by Amy Jarecki
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Amy Jarecki
Preview of The Highland Guardian copyright © 2017 by Amy Jarecki
Cover design by Elizabeth Turner
Cover illustration by Craig White
Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First Edition: June 2017
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ISBNs: 978-1-4555-9785-7 (mass market), 978-1-4555-9783-3 (ebook)
E3-20170420-JV-PC
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Author’s Note
A Preview of The Highland Guardian
About the Author
Also by Amy Jarecki
Fall in Love with Forever Romance
Newsletters
To the wonderful staff at Grand Central Publishing and Forever, especially my editor, Leah Hultenschmidt. Thank you for believing in me. I also want to thank Elizabeth Turner and the brilliant designers at GCP who have worked diligently to develop ideal covers for the Lords of the Highlands series. I give them general notes on my character’s description and they come up with something amazing.
Chapter One
Stonehaven, Scotland, 31 December 1707
Night made darker by dense clouds drew attention to the fireballs. They rolled down Allardice Street, illuminating men dressed in black who levered iron rods to push barrels of blazing tar toward the harbor. Lit only by flickering fires, the players’ faces took on hollow shadows akin to the grim reaper.
Ghostly and cadaverous.
Atop the hill on the edge of Dunnottar Parish, Lady Magdalen Keith watched the spectacle below. She shuddered while her teeth chattered. During any Hogmanay celebration, Highland players were meant to look like Death, representing the old year’s passing to give rise to the new. Maddie never cared to think about morbid endings. She preferred to look to the future.
Though she clutched her hands together inside a sealskin muff, the icy cold of winter made her shiver all the more. Over the fur-lined collar of her cloak, she glanced at her father. “What do you wish for in the year of our Lord 1708?”
Dressed in dashing finery, the earl smiled, his eyes glistening from the light of the brazier burning beside them. “Perhaps ’tis time to bring the true king back from exile and boot his half sister off the throne?”
Maddie laughed. She could have predicted such a response. A consummate Jacobite, William Keith, Earl Marischal of Scotland, wasn’t one to hide his true allegiance from his illegitimate daughter, though he did represent Aberdeenshire in the new British Parliament.
Regardless of his predictability, Maddie harbored her own reasons to agree with him. “I wish the queen would remove the vile dragoons patrolling the north. Two more women arrived at the hospital this morn—set upon by those beasts.” Rape and pillage weren’t new to the northeastern village of Stonehaven, but the miscreants had changed through the ages. Red-coated dragoons infesting the Highlands believed they had the right to take anything they pleased, including local women. Since before she was born, the entire island of Britain had been embroiled in war and unrest. And the present state of affairs had spurred Maddie to open a hospital as soon as she reached her majority two years past.
Da placed a firm hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “You’re providing an honorable service. Of that you can be proud.”
She pursed her lips. “I’d rather see our women safe than be prideful.”
“That is why we must continue to fight for the cause.” He gestured toward the dark outlines of two frigates moored in the harbor. “We shall think on that no more. Tonight we celebrate the new year. Have you your mask?”
“’Tis in the coach.” Maddie glanced over her shoulder at the waiting team of horses. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Thank you for attending.” His nostrils flared officiously. “I do wish we could spend more time together.”
Rarely did Da ever make such a comment. Unaccustomed to words of affection, Maddie blinked to push away the sudden sting at the backs of her eyes. She’d been on her own since the age of seven, and though her father rarely denied her anything, he was a capricious presence in her life. Due to his station, he was oft away in London. Otherwise he spent his time with his new wife and children. Regrettably, the countess, Lady Mary, refused to include Magdalen as part of the family.
Thoroughly snubbed, Maddie had pledged her life to proving her value to society—not to the aristocracy, but to the people who comprised Scotland’s backbone. True, she’d maintained the title of Lady Magdalen Keith, but she didn’t feel very ladylike. Nor did she feel aristocratic. In fact, she communed far better with those who frequented her small hospital than she did with her father. Regardless, she appreciated the time Da spared for her, and his unfaltering maintenance, which supported her cause of the care of battered women.
Moon glow shone through a break in the clouds over the harbor. She pointed to bobbing skiffs ferrying men from the ships to shore. “It looks like they’ll catch the end of the fireball parade.”
“Are you excited for the dancing?” Da asked.
“Mortified is more apt.” She cringed. “I’ve only ever danced with Trist
an.”
“You’ll be fine. As a matter of fact, I recall the old guard was quite light on his feet in his day.”
“Aye? So says Agnes.”
