Highland Tides (3 page)

George chuckled.

Braden was elated he wasn’t being sent back to the hell-hole, nor to Tilbury, nor apparently to Maryland. As for this Bedlam the Duke spoke of, he’d no notion where that was. But best not to mention that if Ogilvie House was a ruin, he had no home to go to.

“Disappointed, Charlotte?” the Duke asked.

Engrossed in the interrogation papers he had given her the previous day, she hadn’t heard him enter the dining hall. Her breakfast lay untouched, and he’d obviously taken note of her pouting dismay. “No. The stories are interesting, if heart wrenching, and I believe you’ve been fair with the rebels. It’s that every account is more or less depressingly similar. It makes a person want to weep for Scotland.”

She didn’t admit that the Jacobites’ unwavering devotion to the cause of restoring Charles Stuart to the throne was almost enough to make a believer out of her—but then she knew of the Young Pretender’s darker side. “Have they tracked down the fugitive Bonnie Prince?”

Her uncle shook his head. “Not yet. There’s many a place to hide in the Highlands and many a loyal Jacobite who’ll risk his life for the cause.”

“Or
her
life,” Charlotte interjected.

 
Campbell smiled weakly. “Always the champion of the fairer sex,” he allowed. “We may never track him down, though Cumberland is determined.”

She noticed he held documents. “More of the same?” she asked.

“Pretty well. However, there was one bright spot in the morning’s darkness.”

Her hopes rose. “Something different happened?”

He sat in one of the King George style dining chairs, the sheaf of papers resting on his lap. “A lad from Oban.”

“Oban?”

“Or so he said. Ogilvie. I remember because he claimed to be a son of Ogilvie House.”

“But it has been in ruins for more than a century.”

“I know that, but he looked stricken when I told him, as if he hadn’t known.”

She gazed at the papers, inexplicably excited at the prospect of a hidden gem. “Will he go to Tilbury?”

He handed her the papers. “No. I freed him. They’re removing his shackles as we speak.”

She leapt out of her chair and grabbed the documents. “But if he was captured at Culloden—”
 

“He wasn’t, and George Robertson swore the lad isn’t a Jacobite.”

She thought to ask who George Robertson was, but what did it matter? Her uncle had obviously trusted his word. There was a more interesting question. “Then why was he in the cells?”

Her uncle rose, removed his uniform jacket and poured a coffee from the servery on the marble topped console. “It’s a good question. But a better one is why does he insist he and his brothers drowned in Corryvreckan and that James Stewart is still on the throne?”

Her first reaction was to laugh, but then she inhaled deeply, desperately trying to recall anything of the history of James the First, who’d ruled in fourteen hundred and something. She itched to read about a man who believed he lived in the fifteenth century. However, it was best not to show too much excitement lest it raise her uncle’s suspicions, though the urge to rub her hands together in glee was overwhelming. She had sensed there was a story to be found in the cells.

“He might be a simpleton,” he remarked.

She hadn’t considered that. Her hopes fell.

“His clothing bears it out. Looks like something our forebears might have worn hundreds of years ago. But for me the most perplexing thing is mariners in the straits near Argyll still tell the cautionary tale of three brothers who drowned in Corryvreckan hundreds of years ago.”

This was too intriguing to wait any longer. She rifled through the sheaf, resisting the urge to brandish the document when she located it. After scanning the brief account she asked, “Where will he go once he’s free?”

He regained his seat and sipped his coffee. “Damned if I know. Should be sent to Bedlam, but I can’t spare the men to take him there.”

She racked her brain trying to fathom how she might meet the young man who’d defied the odds and escaped the usual fate of those imprisoned in Inbhir Nis.

“Get thee gone,” the guard admonished once Braden’s shackles had been removed, but he remained hunkered down on the stone floor of the cells next to George, flexing his hands and lacerated wrists. “Ye saved my life,” he rasped. “I thank ye.”

It seemed a strange thing to be saying after he’d believed for so long he was already dead, but the interview with the Duke had brought home the reality—he had been carried three hundred years into the future and landed in the midst of a rebellion that had torn Scotland asunder.

He’d been set free, but had no inkling how he would survive or where he’d go in this strife torn land. Mayhap death would have been preferable.

