Highland Tides

by Anna Markland

  The spark caught fire. It sounded like he’d succeeded in winning her over.

  ~~~

  As Charlotte expected, her uncle looked far from pleased when she entered the dining hall on Braden’s arm. It was of some satisfaction, however, that his anger seemed tempered by a hint of surprise. Her braw Highlander now looked far different from the last time the Duke had set eyes on him. She’d at first been hesitant to accept his arm when he proffered it, fearing he might turn out to be some imaginary being. But his muscles were like iron and she relished his strength.

  In a clipped voice her uncle bade them sit, then took his place at the head of the table.

  Braden pulled out her chair, and then did the same for her sister.

  She’d forgotten Augusta would be present. Predictably, she ogled Braden, holding out her gloved hand. “Augusta Tremayne,” she gushed before she took her seat beside Charlotte. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  Braden gaped at her, evidently missing her meaning. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of the Duke’s mouth.

  “May I introduce a friend,” Charlotte said to her sister. “Braden Ogilvie.”

  To her relief he understood the sharp glance she directed at his bonnet. He hastily removed it, clutching it to his chest before kissing Augusta’s hand.

  “Charmed,” her sister replied in a sultry voice, her eyes widening at the sight of his shaved head. “Where have you been hiding this handsome friend, Charlotte?”

  The Duke cleared his throat. “We’ll say grace.”

  Braden took the chair across from Charlotte, bowed his head and made the sign of the Savior’s cross, his eyes tightly closed while her uncle intoned his favorite prayer of thanks.

  Augusta eyed him curiously, obviously wondering what a Papist was doing in their midst.

  Charlotte was suddenly too hot. She would have to educate her protege on religious matters, but she relaxed as servants brought the soup, sliced cold meats, wine and bread.

  Braden looked relieved when a maid took his bonnet.

  At first she found the attention Augusta paid to their guest rather amusing. The silly woman would have run a mile in the opposite direction if she’d set eyes on him when he emerged from the cells.

  But soon the false tinkling laughter became irritating. And did her sibling have to make her eyes overly round when she spoke to him?

  Had her uncle noticed how Braden followed her lead with the utensils? If she suddenly had to share a meal with people three hundred years in the future, she’d be a nervous wreck, yet he seemed to be taking it in stride, smiling politely in response to Augusta’s endless chatter. She took comfort in recognizing that, in contrast, the smiles he occasionally bestowed on her seemed genuine.

  As the soup bowls were being cleared away, the Duke broke his silence. “We must speak of the future, Ogilvie.”

  She was probably the only person to notice a slight tic worry Braden’s right eye. She understood. The past was more important to him.

  He shifted his weight in the chair. “Ye’re right, my lord Duke, the future is of concern, and I thank ye for welcoming a stranger to yer table. ’Tis true Highland hospitality.”

  Augusta gaped, evidently as enthralled as she by the deep sincerity in his husky voice.

  The Duke frowned. She understood his reaction too. Braden’s life had depended on their last interview.

  “However, as ye can imagine, there are things from the past I need to know before I can look to the future.”

  Augusta’s fork clattered to the plate, then somersaulted to the floor. She blushed, mumbling an apology. A servant discreetly fetched a replacement.

  “What things specifically?” the Duke asked.

  “I must find out what happened in the aftermath of the assassination of James Stewart.” He glanced at Charlotte. “It has a bearing on my family.”

  Augusta’s eyes darted to her uncle, to Braden, to Charlotte then back to the Duke. “I haven’t a clue what’s going on,” she complained. “Who on earth cares what happened hundreds of years ago?”

  Charlotte was enjoying her sister’s consternation, but had to admit relief when her uncle came to the rescue. “These are important matters, Augusta. If you have nothing constructive to contribute, you may as well leave.”

  “But I haven’t had my liqueur yet,” she whined.

  “Then please sit quietly,” he retorted.

  “Charlotte tells me the closest university is in Aberdeen,” Braden said.

  The Duke waved his hand. “That’s too far in these dangerous times. Besides, I’ve a man temporarily billeted with his troops near here who probably knows more than most about those days. He’s a Robertson, but fought with us against the Jacobites.”

  Braden frowned. “Then clans weren’t united in the side they supported? George Robertson told me some of the story.”