Da always gave Maddie a sideways look when she mentioned her lady’s maid, though Agnes had been Magdalen’s companion since birth. He tweaked his daughter’s hood. “A masque is a delightful way to flirt with society incognito. I know you to be a lady of sober character. However, you can be as unabashed as you please on the dance floor this eve and none will be the wiser.” He offered his elbow. “I suggest you dance with the officers. They’ll be wanting to kick up their heels. I daresay an officer in the Royal Navy would be a good catch for you, my dear—something to think on for certain.”
Placing her hand in the crook of Da’s arm, Maddie sighed. “Mayhap, as long as he’s a Scot and doesn’t mind living in Stonehaven.” Which she doubted would be the case. Sailors were renowned for being adventuresome. Elsewise who on earth would be able to tolerate such deplorable conditions while living aboard a ship, constantly at the mercy of the sea?
After riding from Stonehaven Harbour to Dunnottar Castle, First Lieutenant Aiden Murray stepped out of the coach and stretched. Dear Lord, it felt good to be off the ship.
“Bloody oath, ’tis so cold my cods are about to freeze,” Second Lieutenant MacBride said. He must have received top marks in complaining at university, for he never ceased to have something unpleasant to say.
“Then you’d best keep moving, else someone else will be plowing your wife’s roses,” said Captain Thomas Polwarth. God love the man, he could be counted on for a stern retort to any complaint.
As Aiden turned, his jaw dropped. Aye, he’d heard tales of the magnificence of Dunnottar, but even beneath the cover of darkness, he was awestruck as he beheld the dramatic fortress dominating the expansive peninsula ahead. A steep path led down to the shore, and from there torches illuminated hundreds of steps climbing to the arched gateway, looking like something straight out of medieval folklore. On the wall-walk above, sentries stood guard, their forms lit by braziers with flames leaping high on this chilly eve.
“This way.” Aiden beckoned, leading the men down the steep path.
“Would you have a look at that,” said Third Lieutenant MacPherson, Aiden’s wayward cabinmate. “Christ. How in God’s name did Cromwell take this fortress? I reckon our cannons would miss her curtain walls by a hundred feet from the Royal Mary, even with all guns cranked to the timbers.”
“She has stood the test of time for certain,” Aiden called over his shoulder, speeding the pace. “Quit your gawking and make haste. I’m starved.” He was, too. He’d been on duty until the ship anchored and missed his meal to catch one of the last skiffs to shore. With the promise of something tastier than the Royal Mary’s pickled herring, there was no bloody chance he’d miss the fare the Earl Marischal would serve this Hogmanay eve.
“Have you been here afore, Your Lordship?” Aiden’s superior officer, the captain, used his formal address only to be an arse.
“Never, sir.”
“I would have thought the duke and the earl would have been kissing cousins.”
Aiden looked skyward with a shake of his head. “I beg your pardon, sir. My da’s a Whig and the earl sides with the Tory party.”
“Bloody Whigs,” said MacPherson.
Aiden chose not to respond. Since the Act of Union one year past forced England’s merger with Scotland’s navy, he’d grown more sympathetic with the Tories as well. Though he’d rather not let his loyalties become common knowledge at the moment. He’d be the one to break the news to his father in due course.
As they started the steep climb up to the gates, Polwarth slipped and crashed into Aiden’s back. “God’s teeth, ’tis slicker than an icy deck.”
Steadying the captain with his elbow, Aiden chuckled under his breath. Fit as a stag, he could sprint up the steep slope to the gate even with ice making the stone steps slippery. And it was all he could do to suppress his urge to run. Officers didn’t race through castle gates like wee lads. But by the saints, he’d been aboard the Royal Mary for the past month without setting foot ashore. Bloody oath, he intended to kick up his heels this eve—swill ale, swing the lassies in a reel—mayhap he’d even find a bonny lass he fancied.
Damn the cold.
Damn political posturing.
Damn the war.
And whilst I’m at it, damn the queen.
This was Hogmanay—a pagan Scottish holiday—and he would enjoy the piss out of it for once in his miserable highborn life.
Before he reached the gate, he stopped and looked to his companions, thirty paces behind and looking like a gaggle of old men. “Put on your bloody masks.”
“What?” sniggered MacPherson. “Do you not want to hear your name boomed throughout the hall?”
MacBride laughed. “The Right Royal and Very Miserable—”
“Don’t forget Honorable,” piped Captain Polwarth.
True, Aiden could tolerate a ribbing from his mates, but the captain? Good God, he was sunk.
“Aye, the Miserable yet Honorable Lord Aiden Murray,” MacBride finished.
“Shut it.” Aiden tied his bandit’s mask in place just beneath his tricorn hat. The officers had received masks from groomsmen once they’d reached the shore—compliments of the earl, as were the coaches that had ferried them to the castle. “Last I checked I was First Lieutenant Murray, division officer of the watch.”
