The Age of Knights and Highlanders: A Series Starter Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Then you will agree?” Lady Mercy blessed him with a genuine smile and a look that stirred him in places better left unstirred by an English lass who was clearly a favorite to the king—especially if they were to be traveling through the Highlands. Alone.

  Alone? Nay. Surely not. Graham cleared his throat and huffed away Lady Mercy’s enamoring spell, shifting his attention back to Edsbury. “I need more details. How many will be in our party? I assume the lady has her own retinue accompanying her?” Royals traveled with herds of servants to see to their every need. If he was both guide and guard to all concerned, he needed to know the number.

  “Myself and my maid,” Lady Mercy said after a quick glance back at her father. “And a few servants to handle the horses and wagons, of course.”

  “And one of our own personal guards,” King William added with a warning, narrow-eyed glare. “After all, parts of the Highlands are quite uncivilized. A lone man, even one with your rumored skills, could do little against a band of highwaymen.”

  Graham knew damn good and well why the king was sending one of his own. The man would be a bloody spy. If the king was so worried about highwaymen outnumbering him, he had a better solution. “My brothers, Duncan and Sutherland, might be available to join us.” He turned to Edsbury and grinned. “Of course, they’ll be wanting their own payment of gold.”

  The duke opened his mouth to speak, but King William cut him off. “We find your terms acceptable.” He paused, gave Edsbury a hard look, then continued. “However, one of our personal guards shall still accompany you. We will not negotiate that point.”

  Three Scots against one red-coated Sassenach? Aye, that would do. Fair laughable odds it was and a great deal more acceptable. Graham settled his focus back on the lovely Lady Mercy, searching her expression for signs of guile or deceit. More was at stake here than the spoiled daughter of a duke getting her way. But what was it? Could the lass really just wish for a grand tour through the Highlands to honor her mother and brother? And why was the king so intent on accommodating the girl and her father? Graham understood the concept of favorites at court, but this…this was more than a little odd.

  “Will you agree, sir?” Lady Mercy asked, looking like a child begging for sweets.

  “Aye, m’lady. I agree to the terms set forth today.” Graham accepted with a curt bow, then turned to Edsbury and the king. “My brothers can be here within a few days. All I need do is send for them. When shall I tell them we plan to leave?”

  Edsbury sniffed and turned aside, glancing at the king before giving Graham a dismissive nod. “All shall be set in motion as soon as your brothers arrive.”

  “Do have them make haste,” King William intoned. “We have little patience for waiting.”

  A warning. Graham acknowledged it with a bow, clenching his teeth to keep from saying more than he should as he turned and left the room.

  Chapter Two

  “Did he seem like a wild barbarian, m’lady? I’ve heard about those Scots, I have. And did you know…” Janie paused and leaned in close, charged excitement arching her sparse, reddish blonde brows up to the ruffles of her white cap. “I heard some of them kidnap their wives! Have you ever heard such? Did your Scot look all that fearsome? You know I can protect you if need be, m’lady. I’m not afraid of any man.”

  “Master MacCoinnich is not my Scot,” Mercy corrected as gently as possible, trying not to smile at the thought of fearless Janie boxing Master MacCoinnich’s ears and taking him to his knees with a coarse tongue-lashing.

  Janie—or Hughson as everyone else called her, had been an odd sort of choice for this position. A faint sigh of futility escaped Mercy. Sadly, Janie Hughson had been the only woman interested in the job of her lady’s maid.

  The girl was nice enough. Sort of—in a scrabbling, fighting-to-survive sort of way. A bit coarse for a maid and quite the solid build. Mercy had always secretly thought Janie could pass for a man should she ever wish to do so. At the time of her interview, Janie had begged Mercy to give her a chance, and something about the plea had touched Mercy’s heart. She understood what it was to battle for acceptance. Her conscience bade her help Janie and give the girl a try. So, Janie had joined their household and become more than a little protective over Mercy. She couldn’t imagine life without her maid.

