by Amy Jarecki
“Where are you off to?”
“Into hiding.” Agnes threw a grimace over her shoulder. “Else I might do something I ought not. After all, bopping a countess on the nose would sorely affect my employment prospects.”
Left standing alone in the entrance vestibule, Maddie squared her shoulders and opened the door to the woman responsible for exiling her from the family. Her sweaty palm slid on the latch, though she painted on a bright smile. “M’lady, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”
Heavy with child, the countess swept inside, catching her breath as if the effort caused much consternation. “’Tis your father.”
A lump caught in Maddie’s throat. She gestured to a chair. “Please sit. Tell me what’s happened.”
Dear God, the news cannot be bad.
Flicking open a fan, Lady Mary took the seat and cooled herself. “I still cannot believe it.”
“What?” Maddie asked, wringing her hands.
“They’ve taken him.”
“Da?”
“Yes, your father.” The countess straightened her back, her gaze sharp like a buzzard’s. “Why else would I be here if it weren’t for your father?”
Heat spread across Maddie’s face, but she squeezed her fingernails into her palms. This was no time to allow the years of rejection to claw at her insides. She met her stepmother’s gaze. “Who has taken him and where?”
“’Tis all because of the missive from His Majesty, James Francis Edward Stuart.”
“Da received a missive from the king?”
Lady Mary fanned herself faster. “Aye. The French agreed to support a new rising. Granted our exiled king five thousand men and a fleet of ships. It all seemed so perfect.”
Merciful mercy, Da had prayed for the day when James would set foot in Scotland. But something must have gone awry. “What happened? You have received news, have you not?”
“A messenger arrived today.” Leaning forward, the countess touched the back of her hand to her forehead. “Oh, dear Lord, I can hardly bring myself to say it.”
Reaching out, Magdalen nearly placed a consoling hand on the countess’s shoulder, but snapped her fingers away. “But you must.” She clenched her fist. Not knowing had to be worse than knowing. “Where is my father?”
With a shake of her head, Lady Mary sniffed. “They captured him in Edinburgh. And now the queen’s men are taking him to the Tower of London to stand trial for treaaaaaasooooon.” Tears streamed down the woman’s face while she shook her head. “I have no idea what to do. This bairn is due to come in a month. And I cannot imagine my husband sitting in a cell in London with no family there to care for him.”
Maddie pulled a clean kerchief from her sleeve and offered it to her stepmother. “Of course you cannot travel in your condition.”
“He loves you.” Lady Mary snatched the kerchief, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose like a blast from a trumpet. “I’ve tried to keep you away, but though you’re his bastard, you still hold a place in his heart.”
Maddie chewed her lip, willing herself to resist the urge to burst forth with a litany detailing exactly how horribly her father’s wife had treated her illegitimate stepchild.
This is not the time.
It took a deep breath to calm her ire enough for her to speak without shrieking. “I would imagine any good man wouldn’t forget his children, bastard or nay.”
“That’s what I reasoned.” Lady Mary wielded her fan pointedly. “You must go to him at once.”
Looking up, Maddie caught Agnes poking her head out the kitchen door and shaking it so rapidly ’twas amazing the woman’s coif remained in place. The lady’s maid could be unduly opinionated, and this was one time Magdalen did not agree with Agnes in the slightest. Her father was in prison and there was no one else who could help him. She would swim to London if forced. “No question. I must be the one to go, especially since you are great with child.”
“Thank heavens. I kent you would be useful for something one day.” Heaving a sigh, Stepmother pushed herself to a stand with great effort.
Normally Maddie would hasten to help a woman in Lady Mary’s condition, but it took a moment for her to choke down her hurt feelings and offer a hand. “I’ll do what I can to ensure he receives a pardon.”
“Demand an audience with the queen. Remind Anne how useful your father has been in Parliament—he’s supported her many a time.” The countess glanced away. “When it made sense, of course.”
“Of course. What else do you suggest I do?”
