Highland Ruse: Mercenary Maidens - Book Two
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Highland Ruse
Mercenary Maidens - Book Two
Madeline Martin
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 2017 by Madeline Martin
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com
First Diversion Books edition November 2017
ISBN: 978-1-63576-156-6
Also by Madeline Martin
THE HIGHLANDER SERIES
Deception of a Highlander
Possession of a Highlander
Enchantment of a Highlander
THE MERCENARY MAIDENS SERIES
Highland Spy
Highland Ruse
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
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
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Connect with Diversion Books
To my very own Mr. Awesome, John Somar, who is everything a real hero should be. Thank you for all your patience and kindness and love—you are the final piece that makes this family completely whole. I love you, and I love our wonderful life together.
Prologue
London
August 1603
Delilah Canterbury had risen above her station. In fact, she’d just risen above every flat, mediocre note of her existence.
She sauntered down the wood-paneled hall toward the king’s private room, following the same path she’d left that very morning. Her heart tapped against her ribs in an excited beat, impatient for everything to unfold.
Her victory.
The heavy silk of her dress rustled in the silence like an eager whisper. The gown had been costly enough to have fed her family for a month. Not that her parents had purchased it. They’d never be able to afford something so fine. Her aunt had called it a gift—one Delilah would reimburse as soon as she was able.
Perhaps the time to do so could be soon.
Delilah ducked her head and allowed herself a giddy smile behind her curtain of light brown hair before she knocked on the large wooden door.
Voices sounded on the other side, male voices—ones that determined which wars were fought, who became titled, who became wealthy. Her foot bounced silent and anxious against the thick carpet.
The door swung open to reveal a group of men bustling about the lavish room beyond. The king’s personal chambers.
She knew exactly how they looked. The gold-threaded tapestries, the thick, velvet cushions, the massive bed.
A man stared at her with bored disinterest. Between the curls of his black wig and the crowding of his neck ruff, his face was barely more than a pair of squinty eyes over the stump of his bulbous nose.
“I’d like to see the king.” Delilah hoped her tone came across as more sweet and flirtatious than the breathy-excited she felt.
The man’s gaze swept down her once, then returned to her face. It had been a quick but thorough assessment, and his disapproval was tangible enough to heat her cheeks. She would ensure he showed her the respect she deserved when she’d spoken to James.
James.
How many people were actually allowed to address him so informally?
The man turned away and approached the king. James lifted his head, and his dark eyes found hers. She cast her gaze away, demure despite the warmth tingling up her spine.
When she’d first come to court, her mother had told her she’d never be anything more than a lady’s maid, a poor relation given a job to assuage the cost of a mouth to feed back home. The discouragement hadn’t dampened Delilah’s anticipation to arrive at Hampton Court Palace. Not one bit. She’d always known she’d be something more—something great.
And now she would become the king’s mistress.
She, the eighth child of fifteen. She, who’d not been married off like her other sisters. She, who had spent her entire life perfectly in the middle, perfectly ignored.
Delilah’s mind raced with images of her and James, wearing the most luxurious clothing on an extraordinarily costly boat on the Thames. They laughed in the sunshine together and placed their heads against one another’s as they read books, and—
“His Majesty will see you.”
Her attention snapped from her dreams. But rather than flit away, the dreams curled deep in her heart where they stayed happy and safe.
The remaining few men in the room exited when she entered. The idea of them clearing out—for her—made her blood run through her veins. She lifted her head a notch and regarded James with a coy grin.
They were alone.
The breath squeezed from her chest.
She bowed low in front of James and let her gaze lift to him before she rose. Last night he’d liked that. He’d caught her chin with his thumb and forefinger and whispered how eager he’d been to see her alone.
Now, however, James appeared unaffected.
He stared down at her over the slope of his nose, his mouth set in a hard line. He wore his ornate black hat atop a fine wig, but she’d seen him without both, when his hair was downy copper beneath her fingertips.
“I bid you good day, Your Majesty.” Delilah rose and tucked her hands behind her back to tease him with the strain of her breasts against her bodice. “You needn’t have cleared out the room on my account.”
James tilted his head. “I thought it the best course in preserving your pride.”
Delilah’s confidence stumbled for the briefest of moments. “That was kind of you, Sire, but entirely unnecessary—”
“Yes, well, I’m a kind sovereign.” His cold gaze did not reflect any such kindness. The subtle spice of his exotic perfume wafted toward her and brought back memories of the sweaty, frantic mash of their bodies.