  “And the Scotsman looked to be quite the gentleman, I assure you,” Mercy hurried to add. A handsome gentleman that made the very act of breathing a chore. She stiffened, sitting straighter as Janie pulled on another heavy hank of her long, dark hair, hacking the brush through its thickness as though waging war on it.

  “Such is the curse of our ancestry,” Mama had always said with a proud smile as she brushed out Mercy’s hair every morning. She had never left the task to the maids. Mercy swallowed hard and released another frustrated sigh. Thick, heavy hair was but one of the curses. She lifted her chin, determined to mimic her mother’s tranquil optimism. Mama had never flinched or acted as though she noticed the shunning. She had ignored the ostracism, the rude, haughty glances. Her mother rose above it all. A cool, poised beauty, Mama had held herself above their slurs. If only she had inherited Mama’s ability to find a state of serenity no matter the circumstances.

  Mercy assumed the epitome of calm control as Janie worked through another troublesome strand of tangled hair. The snarls were easily endured. The slurs and slights of a heartless, narrow-minded society—not so much, especially when those insults followed her home. Her reflection in the looking glass scowled back at her. She would never be as forgiving and graceful as Mama. She’d rather spit in their faces than ignore their hatred.

  “I just love your hair, m’lady. All straight and gorgeous like a fine, full river of black silk. Not all curls and orange fluff like me own.” When Janie got wistful, her Irish background grew more pronounced in her speech.

  “Thank you, Janie.” Mercy’s black mood eased a bit. Janie was the best sort of tonic. The protective girl kept her grounded. She smiled at their reflections in the large oval mirror hanging above the dressing table. “But you know you mustn’t feel such. Human nature always wishes for what you don’t have and usually, if you ever get it, it’s not nearly as wonderful as you thought it might be. My hair is quite the chore, as you well know since I’m lost without your help in taming it.”

  Janie shrugged away the words and kept brushing. “Tell me about this gentleman Scot so I’ll know what to expect on this trip past the borders of civilization.”

  “Past the borders of civilization? You’ve been talking to Mrs. Frances again, haven’t you?” Mercy preferred Janie stay away from Mrs. Frances. The astute housekeeper could be the undoing of Mercy’s grand plan should Janie slip and divulge any of Mercy’s meticulously laid out details.

  The guilt reflected in Janie’s freckled face told all.

  “I cannot fail in this, Janie.” Mercy clenched her hands atop the polished surface of the dressing table. “I beg you, keep to yourself and speak to no one about my trip. Please.”

  “I didn’t tell her nothing, m’lady. I swear it.” Janie chewed at the corner of her bottom lip, her brows knotted over her troubled eyes. “I overheard her speaking with his lordship, I did. That’s where I heard that saying about the Highlands not being civilized.”

  Mrs. Frances spoke to his lordship about the trip? That was worse still. “What did she say to him?” Mercy reached up and slid her hair from Janie’s grasp, stilling the brushing.

  Janie shook her head, then leaned over Mercy’s shoulder, and lowered her voice. “She feels you shouldn’t go. She’s afraid those Scots will sully your good name and prevent you from obtaining a good match in the future.”

  “There will be no match for me, Janie, and the only name I have in English society is a low born of questionable breeding, among others I shan’t repeat.” The sentiment tumbled from her lips before she thought. She shouldn’t say such in front of Janie. She’d never wish to offend her, and the girl had been known to slip and sa
y things she shouldn’t whilst amongst her peers.

  “So sorry, m’lady,” Janie whispered, her crestfallen face flushing under the ruffles of her cap. “Truly sorry I am that they’ve been so mean to you. Such fools, they are. They don’t have a clue to your sweet nature and kind heart.” She nodded so hard, her cap fluttered atop her curls. “You can trust me, m’lady. I’m proud to be the maid of such a courageous woman. I’m not afraid to help you do what you’re about to do.”

  Determination and hope surged through Mercy, filling her with renewed calm. She reached up and patted Janie’s plump hand resting on her shoulder. “We will make this happen. Together.” She squeezed the girl’s hand and gave her a meaningful look in the mirror. “But please, Janie, you must guard your words more carefully than you have ever guarded them before. Promise me?”