“Stay in his suite at Whitehall. Find an advocate.” The woman swooned on her feet. “Oh dear. What am I to do? If your father is beheaded, I’ll be ruined for the rest of my days.”
Maddie caught Lady Mary’s elbow while grinding her teeth.
You selfish woman. What about Da? What if he loses his life for showing support for the queen’s brother?
“Come.” She ushered the countess toward the door. “They will not behead my father, I’ll see to it, and I’ll swear to his innocence on a stack of Bibles.”
“Thank you.” The countess patted Maddie’s cheek. “I’m afraid the future of the earldom rests on your shoulders.”
“Yes, m’lady.” Maddie opened the door.
“God save us,” the countess said, doom filling her voice as if all were lost.
Waiting while her pregnant stepmother flounced outside, Maddie’s mind raced. How fast could she travel to London? A transport from the Stonehaven Bay would be quickest by far.
After the countess climbed into her coach, Maddie waved, closed the door, and turned.
“London?” asked Agnes from the kitchen.
“Quickly, we must pack our things and book passage.” She grabbed her cloak from the peg and swung it around her shoulders.
Agnes didn’t budge. “But what of the hospital?”
“I’ll ask Mrs. Boyd to take over. She’s been with us the longest and I trust her implicitly.”
Chapter Five
The Royal Mary, moored off the port of Blackwall, 14 April 1708
Aiden rapped on the captain’s door before opening it. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Aye, Lord Aiden, come in and take a seat.” The captain gestured to the chair opposite his desk, where Aiden often sat to discuss shipboard business—though the captain rarely referred to him as lord. “Are you looking forward to your leave?”
Dear God, his stomach squeezed. Never in his naval career had Aiden been so ready to step ashore, and for a fortnight. He could already taste the fare at Whitehall. “Indeed, sir. It’s been so long since I walked on land, I’m ready to leap over the hull and swim for the wharf.”
“Och, youth. I remember having that kind of verve once.”
“Are you not stepping ashore, sir?”
“Nay. I’ll be overseeing a few repairs to be carried out by Her Majesty’s carpenters whilst you and the officers are kicking up your heels.”
Aiden bit his lip. He’d offer to stay under most circumstances, but he’d go mad if he didn’t step ashore soon, and he’d been looking forward to this leave for months. “Anything you need help with, sir?”
“Nothing at all.” Polwarth drummed his fingers on the desk as if he was nervous about something. Then he pulled a missive out of his drawer. “To be honest, I’m a bit taken aback.”
“Oh? Does that have anything to do with the officer of yards’ visit after our mooring?” Even Aiden had been surprised to see a skiff approach as soon as they’d dropped anchor. He’d been minding the watch while the men paid a hasty call.
“In fact, their business concerned you.”
“Me, sir?”
Captain Polwarth ran his hand down his face and heaved a long sigh. “More things we need to comply with as a ship in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, I’m afraid.”
Aiden rolled his eyes to the rafters. He would have liked to spew a number of expletives stressing his opinion of merging Scotland’s navy with England’s, but the captain al
ready knew his opinion. He tapped his foot. The sooner this meeting ended, the sooner he could start his leave. “You said they singled me out, sir?”
“Aye. Fortunately, they consented to allow me to present the news to you myself, rather than making a spectacle.” He shoved the missive across the desk. “It seems I’m not quite up to snuff for the likes of Queen Anne.”
“I beg your pardon?” Aiden picked up the missive, sealed with the lord high admiral’s stamp. “You’re the best bloody captain in the fleet.”
A rueful chuckle rumbled from the captain’s belly. “That may be, but I’m not a member of the gentry.”
Aiden dropped his jaw. “I thought all Scottish posts were being grandfathered in.”
“They are.” Polwarth combed his fingers through his thick gray hair. “I’m still the captain of this ship, but that missive in your hands is your advancement to commander of the Royal Mary.”
“Commander?” Aiden ran his thumb under the seal and unfolded the document. “Does such a posting exist?”