It hadn’t been entirely unpleasant, and she heard it got better over time. Such knowledge was heartening. Even now, the private place he’d claimed throbbed with the dull aching reminder of what she’d done.
What she’d given him.
“You were especially kind last night.” Her cheeks flamed hot as the embers in the hearth, and t
he words felt foreign on her tongue. She offered him a pretty smile, the one she practiced in the mirror regularly.
James regarded her a moment before glancing away. “I was also especially libidinous last night, and you filled the role I needed quite well. It need not be repeated; however, I do appreciate your having consented.”
Delilah stared at him dumbly. Her heart crumpled in her chest, but her mind refused to accept what her ears had heard.
Surely he hadn’t meant…
“Is there something else?” Irritation played over his apathetic features. “Did you expect coin?”
He might as well have slapped her. “No, of course not. I came willingly. I thought…” Her body was on fire, and her throat clogged with the threat of tears. She would not cry. Not in front of him. “I thought you wanted me.” Speaking was difficult around the tightness in her throat, but she forced the words out. “You said I was lovely.”
A betraying tear rolled down her cheek before she could blink it away.
“Of course you’re lovely.” James gave an exasperated sigh. No, not James—the king. He was the king to her again. And he was staring at her as though he thought her daft. “Do you think I’d be with a homely woman?”
Delilah swallowed the sob trying to claw free from her throat.
The king touched her cheek. His palm was cold as ice and dry as parchment. “If anyone admonishes you for your absence the prior night, send them to me. I’ll ensure you receive no punishment.” There was a tether of patience to his tone. He clearly thought he was being kind.
He patted her head as if she were a child being placated. “Take a moment to settle yourself, then return to your duties.”
His hand slipped from her hair, and he walked away. “I truly am sorry, Diane.” He offered his apology like an afterthought and the door clicked closed behind him.
Delilah stared at the door through the cobweb of hair he’d inadvertently pulled over her face. The knot in her throat was unbearable now, burning, aching, tearing at her to give in to the pressure. “It’s Delilah.” Her voice croaked out into the quiet room and melted into the lush upholstery as if her words had never been spoken, had never existed.
As if she had never existed.
Delilah wrapped her arms around herself, but it did not ease the chill clutching at her heart and slithering into her gut.
All she’d wanted was to stand out, for once. To mean something. To be someone.
But she’d sacrificed too much.
Oh God, what had she done?
She’d offered up the one bit of treasure on her person, the only thing she might somehow manage to use in scraping a marriage at court. Without her maidenhead or a dowry to speak of, no man would want her. Especially when the king would not step forward to declare her his castoff.
She winced at the word “castoff.”
But that’s what she was now, wasn’t she?
She gave in to the drawing squeeze at her heart. Her folded arms pushed to her stomach where a white-hot pain burned and curled into it, embracing it.
“You’re not going to cry, are you?”
The feminine voice broke through Delilah’s thoughts and shattered the intimately private moment with a bolt of fear.
A woman materialized from the shadows. Her pale blonde hair was pulled back from her face in a number of braids, and she wore a plain blue dress which made her pale eyes appear all the more so, like chips of ice. A bit of silky black ribbon had been tied around the woman’s throat in a delicate bow—her only adornment.
Delilah had not seen her at court before.
The woman was disquieting in the masculine way she stood with her feet braced apart and her shoulders squared, overly confident and comfortable in her own obvious power.
And while it made Delilah suddenly sticky hot with shame over her grief, the tension in her throat abated. “I thought I was alone.”
“Aren’t you glad you’re not?” the woman asked.
Delilah gave a choked laugh, a bubble of hysteria finally breaking the turbulent surface. “So that you could witness the single most humiliating moment of my life?”
Her throat clenched like a fist.
Perhaps she was going to cry. And she did wish she’d been alone. Never had she craved the small closet space she slept in more than now. True, she shared the cramped quarters with three other servants, but they would all be working, like she should be. She wanted the caress of silence on her ears and the freedom to loose her tears into the thin pillow on her bed.
“He’s not worth it,” the woman said.
“He’s the king,” Delilah countered.
“He’s a man. And he’s left you in a position no different than any other man would.” The woman shrugged, as if this were some minor notion, as if it were not a life-crushing event.
Another emotion crept over Delilah’s sorrow. It stiffened the slump of her back and shot energy through her slack limbs. Rage.