George put a gnarled hand on his arm. “Ye must seek out my clan. ’Tis uncertain how many still live, but our chief, Alexander, dwells at Dunalastair. He’ll help ye if he’s able. Tell him o’ my fate and that I’m content wi’ it.”

The guard poked Braden’s shoulder with the stick he’d learned was called a musket. Reportedly it spewed fire and lead balls that tore into a man’s flesh. In his day the crossbow had been the most lethal weapon. According to George, the musket had been the undoing of the clans at Culloden. “That and the artillery guns,” he’d added.

He got to his feet, reluctant to leave the auld warrior, but George waved him away. “I’ll tell King James Stewart I met ye when I see him inside the pearly gates,” he quipped.

Braden climbed the narrow stone steps, his heart heavy at leaving Robertson and the other doomed prisoners, but elation soared when he reached the outdoor courtyard.

He raised his arms and filled his lungs. “I’ve no notion where Dunalastair is, nor how to get there,” he proclaimed to the wind and the sky, “but it seems I’ve been given a sign and I’ll follow it if I can.” He chuckled inwardly. “What’s the worst that can happen? I might die.”

But the first priority was a cleansing dip in a nearby stream.

~~~

Charlotte pressed her face to the window glass and craned her neck to keep an eye on the courtyard where she anticipated Braden Ogilvie would appear upon his release.

She’d despatched Simone to meet with him, but the maidservant hadn’t yet arrived. The French maid wasn’t known for her punctuality. And would she get the message right?

Suddenly a man emerged from the mean archway that led down to the cells. She gasped at first sight of the blonde giant, fogging the glass. Irritated at having momentarily lost sight of him she rubbed her forearm across the pane.

He tilted his head and looked to the sky, throwing his arms wide. She giggled. He rejoiced in his freedom. The smile died when her eyes fixed on the incredible breadth of his chest as he inhaled deeply. Her gaze travelled the length of his long, powerful neck. She swallowed hard when he smiled unexpectedly.

A knot tightened in her belly at what looked like cuts on his wrists and ankles, but then it came to her that his strong, powerful legs were bare to the knees.

He was a fine male specimen, but what on earth was he wearing? A ragged, old-fashioned
léine
, colorless plaid, and shoes that looked like something John the Baptiser might have worn.

Her heart plummeted. Her uncle had the right of it. A handsome, well-muscled simpleton.

When Simone strolled into view she was tempted to rap on the window and call her back, but the silly girl wouldn’t hear from two stories below.

He seemed startled when the maid spoke to him, but he bent his head politely to listen, nodding in apparent understanding as he adjusted his plaid on those enormous shoulders. A ridiculous surge of jealousy stabbed Charlotte. She should have gone to meet him personally, but that would have been unseemly.

Would he go with Simone as requested, or—

She stumbled backwards when he unexpectedly looked up, right at her window. What had Simone said? Had he seen her watching him? She took out the kerchief tucked into her sleeve and dabbed the beads of sweat on her forehead. No decent woman perspired, especially not because she’d set eyes on a—

She clamped a hand on the back of a chaise in an effort to stop the dizzying tremor that shook her. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Perhaps she was ill. Too long in this damp castle.

She hurried into the hallway and walked purposefully to the out-of-the-way chamber she’d had prepared—simply to make sure the servants had done an adequate job of filling the bath tub and laying out fresh clothing.
 

Inspecting the garments, it dawned on her the shirt and trews were too small. She hadn’t expected him to be so big. She gathered them up. Something more suitable would have to be found.
 

Another worry gnawed as she eyed the wooden bathtub the footmen had hauled up. It was doubtful his massive frame would fit. She giggled, picturing the blonde giant with knees bent to his chest in the hot water. She never giggled, but twice in the space of fifteen minutes she’d laughed like an empty headed ninny. A peculiar flutter winged its way up her thighs and into her most private place.
Crivvens
, she was perspiring again.

Hugging the unsuitable garments to her chest she hurried to the door, flung it open and collided with Simone.