  “He saved your life, young man, by vouching for you. And yes, sons fought against fathers.”

  Augusta came to her feet, throwing her napkin to the table. “I don’t understand a word of this conversation. Have my Vespetrò sent to the solar.”

  She stomped out, nose in the air.

  “I regret causing any upset,” Braden said.

  The Duke smiled. “Don’t be concerned for Augusta.” He winked at Charlotte. “She thrives on tantrums. I’ll send word to John Reade to join us for dinner.”

  “You said his name was Robertson,” Charlotte said.

  “It was. He changed it to Reade in honor of an ancestor who was a chieftain.”

  THE VISION

  Several hours later everyone assembled around the same table where they’d eaten luncheon, except it had somehow been made larger, and they had a guest. Braden was impressed with eighteenth century furniture. The woods were rich and dark, the upholstery thick and comfortable. Every table and chair was embellished with ornate gilt work or carvings.

  As dinner progressed, John Reade’s perusal made him uneasy, but he had a suspicion anyone who fell under the man’s keen eye would feel uncomfortable.

  Their guest wore a uniform similar to the Duke’s, and his grey hair was styled the same way. Braden had learned from Charlotte that it was a wig her uncle wore.

  Men and women of this century seemed fascinated with wigs. Charlotte had donned the peculiar powdered contraption she’d worn earlier. Incredibly, two ornamental birds now clung to it, one blue, the other pink.

  Given the grey wig, it was difficult to guess John Reade’s age. According to Charlotte, he’d commanded a regiment during the uprising, but it transpired his father had also taken an active part in the fighting. He couldn’t be more than a score and ten.

  The talk initially was of the man’s keen interest in music. He was a composer and played the flute.

  That reminded Braden of something he’d been told as a youth. “They say King James Stewart, er James the First, was a fine musician. He too played the flute, drum, organ and lyre.”

  Charlotte shot him a worried glance, but John Reade was evidently interested. “That’s true. He composed a poem for Queen Joan that’s considered one of the finest medieval love poems ever written. And he was a keen sportsman. He enjoyed wrestling, archery, hammer throwing and jousting.”

  It was curious a man of the eighteenth century knew more about his monarch than he did, and what was this medi evil? However, since their guest hadn’t been informed of Braden’s claim to be from the fifteenth century, he didn’t remark on it. He hoped talk would turn now to the assassination, but instead the rebellion became the topic of conversation.

  Braden was grateful for Charlotte’s tuition. The Duke hinted John Reade had been responsible for the capture of a Jacobite ship bringing gold to finance the rebel army, but their guest waved off the suggestion with a modest smile. “My men and I did take some small part.”

  The Duke scoffed. “Don’t be modest, John. Your actions cost the Jacobites dearly and probably led to their defeat at Culloden.”

  Augusta pouted,
fluttering her eyelashes at Reade. “I’m bored with this talk of Culloden. We never speak of anything else.”

  While Braden appreciated war wasn’t a topic of interest to women, there was a question burning at the back of his mind. “I hope ye dinna mind me asking,” he said. “Ye are a Robertson, and most of the clan fought for the Jacobites yet ye fought on the government side.”

  Reade narrowed his eyes and dug a finger into the cloth wound around his neck. Braden had learned they were called stocks. He got a feeling from the man’s reddening face it wasn’t the first time he’d been asked the same question.

  “A man has to follow his conscience,” John replied. “I’m a Protestant and didn’t want a Papist king ruling my country. Charles Stuart is a dissolute young man who wouldn’t have made a good king.”

  Charlotte eyed Braden with a look of warning, but he seized the opportunity. “I suppose the regicides who did away with James Stewart thought he wasna a good king at the time.”

  John Reade loosened his neckcloth further. Braden wondered why men wore such a thing that seemed to make their faces rounder and redder than was natural. “You evidently have a keen interest in the history of that time.”

  Charlotte cleared her throat. “He does, my lord John. He’s particularly interested in an ancestor who might have been involved.”

  He arched a brow. “Indeed. What’s the fellow’s name?”

  Braden swallowed hard. “’Tis a woman. Margaret Ogilvie.”

  John hesitated, then a bright smile lit his face as he leaned forward. “Margaret! Are ye kin to those Ogilvies?”

  Mayhap he is a Scot.

  Braden’s heart was beating too fast. “Aye,” he rasped.

  Their guest raised his wineglass. “We must be distantly related, young man. Margaret was my four or five times removed great-grandmother.”

