furrowed his brow. “Who is Braden Ogilvie?”
She recognised the moment he remembered. His frown deepened. “The prisoner from Oban?”
She inhaled deeply in an effort to calm the pulse leaping in her throat. “He’s no longer a prisoner. You found no guilt in him and ordered his release.”
His face reddened. “I sent him on his way.”
“I couldn’t allow that.”
She’d seen illustrations of Vesuvius erupting and feared steam and molten lava might pour forth from her uncle as he got to his feet. “What exactly do you mean by that, young lady?”
She swallowed hard, ignoring the discomfort of her fingernails digging into her flesh. “It would have been against the teachings of our Savior to cast out an innocent man with no means of sustenance and no proper clothing. He’d languished unjustly in your cells and didn’t deserve to suffer further.”
“Therefore you took it upon yourself to save him, a lunatic who claims to be three hundred years old?”
“He’s not a lunatic,” she murmured.
He pressed his knuckles to the desk and leaned forward. “And how would you know this?”
If she gripped the desk it would appear confrontational, but she desperately needed something to hold on to. It was vital her uncle approve of Braden, though she didn’t understand why he’d suddenly become much more important than providing fodder for a simple novel. Her eyes fixed on the slowly spreading pool of black ink. “I interviewed him. We had a long discussion on the topic of the Scottish monarchy, and I explained the Jacobites, and he’s very intelligent, and I—”
The Duke held up a restraining hand as he slumped into his chair, gazing at her in amazement. “Where did this interview take place?”
“I secured a chamber for him, and provided a bath and sent Daniel to shave—”
“My valet?” he shouted. “You instructed my valet to shave a prisoner, probably with my razor?”
“I must admit I didn’t give any thought—”
Vesuvius erupted. “Of course you didn’t, but then you rarely do,” he yelled, his face crimson. He dug his fingertips into his forehead. “I suppose it’s my fault. With no children of my own, I have no experience bringing up young women.”
Charlotte had long believed her handsome uncle would make a wonderful father. “One day you’ll marry, Uncle, and—”
His glower silenced her. “We are not discussing my future. It’s yours that’s at stake here, miss. You’ve spent time in this man’s chamber with only servants present.”
For the first time it struck Charlotte that she’d allowed the persona of Charles Tobias to influence her better judgement. She wasn’t a man, only masquerading as one with her nom de plume. “Actually,” she whimpered, “there were no servants for most of the morning.”
He leapt to his feet, buttoning his uniform. “I’ll have him arrested.”
“No,” she shrieked. “He’s done nothing wrong. I am solely to blame, and he was a perfect gentleman. Please, allow me to bring him to luncheon. You’ll see.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Gentleman or no, you’ve saddled yourself with him now, my lass. Your mother must be turning over in her grave.”
Charlotte wasn’t sure what he meant. Her clandestine publishing endeavors were more likely to cause her mother’s outrage beyond the pall. “Do I have your permission to bring him?”
He looked bleak. “Yes, but take that blasted wig off my desk, and do something with your hair before you appear in the Dining Hall.”
LUNCHEON
Braden paced the small chamber, fearing he was drowning again. He’d always had an eye for the lasses, and courted more than a few, but he’d never been swept away by need of a female before. He’d travelled three hundred years to meet a woman who fired his blood like no other. Charlotte had been gone less than an hour and already he craved her return.
He was afraid once the Duke got wind of his presence and what had transpired after his release, she’d never be allowed to see him again. The notion filled him with desolation, perhaps because she was the only person he could depend on in t
his century.
Nay, if he’d got the measure of Charlotte, she was too feisty to allow her uncle to dominate her, though mayhap she’d have no choice. He wondered what had become of her parents.
He went to the garderobe and inspected his appearance in the mirror in case the Duke allowed him to attend the midday meal. Luncheon she’d called it.
The red woollen doublet suited him and looked mighty fine with the frilled shirt. He was getting used to the trews, especially once he’d figured out the braies were meant to be worn beneath them. He chuckled. His bollocks nestled nicely in the silky material. The boots were certainly more comfortable than anything he’d ever worn.
Now if his hair would grow he’d look less like a new hatchling.
He hurried back into the chamber when he heard the door open. Resolved to tell Charlotte of his attraction to her, he stopped abruptly. She’d coiled her hair back into the tight round thing atop her head and changed her clothes. Her spine was rigid, her mouth drawn. He sensed her tension, perhaps because she wasn’t alone. Simone accompanied her.
Disappointment flooded him. Had she come to say goodbye? He attempted a smile. “Lady Charlotte.”
“Mister Ogilvie,” she replied stiffly, reaching for something the maid held in her hands. “We’ve brought a bonnet for you to wear to the luncheon.”
Relief surged through his veins. The Duke had given permission, but that didn’t mean he was pleased. Charlotte’s demeanor seemed to suggest she was upset. And the bonnet! Braden had expected a simple woolly tam.
At Simone’s urging he sat on the edge of the bed while she perched the stiff blue hat on his head. “Voilà,” she exclaimed. “Very ‘andsome.”
Charlotte shooed her away. “You do look rather splendid,” she cooed, fluttering her eyelashes in an uncharacteristic manner.
She’s jealous of the maid.
A spark of hope kindled in more than just his heart. “Am I to be allowed to accompany ye?”
“Aye,” she murmured. “But he’s not happy. However, I’m confident you’ll win him over.”
Highland Tides Page 5