Chatting with the lass who claimed to be a maidservant in his limited French was pleasant. At first Braden was sure he’d misunderstood her offer of a bath. Was this some new trick of the Devil? The jailer had told him to be gone, and he doubted the Duke had a tour of the castle in mind when he freed him.

However, the lass insisted, though she wrinkled her nose. He apologized, admitting his dire need of the bath she promised. Warily, he followed her into the Keep and up a flight of stone steps. Strange how he’d yearned to be outdoors yet the longing to be clean enticed him inside, or mayhap it was the alluring smile.

But who had sent her? Whoever it was, he was grateful to him. He fixed his eyes on the swish of the appealing
derrière
as she climbed the steps, but it occurred to his confused mind that in his day men didn’t send lasses to deliver their messages. Surely his benefactor wasn’t a woman?

The answer came when the door the maid led him to was thrust open and a woman rushed out holding a bundle of clothing which she dropped upon colliding with the French lass.

The servant swore in her language, then begged the other’s pardon and bent to gather the garments from the floor.

Braden came face to face with a woman of the nobility, a green-eyed blonde whose richly embroidered gown showed far too much of her admittedly astonishing breasts. If his sister had worn such a garment she’d have been sent packing back to her chamber.

Her curly hair was bound up tightly into a knotted affair on the top of her head. She wore no veil, only a narrow black ribbon laced into the knot. If he pulled the ends that trailed along her neck the tresses would likely cascade down over her shoulders, but he doubted she’d take kindly to him doing that.

She recovered quickly from her obvious shock at the unexpected meeting, thrusting her chin in the air, but the slight quiver of her open lips betrayed her discomfort. She wrinkled her nose, taking a step backwards into the chamber. “Take those away, Simone, and find something—” She glanced up sharply at him “—bigger.”

Simone made a hurried curtsey. “
Oui
, milady Charlotte.” Then she scurried away, leaving him alone with the stunningly beautiful Charlotte. He hesitated on the threshold, unable to think of anything to say, an unheard of predicament for the glib-tongued Braden Ogilvie. He’d an urge to tell her the pleasant hardening she’d aroused at his groin had convinced him he wasn’t dead, but she’d deem him a lunatic, or a pervert. Such a confession was hardly polite conversation, but then this was a peculiar situation. She too seemed at a loss for words.

He bowed. “I’m Braden Ogilvie, Lady Charlotte, and I apologize for my appearance. It’s been a while since I bathed.”

He rolled his eyes. Men didn’t speak of bodily needs to lovely young lasses.
 

She raked her gaze over his bedraggled clothing, blushing fiercely. He thanked the saints for his voluminous plaid when his arousal intensified, though he was painfully aware he must look like a beggar. Yet she seemed unable to take her green eyes off him.

“I’ve arranged a bath, Braden Ogilvie,” she managed, averting her gaze. “I’m aware you’ve been incarcerated.”

“Aye,” he replied, noting that she spoke in a similar manner to the Duke. “’Twas Hell.”

She fidgeted with the frilly stuff at the end of her sleeves. “I’m sure.”

“May I enter?” he asked, feeling like a dithering fool.

It seemed to dawn on her he was still on the threshold and smiled. For the first time some of the rigidity left her shoulders. She stepped aside and gestured towards the bathtub. “Of course. Please. Enter.”

He hesitated. In all his misbegotten life, he’d never been in a chamber alone with a woman, at least not a respectable one. “Mayhap I should wait until Simone returns,” he ventured, worried that a noblewoman would expose herself to censure. Things must have changed considerably in three hundred years. And why did she care if he bathed and wore clean clothing? He was nothing to her.

Her frown betrayed hesitation, and he suspected she was a woman who wasn’t comfortable with uncertainty.

“I dinna ken why ye are doing this for me, Lady Charlotte,” he said, “but I assure ye I dinna wish to cause any embarrassment.”

She gaped at him as if he’d spoken in Greek. He’d half a mind to turn tail and leave, but the steam from the hot water beckoned. “Would it be askin’ too much for a barber?” he asked. “To shave my head.” He scratched his scalp. “There’s critters living in the cells that have no place on a man’s body.”

She blinked rapidly, seemingly struck dumb, and he was convinced he’d lost his wits.
 

Good stuff, Braden. Nought more appealing than telling a woman ye’ve got lice.

To his immense relief, Simone reappeared with more clothing.