  Janie dipped her dimpled chin and smiled. “I promise, m’lady. I swear it on me mam’s grave.”

  A hard rap on the door cut the conversation short. Mercy pulled her nightgown closed as she rose from the stool. She stared at the door, struggling to calm the rapid pounding of her heart. She flattened a hand atop her dressing table, drawing a strange sense of calm from its cool, solid surface laden with hair combs, perfumes, and lotions. Janie hurried to the latch, then looked back to her mistress before pulling the door open. Mercy took a deep breath and nodded.

  “Yes?” Janie cracked open the door, blocking the space with her stocky frame.

  “I would speak with my daughter.” His lordship’s voice floated through the door with a soft harshness but loud enough to shoot a chill straight to Mercy’s heart.

  “The lady is already retired for the evening, m’lord,” Janie said in a borderline, insolent tone.

  He couldn’t have discovered the plan. Couldn’t have. Papa never came to her suite of rooms. Since Mama’s death, whenever he wished for Mercy’s company, he sent a servant to fetch her, and those requests for her presence had been few and far between. Mercy understood why. How often had Papa remarked she was the image of her mother? Her only trait attesting to her English ancestry were her light, golden eyes inherited from her paternal grandmama, or so Mama had once said. But Mercy knew that information to be untrue. She had seen portraits of Papa’s mother. The grandmama she had never met had light blue eyes in every painting. An ominous shiver rippled across her. The tawny amber of her eyes might have come by way of the rumor she’d overheard at Mama’s memorial.

  “I must speak with Lady Mercy. Have her meet me in her private sitting room at once.” The door pulled out of Janie’s hand and clicked shut with a firm thud that brooked no refusal of the order.

  Red-faced and frowning, Janie turned from the closed door and faced Mercy. “M’lady?”

  “Best do as he says.” Mercy clasped her hands tight in front of her to stop their shaking. She nodded toward a garment hanging on the side of the mahogany wardrobe filling one wall of the room. She had to remain calm. She had to appear pure and truthful. Above suspicion.

  She swallowed hard and did her best to settle her pounding heart as she slid her dressing gown off her arms and tossed it to the foot of the bed. Thankfully, both corset and shift were still in place.

  Without a word, Janie removed a simple gown from its hanger, gave it a snapping fluff, then hurried to slip the day dress over Mercy’s head. This was the garment Mercy wore on days she kept to her private rooms whenever they stayed in their house here in London. She smoothed her hands down the vibrant yellow panels of linen and cotton, bereft of lace, ribbons, and all manner of fussiness found on the dresses she wore when going out. Janie yanked the laces tight and secured the bodice, brushing out the skirts as she stepped away. Mercy pulled in another deep breath and forced herself to assume the calm grace she’d always seen in her mother. She could do this. She would see this through.

  “Shall I wait for you here, m’lady?” Janie looked ready to fight, hands fisted at her sides.

  Mercy laid a gentle hand to the girl’s arm and steered her to a chair next to a bay window looking out across the private gardens. Beside the seat stood a small, claw-footed, round table with a pitcher of water and several glasses. She poured a bit of the water into one of the glasses and handed it to Janie. “Wait here and have a sip of water to cool your temper. I’ll need your help to prepare for bed once I’ve finished speaking with Father. It’ll be all right, Janie. I promise.”

  “Yes, m’lady.” Janie accepted the glass, then bowed her head and set to rocking back and forth. “I’m such a disgrace to you as a lady’s maid, m’lady. I beg your forgiveness and thank you for your patience. You shouldn’t have to bother with the likes of me.”

  Mercy took hold of Janie’s shoulders. “You are a treasure to me, Janie. Someone I can talk to. Someone to trust. Now no more talk of being a disgrace.”

  Janie didn’t answer, just gave Mercy a noncommittal shrug and returned to rocking in place as soon as Mercy stepped away.

  Best get this done. With a slide of her palms against her skirts to rid them of their nervous dampness, she hurried to the door, then paused to breathe in a steadying breath as she held the latch. Help me, Mama. Please give me your strength and wisdom. She lifted her chin, set her shoulders to the poised position expected of a lady, and pushed through the door.