  ~~~

  Charlotte gasped. “A direct ancestor,” she exclaimed, rejoicing at the amazement evident on Braden’s face.

  Augusta yawned ostentatiously. “The next course is taking too long to arrive,” she complained.

  No one paid her any attention. Charlotte hoped her wig looked more elegant than her sister’s tottering beehive.

  Braden had been understandably taken aback at John Reade’s revelation, but he recovered quickly. “I take it then she didna wed Robert Stewart.”

  John took a gulp of his wine, obviously enjoying this unexpected turn of events. “Nay, laddie. She married Rheade Robertson, who became chief after the capture of the regicides. I changed my name in his honor.”

  Charlotte noticed his Scots brogue had become more pronounced. She had a feeling they wouldn’t be able to stop him recounting the whole story if they tried. “Can you tell us the tale?” she prompted.

  Braden drummed his fingers on the table, looking impatient. “I ken Rheade and Logan captured the Stewarts and Tannoch lost an arm in the pursuit of Robert Graham, but I didna ken my sis—Margaret—married Rheade.”

  Charlotte crossed her fingers under the tablecloth. If Braden blurted out the truth it would ruin everything.

  The truth?

  Aye, she believed him now. Either he’d completely lost his wits, which she knew wasn’t true, or the interplay of shock, excitement, and delight on his face spoke of his genuine relief his sister hadn’t suffered a horrendous death.

  Here was a story indeed.

  Step aside, Pilgrim Peter.

  Augusta clapped her hands in glee when the venison was served.

  “Venison,” Braden exclaimed, inhaling the aroma of the meat as it was served on his plate. “’Tis many a year since—”

  He stopped abruptly when the Duke coughed loudly. “I beg yer pardon. Please continue. I must hear the rest of the story.”

  As John recounted the history of his ancestors Charlotte lamented not being able to take notes. She’d have to remember the details he provided. Margaret had travelled to Blair to wed Robert Stewart, unaware of the murder. She’d met and fallen in love with Rheade Robertson, but the vindictive and heartbroken Queen Joan had confined Margaret to a nunnery because of her association with Robert Stewart. Then there was the long hunt for Robert Graham.

  “But how did they track him down?” she asked, unable to keep silent.

  “Weel,” the nobleman replied, “legend has it Rheade Robertson had a vision Graham was hiding up at Loch Bhac, which turned out to be true. Queen Joan was convinced to pardon Margaret for Rheade’s sake.”

  “I know this part,” her uncle suddenly interjected, his eyes wide. “They named a burn up there after Graham, and the rock where he was sheltering is known today as Graham’s Rock.”

  Braden frowned. “Why would folk name a stream and a rock for a traitor?”

  John shrugged, bringing on a hiccup. “I dinna ken, but the legend isna true.”

  Braden stopped chewing. “None of it’s true?”

  The veteran soldier smiled like a child gloating when he alone is privy to a secret. “Margaret confided to her children she was the one who had the vision.”

  He seemed hesitant to continue.

  “The vision?” Charlotte asked.

  John’s eyes darted around the table. “I ken this sounds far-fetched, but she claimed her brother told her where Graham was hiding.”

  A lead ball lodged in Charlotte’s belly. “Her brother? How did he know?”

  John Reade’s face reddened considerably. “He had died months before, drowned in a tidal bore. Claimed to have visited the future. Margaret never broadcast he’d appeared to her, fearing she’d be deemed mad.”