“Only on this ship. I was duly informed that since I am not of gentle birth, the position of commander has been created to ensure all commissioned officers aboard Her Majesty’s Royal Mary behave as proper gentlemen whilst in the service of the queen.”
Aiden guffawed hard enough to spit out his teeth. “This is about pompous posturing? You must be jesting.” He didn’t mind being recognized for a promotion, but advancement on the grounds of his noble birth didn’t feel right. At times the captain seemed more of a gentleman to Aiden than his own father.
“I’m dead serious.”
“That’s absurd. You’ve been captain of this ship for what, fifteen years?”
“Sixteen.”
Aiden slapped the missive on the desk. “I do not accept this. It’s just another mindless edict passed down by Whitehall that makes no sense whatsoever.”
“Och, the promotion is yours and well deserved, and it doesn’t do anything to me but ruffle my feathers a wee bit.” The captain sat back and folded his arms. “At least they were right about you. If they’d tried to advance MacPherson or MacBride, I would have been enraged.”
He still didn’t like it, just as he didn’t care for dozens of other edicts that had come down from the admiral’s office. If only the Royal Mary could have remained a Scottish ship. “So what does it mean, sir? Will anything change?”
Polwarth shrugged. “You were already my second in command. But since you’ll be receiving an extra shilling or two in pay, I’ll have you start assuming more of my duties. Comes as a surprise, though, especially since they tend to promote English officers over Scots.”
Aiden smirked. “Well then, I say thank God there are no Sassenach bastards aboard this ship.”
“Well said, lad.” The captain waved his hand through the air. “Go on, enjoy your fortnight of leave, then we’ll break the news to the crew upon your return.”
Aiden shoved his chair back and stood. “Aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“I need an entire keg of ale,” Aiden said, slinging his satchel over his shoulder and heading across the wharf with Fraser MacPherson. He wasn’t about to spill the news to his cabinmate. Hell, he didn’t even know if Fraser would still be sharing a berth with him once they set sail a fortnight hence. In fact, Aiden didn’t want to think about his conversation with Captain Polwarth. Aside from baffling him and bouncing him between elation and irritation, it changed nothing regarding his leave. And for the next fortnight, he intended to do everything in his power to forget he’d ever joined the navy.
“I need something stronger than ale.” As usual, MacPherson stayed close on Aiden’s heels, bragging as he always did. “And then I aim to find a woman and spend a sennight in her bed.”
“A sennight?” He snorted. “How much will that cost you?”
“I don’t care. My cock’s been hard for ninety days.”
Aiden couldn’t argue. On the odd occasion when he’d actually been able to head for his cot, he’d tried everything from counting sheep to calculating sums in his futile attempt to think of anything but wrapping a sweet-smelling lassie like Magdalen in his arms and kissing her. It seemed like ages ago that his wee tryst upon the wall-walk at Dunnottar Castle had served to incite his untapped lust and make him more curious—not to mention on edge. With luck, during his fortnight of leave he’d find an experienced, wholesome widow to show him the ropes.
Dear God, ’tis about time.
And he had a plan. His father held apartments at Whitehall Palace where Da stayed when Parliament was in session—otherwise the rooms remained empty. Fortunately, Parliament was not in session, and as the son of the Duke of Atholl, Aiden planned to enjoy an entire fortnight flirting with the courtiers of the female persuasion. With luck there might be a suitable widow with whom he could arrange a discreet tête-à-tête.
A woman who would be more than willing to take a young protégé under her wing.
“Where’s the nearest alehouse?” MacPherson stepped beside him on the Blackwall Pier on the Thames and took in a deep breath, which was followed by a cough. “Och, the stench of humanity and rotting fish.”
In truth, things didn’t smell much better aboard the Royal Mary after the past three months chasing French ships. Damn it all. If Aiden had known the Scottish navy was to be combined with the English, he never would have taken a commission.
The French had always been allies with Scotland. He wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if the Royal Mary had been forced to fire her cannons at King James’s fleet. What if they’d killed the true king? For the love of God, James was a Stuart, not to mention Queen Anne’s half brother. What was the queen thinking?