Stepping beside him, Captain Polwarth clapped his shoulder. “Nay, tonight you’re a courtier behind a mask, m’lord.”
“A rogue,” said MacBride.
MacPherson snorted. “A rake.”
“I’m a bloody maker of merriment.” Aiden gave him a shove. “Give me a meal and a tankard of ale and I’ll be in heaven.”
“Not me. I’m looking for a woman to ignite my fire.” MacPherson secured his long-beaked mask in place. At least Aiden didn’t have to put up with a crook on his face that looked like a phallus.
MacBride pushed to the lead. “Ye ken what you need, Murray?”
Aiden followed beneath the sharp-spiked portcullis. “I ken I bloody well do not need you to tell me.”
“Och aye?” MacBride snorted. “’Tis on account of you’re too embarrassed.”
“You’re full of shite.” Aiden threw his shoulders back and clenched his fists. He could best every one of them, and showing an iota of fear now would only serve to illicit a month of jibes in the officers’ quarters—but he knew what was coming, and the twist in his gut only served to increase his dread.
“I agree with MacBride.” MacPherson jabbed him in the shoulder. “Young Aiden here needs to dip his wick.”
“Ye miserable, ox-brained maggot.” Aiden could have slammed his fist into the papier mâché beak on the bastard’s mask. They’d all guessed he was a virgin, though he’d never admitted it to a soul. How was he supposed to sample the offerings of the finer sex? He’d gone to university at the age of seventeen, spent three years with his nose in volumes of books, and from there joined the Scottish navy, where he’d scarcely had a chance to step ashore. Aye, the whores in port always tempted him, rubbing their buxom breasts against his chest, but it took only one peek at a flesh ulcer to turn his gut inside out.
At the age of two and twenty, the last thing he needed was to contract the bloody pox.
Regardless of his experience or lack thereof, Aiden refused to allow MacPherson’s remark to pass. Oh no. There wasn’t a self-respecting sailor in all of Christendom who wasn’t man enough to come back with a retort. “And whilst we’re ashore, make certain you go shag your mother.”
Take that, ye bastard.
Before the braggart could take a swing and start a brawl on the icy gateway steps, a yeoman stepped between them. “Welcome the Royal Scots Navy.”
Aiden shot a look to Captain Polwarth and grinned. “It seems news of the Act of Union hasn’t reached this far north.”
“Beg your pard
on, sir,” said the yeoman. “Only the Royal Mary and the Caledonia are moored in our harbor. Mark me. No bleeding English warships would be welcomed to a Hogmanay gathering at Dunnottar.”
“I would think no less from the Earl Marischal,” said the captain.
“Indeed.” The yeoman gestured to the gatehouse. “Gentlemen, if you’ll check your weapons, we shall escort you to the gallery.”
Chapter Two
Once they were inside the enormous fortress grounds, a sentry ushered Aiden and the other officers past the old keep to the north range, where stood the more modern buildings of the castle. Luck rained down upon him when he found the dining hall spread with platters piled with meats and slices of fine white bread to fill his gullet. Aiden continually ate like a glutton, yet never managed to put on an ounce of fat.
Tankards of ale in hand, he and Lieutenant Fraser MacPherson headed from the dining hall to the long gallery, where the music had already grown jaunty. Though constantly at odds with him, Aiden always stepped ashore with the stout Highlander, the son of the MacPherson laird. They quarreled like brothers, though if Aiden had to choose anyone from the crew to watch his back, it would be Fraser MacPherson… or the captain.
Aiden jabbed his mate in the ribs. “Why did you choose a beaked mask? You look like a charlatan.”
“Isn’t that what a masquerade is about?” MacPherson’s grin stretched under the ugly black nose. “Besides, the lassies like charlatans.”
Aiden rather doubted such wisdom. “Do they now?”
“Aye, but you wouldn’t ken anything about that, young pup.”
“Two years my senior and you’re so much wiser in the ways of the world, aye?” Pushing through the crowd toward a gathering of more masked gentlemen, Aiden took a healthy swallow of ale.
“Too right.” MacPherson slapped him on the back, making froth slop down Aiden’s doublet.
He brushed away the mess. “Well then, why is it I outrank you?”
“That’s easy. Your father’s a duke.”
Nothing like a cutting slight to make Aiden’s gut clench—most every officer in the navy was the second son of a noble lord. “You ken as well as I my da has nothing to do with my rank.” Holy Christ, how many times must he prove himself? Being the second son of a duke should have made his lot easier, but thus far his birthright had only brought a heavier burden. Aiden had learned early on that he had to be better skilled with a sword, have better aim with a musket, be wittier at the captain’s table, and sing like a lark while doing it all.