  Braden’s face was whiter than the table linen. “She wasna mad,” he rasped. “But if she was shut up in a nunnery, how did she get the message to Rheade?”

  The soldier tapped his chin. “Seems to me there was a servant who’d travelled with her from Oban. Some deemed him a simpleton, but he carried the information.”

  Braden’s eyes filled with unshed tears. “Joss,” he whispered.

  “Aye,” the soldier exclaimed, banging a fist on the table, “and now I recall, the brother’s name was Braden. Same as yours!”

  “The whole thing sounds ridiculous,” Augusta declared. “What are they serving for the sweet?”

  “Aye,” John Reade agreed with a smile. “It would make for an even better novel than the Picaresque Adventures of Pilgrim Peter, by that fellow Tobias.” He turned to the Duke. “Have ye read it, John?”

  Her uncle chuckled. “Aye, drivel if you ask me.”

  This was too close to the bone. The room tilted as Charlotte came to her feet, gripping the edge of the table. “Excuse—” was all she recalled saying before she fainted.

  A HIGHER PLANE

  Braden rose quickly from his chair and scooped Charlotte before she collapsed to the floor.

  “Oh, my,” Augusta exclaimed, fanning her face with the elaborate creation painted with scenes from the coronation of King George. She’d explained the artwork in excruciating detail. “My sister never swoons.”

  “Take her through to the solar,” the Duke ordered, pointing the way. “Mayhap you should use the fan on her instead of yourself,” he chided Augusta. "Find Simone."

  Braden didn’t wait for the empty-headed woman to comply. “I’ll take care of her,” he growled, anxious to get Charlotte out of earshot. "We have things to discuss—alone."

  To his relief the Duke nodded.

  He didn't know where Charlotte's apartment was located, so he strode off to his own chamber, cradling her to his chest. He didn't bother to retrieve the wig when it fell to the floor. The French maid would find it. She was the only other person who knew where his chamber was and it was unlikely she would disturb them.

  He kicked open the door, carried her to his bed and lay her atop it. “Charlotte,” he rasped, leaning over her. “Come back to me.”

  She was pale, her breathing labored. He wondered what had caused her to swoon. She wasn’t the delicate type. Mayhap the wig had done her in, though he suspected
John Reade’s revelations had overwhelmed her.

  The tale had nigh on stopped his heart. He understood now why he’d been sent to the future. To save his sister’s life. He had to go back. But how?

  Charlotte moaned something unintelligible. He smoothed a curl off her forehead. “What did ye say, my love?”

  She raved about a pilgrimage. He gazed at her, stunned by the realization he would rather stay in the eighteenth century with this remarkable woman than travel back to his own time. Perhaps meeting her was the reason he’d been propelled three hundred years into the future. He had a deep sense she was his destiny.

  But he couldn’t ignore his duty to Margaret even though leaving might mean he’d never see Charlotte again.

  She opened her eyes and stared at him, then touched his face. He wasn’t sure what he saw in her gaze. Desolation, need, love?

  “I must go back,” he rasped.

  She nodded as tears welled and trickled into the pillow. “Kiss me,” she breathed.

  He cupped her face in his hands and brushed his mouth over hers. She gripped his wrists and shyly nibbled his lower lip. He sifted his fingers into her hair, licked her salty tears, then deepened the kiss, coaxing with his tongue. She opened with a moaning whimper that sent more blood rushing to his already engorged shaft. Their tongues mated. She tasted clean and pure and warm. “I’ve never wanted a woman as much as I want ye,” he growled when the need for breath forced their lips apart.

  She smiled seductively. “Not in three hundred years?”

  “Nay, nor in three hundred more, Charlotte Tremayne.”

  She blinked as tears welled again. “Take me with you,” she whispered.

  He slid his arms beneath her and pressed her to his chest. “I canna. I dinna ken how to get back. ’Twill be dangerous. Drowning wasna pleasant I can assure ye.”

  He wanted to ease the heartbreak of parting. His century wasn’t a fit place for a woman like Charlotte.

  “Then take me now, Braden Ogilvie,” she murmured.