  Her father sat in one of the wingback chairs flanking the small mahogany table nearly buried beneath the books Mercy had left piled atop it. At the sound of her entrance, he looked up and smiled, or at least attempted a pleasant expression. Mercy recognized the familiar scowl of discontentment that had always hollowed out her father’s features and grown even darker since her mother’s death. It pained her no small amount to know that the mere sight of her fueled his irritation like wood thrown to red-hot coals. Yet another reason to hasten her departure and disappear. She did her best to set the feeling aside, forcing a vague, demure smile. Papa had to believe her an empty-headed female that thought of nothing other than dresses and invitations to parties. It was imperative to her plan. “Yes, Papa? You wished to see me?”

  “Yes, daughter.” He waved a hand toward the other wingback chair flanking the table of books. His gaze settled on the thick, leather-bound tomes. “I must say, quite an unusual choice of reading material for a young lady. Maps of Scotland, clans of the Highlands, and the history of abbeys and priories.” He paused for a deep sip of the golden liquid in the glass he always clutched in one hand until it was time for him to retire for the evening. He selected one of the larger books bound in black leather and squinted closer at the faded lettering on its spine. “Ah yes, and the Holy Bible, of course.”

  “Preparations for my trip, Papa.” Mercy lowered herself to the chair, perching on the edge of the seat. A proper lady never lounged back in a chair. She wished she’d returned the book about abbeys and priories back to the shelves. That book might draw too much scrutiny to her itinerary.

  Her father returned the Bible to the stack of books, frowning at the pile as though the mere sight of the collected readings disgusted him. “About your trip…” He leaned forward, cupping his glass of whiskey between both hands and scowling down at the shimmering liquid as though he hated it.

  Mercy’s thumping heart threatened to steal her breath. With a hard swallow, she tucked her fists against her middle and willed herself to remain calm. “Yes, Papa? It’s my understanding that all stands at the ready. We merely await the arrival of Master MacCoinnich’s brothers.”

  He looked up at her then, locking a piercing scrutiny upon her. His bloodshot eyes narrowed. “It is very important to me that Master MacCoinnich…” His words faded away and the down-turned corners of his mouth tightened and twitched as though he fought to speak in spite of some inner demon attempting to keep him silent. He trembled, his frustrated scowl growing even fiercer. “Master MacCoinnich must…”

  “Must what?”

  “He must grow measurably fond of you.” He downed the contents of his glass, rose stiffly from his seat, and shuffled across the room
to the table of bottles and decanters beside another wall of books.

  A sense of doom tightened in the pit of Mercy’s stomach. It was all she could do to keep her voice controlled and even. “Fond of me?” she repeated, nearly choking on the words. “What exactly do you mean, Papa?”

  The Duke of Edsbury refilled his glass, emptied it in one long drink, then filled it again. He meandered along the wall of bookcases, perusing the shelves as though looking for a nightly read. “It is important to me, daughter. Important that you are…accepted.” He turned toward her with a jerk. “I cannot begin to tell you how I have regretted the ill treatment you, your brother, and your mother—and myself, I might add—have received over the years.” He lifted his quivering chin and bared his yellowed teeth, biting out his words. “No amount of wealth or status protected the three of you from society’s cruelty. It failed to protect any of us—myself most importantly.” Pulling in a deep breath, he appeared to grow calmer. “But I mean to change all that.” He gave her a perfunctory nod. “So, you need to ensure MacCoinnich becomes enamored of you. You must understand my intent and obey me as your mother always did.”

  “Enamored of me?” The request pushed her to her feet and made her take a step closer to the door. “You wish a Scotsman to fall in love with me? Why?” What political game did her father play at, and how could the love of a Scotsman help him win it?

  The thought set her stomach to churning. This did not fit well with her plans at all. And now that Mama was gone, was Mercy expected to assume the role of primary pawn for Papa’s political scheming? How much had Mama endured because of Papa’s machinations? “How can you ask such a thing of me, Papa? How?” Did he possess no kind feelings toward her at all?