And now Aiden had been advanced up the ranks, to serve none other than the queen herself. A bloody commander. He looked to the skies. At least aboard the ship he could remain aloof from politics for the most part.
“Yoo-hoo!” a high-pitched voice called. Above the busy wharf, a scantily clad woman hung out a second-floor window above a sign that read “The Boar’s Head Alehouse.” “Are you looking for a bit o’ fun?”
“I’ll be right up.” Grinning, MacPherson waved at the tart, then gave Aiden a nudge. “Everything we need is right here, mate.”
The harlot looked tempting—enormous breasts, a welcoming grin. Perhaps she lacked wholesomeness, but Aiden had only a fortnight.
Aye, if there’s no merry widow at court, I might just come back here.
“Don’t stand there with your mouth agape when there are women to shag.” Fraser started across the road.
Aiden already regretted having stepped ashore with his cabinmate. Who could compete with a licentious shark? “A pitcher of ale, then I’m on my way.”
MacPherson gave him a nudge. “Still planning to try your luck at Whitehall?”
“And why not?” Dodging a cart loaded with hides, Aiden followed. “My brother says there are courtiers by the dozens.”
Fraser reached for the door handle. “Aye, but loose women are more fun.”
“How would you ken? You never make it past the whores on the waterfront.”
“Perhaps not, but I’ll wager I’ve been luckier than you. In fact, I still reckon you’re a virgin, even if you do outrank me.”
If you only knew by how much.
Though his hackles stood on end, Aiden wasn’t about to take MacPherson’s bait. Damnation, he aimed to lose his virginity within the next fortnight. Och, he’d prove his mates wrong, and then all their jibes would be thrown out with the slops.
As Aiden pushed inside the Boar’s Head, it was clear the Royal Mary wasn’t the only ship in port. As a matter of fact, three of Her Majesty’s fleet had dropped anchor in the Thames. Aiden muscled his way to the bar at the back with his friend in his wake. Fraser might be good at flapping his mouth, but Aiden was bigger and stronger.
“Bloody hell, they cannot fit another man in this alehouse,” MacPherson mumbled from behind, barely audible for the noise.
He took off his tricorn hat and slapped four pence on the bar. “Give us a quart pitcher and two glasses.”
“And send over a woman,” added MacPherson with a snort.
The barman glanced up from tapping a barrel. “Bloody hell. Do not tell me the Scots are in port as well as all these rutting tars?”
“You’re from the bleedin’ Royal Mary, are you?” asked a sailor with a missing tooth. From his mangled nose, he looked as if he’d been in one too many brawls, and he smelled as if he’d been cleaning the bilges. “You bastards could have sunk the French schooner and sent the Pretender to hell.”
Aiden’s gut twisted into a knot along with his fists.
Another scraggly-looking tar sneered, “Yeah, I reckon you’re a yellow-bellied Jacobite just like the rest of the backstabbers up in Snot-land.”
Without a word, Aiden moved closer to the sailor, towering over him with a scowl. Shrinking away, the little tar suddenly took a fixed interest in his ale.
The barman snatched Aiden’s coin and placed a pitcher on the bar with two tin tankards. “We’re out of glasses.”
With a backward glance, Aiden took quick inventory. Everyone he saw was drinking from glass—and they were all dressed in scruffy breeches and dingy linen shirts; not a well-dressed officer among them. Though not appointed with uniforms, only officers could afford well-tailored garb. But he didn’t care. He needed a damned beer.
He poured, eyeing the loudmouthed cur beside him while his starched cravat prickled his throat. “Orders were to ensure the queen’s brother didn’t set foot in Britain, not to sink his ship.”
“Well, I think you’re yellow.”
Carefully setting the ewer down, he took a long pull of his ale. Aye, his gut clamped harder than a vise, but he wasn’t about to let the Sassenach varlet know he would soon regret those words.