“You don’t know,” she hissed. “You don’t know everything I’ve lost. And who are you, sneaking around the king’s quarters? Are you a thief?”
“Sylvi.” The woman inclined her head in the lazy, bowing way men were wont to do when acknowledging one another. “And he knows I’m here, but not to the same purpose as you.” One blonde eyebrow lifted sardonically. “He just didn’t know I stayed.”
“And why did you?” Delilah asked through clenched teeth.
Sylvi approached her and Delilah stiffened. “Because I saw the look on his face when you arrived, and I saw all the hopes and dreams on yours and knew they were about to be crushed.”
And so she’d stayed to watch. Like the men who enjoyed bearbaiting and dogs tearing apart exotic animals for sport.
Disgust roiled through Delilah and she turned from Sylvi, set on quitting the king’s quarters for the quiet sanctity of her own room.
“I can help,” Sylvi said.
Delilah kept walking, away from the woman who was too confident for her own good, away from the awful memories the room held.
Sylvi appeared beside her. “You don’t have to be ruined, Delilah. Your life is not over.”
The woman was close enough now that the delicate scent of leather prickled Delilah’s awareness over the floral notes of her own perfume.
“Leave court,” Sylvi said. “Come with me to Scotland. I’ll teach you everything you need to know to be powerful. No one will care about your past, of what you have or don’t. There is no judgment.” The bow on her neck was decidedly out of place, a note of femininity on a woman who appeared anything but.
Had someone suggested earlier in the week that Delilah leave court, she would have called them mad. Coming to court had always been her dream, from the first moment she’d heard of the velvets and silks and balls and rich food—all a far cry better than the squat house she’d been crammed into with her overlarge family.
But now the idea of leaving court held appeal. To never see the king again, or worry who might whisper in the wake of her departure, or wonder if her aunt might discover her indiscretions—for surely Delilah would be sent back home in shame.
And she was not welcome at home. Another mouth to feed. Another body to clothe. Another person to scour coin from already bare coffers.
No, she had nowhere else to go.
“What would you teach me?” she asked. As if she had a choice.
Sylvi’s gaze narrowed. “To fight, to defend yourself, to be strong enough on your own. I’ll teach you to become a spy.”
Spy.
The word jolted through Delilah. Her, a spy. It sounded dangerous.
Her heart thrummed with a renewed vigor.
It sounded…exciting.
It wasn’t a boring life, married to a base noble’s youngest sons like her sisters, nor was it a position on a boat like most of her brothers had assumed, and it wasn’t living on the scraps of food her family was able to manage.
She would learn to fight and would possess the same self-assurance as
the woman in front of her.
Sylvi was right—Delilah’s life was not over.
It was about to truly begin.
Chapter One
Cumbria, England
June 1607
There were two coaches in front of the remote inn, one for a noble lady and one for her imposter.
Delilah being the imposter.
There were similarities between the women, of course, or Delilah would never have been hired. They had matching curvy, petite figures presently clad in maroon traveling dresses, and the same shade of honey brown hair. At a rapid glance, one might assume them to be the same woman.
But the gems on Lady Elizabeth’s gown were genuine, hard and glinting.
And those on Delilah’s were paste—a shoddy comparison when placed next to the stunning original.
Like Delilah herself.
A paste decoy of a fine woman.
Lady Elizabeth glanced around the common room of the inn with an element of uncertainty. The light of dawn had only just begun to press against the dingy windows, and the soft tallow candles steeped the air with fetid, greasy smoke.
They were just within England, hanging on the border of Scotland—the perfect location to trade routes with Lady Elizabeth prior to her journey into Scotland for her wedding to Laird MacKenzie.
Elizabeth’s dark brown gaze met Delilah’s. “You look very similar to me.” Lady Elizabeth had a dainty, almost songlike voice. Her cheeks tinged pink, and her gaze flicked to Sylvi before darting back to Delilah.
Sylvi watched the noble woman with an unflinching stare, her arms crossed over her narrow chest and her stance strong and stolid like that of a soldier. She seldom wore dresses anymore, opting instead for leather trews and a black leine. Her multitude of braids had been twisted back into a splayed mass of blonde, which hung down her back like the feathers of a commander’s helmet.
Still though, she’d kept the black ribbon tied at her neck. Only now Delilah knew the reason for the uncharacteristic feminine adornment.