Highland Tides (7 page)

Since she wished to invite Braden to the midday meal, this wasn’t an option. “Er, no. It’s urgent.”

He let out an exasperated breath as he came to his feet. “Sergeant, escort these men back to the cells. We’ll deal with them this afternoon. And send a servant to clean up the ink.”

The black-fingered sergeant glowered at the prisoners who made no effort to conceal their amusement as he shoved them out into the corridor. She too was tempted to smile. The man was unaware he’d smudged ink across his nose.

The Duke stared at her as he regained his seat. “I might ask why you’re wearing a formal wig in the middle of the day, but it looks uncomfortable, not to mention slightly ridiculous. Why don’t you take it off and tell me what you want?”

The headache disappeared as soon as she lifted the thing off her head. He didn’t look pleased when she plopped it down on his polished desk. Lacing her fingers together, she decided to be forthright, or at least as forthright as circumstances allowed. It was imperative she not reveal her secret identity. “I wish to speak to you of Braden Ogilvie.”

He furrowed his brow. “Who is Braden Ogilvie?”

She recognised the moment he remembered. His frown deepened. “The prisoner from Oban?”

She inhaled deeply in an effort to calm the pulse leaping in her throat. “He’s no longer a prisoner. You found no guilt in him and ordered his release.”

His face reddened. “I sent him on his way.”

“I couldn’t allow that.”

She’d seen illustrations of Vesuvius erupting and feared steam and molten lava might pour forth from her uncle as he got to his feet. “What exactly do you mean by that, young lady?”

She swallowed hard, ignoring the discomfort of her fingernails digging into her flesh. “It would have been against the teachings of our Savior to cast out an innocent man with no means of sustenance and no proper clothing. He’d languished unjustly in your cells and didn’t deserve to suffer further.”

“Therefore you took it upon yourself to save him, a lunatic who claims to be three hundred years old?”

“He’s not a lunatic,” she murmured.

He pressed his knuckles to the desk and leaned forward. “And how would you know this?”

If she gripped the desk it would appear confrontational, but she desperately needed something to hold on to. It was vital her uncle approve of Braden, though she didn’t understand why he’d suddenly become much more important than providing fodder for a simple novel. Her eyes fixed on the slowly spreading pool of black ink. “I interviewed him. We had a long discussion on the topic of the Scottish monarchy, and I explained the Jacobites, and he’s very intelligent, and I—”

The Duke held up a restraining hand as he slumped into his chair, gazing at her in amazement. “Where did this interview take place?”

“I secured a chamber for him, and provided a bath and sent Daniel to shave—”

“
My
valet?” he shouted. “You instructed my valet to shave a prisoner, probably with my razor?”

“I must admit I didn’t give any thought—”

Vesuvius erupted. “Of course you didn’t, but then you rarely do,” he yelled, his face crimson. He dug his fingertips into his forehead. “I suppose it’s my fault. With no children of my own, I have no experience bringing up young women.”

Charlotte had long believed her handsome uncle would make a wonderful father. “One day you’ll marry, Uncle, and—”

His glower silenced her. “We are not discussing my future. It’s yours that’s at stake here, miss. You’ve spent time in this man’s chamber with only servants present.”

For the first time it struck Charlotte that she’d allowed the persona of Charles Tobias to influence her better judgement. She wasn’t a man, only masquerading as one with her
nom de plume
. “Actually,” she whimpered, “there were no servants for most of the morning.”

He leapt to his feet, buttoning his uniform. “I’ll have him arrested.”

“No,” she shrieked. “He’s done nothing wrong. I am solely to blame, and he was a perfect gentleman. Please, allow me to bring him to luncheon. You’ll see.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Gentleman or no, you’ve saddled yourself with him now, my lass. Your mother must be turning over in her grave.”

Charlotte wasn’t sure what he meant. Her clandestine publishing endeavors were more likely to cause her mother’s outrage beyond the pall. “Do I have your permission to bring him?”

He looked bleak. “Yes, but take that blasted wig off my desk, and do something with your hair before you appear in the Dining Hall.”

Braden paced the small chamber, fearing he was drowning again. He’d always had an eye for the lasses, and courted more than a few, but he’d never been swept away by need of a female before. He’d travelled three hundred years to meet a woman who fired his blood like no other. Charlotte had been gone less than an hour and already he craved her return.

He was afraid once the Duke got wind of his presence and what had transpired after his release, she’d never be allowed to see him again. The notion filled him with desolation, perhaps because she was the only person he could depend on in this century.

Nay, if he’d got the measure of Charlotte, she was too feisty to allow her uncle to dominate her, though mayhap she’d have no choice. He wondered what had become of her parents.

He went to the garderobe and inspected his appearance in the mirror in case the Duke allowed him to attend the midday meal.
Luncheon
she’d called it.
 

The red woollen doublet suited him and looked mighty fine with the frilled shirt. He was getting used to the trews, especially once he’d figured out the braies were meant to be worn beneath them. He chuckled. His
bollocks
nestled nicely in the silky material. The boots were certainly more comfortable than anything he’d ever worn.

Now if his hair would grow he’d look less like a new hatchling.

He hurried back into the chamber when he heard the door open. Resolved to tell Charlotte of his attraction to her, he stopped abruptly. She’d coiled her hair back into the tight round thing atop her head and changed her clothes. Her spine was rigid, her mouth drawn. He sensed her tension, perhaps because she wasn’t alone. Simone accompanied her.

Disappointment flooded him. Had she come to say goodbye? He attempted a smile. “Lady Charlotte.”

“Mister Ogilvie,” she replied stiffly, reaching for something the maid held in her hands. “We’ve brought a bonnet for you to wear to the luncheon.”

Relief surged through his veins. The Duke had given permission, but that didn’t mean he was pleased. Charlotte’s demeanor seemed to suggest she was upset. And the bonnet! Braden had expected a simple woolly tam.

At Simone’s urging he sat on the edge of the bed while she perched the stiff blue hat on his head. “
Voilà
,” she exclaimed. “Very
‘andsome
.”

Charlotte shooed her away. “You do look rather splendid,” she cooed, fluttering her eyelashes in an uncharacteristic manner.

She’s jealous of the maid.

A spark of hope kindled in more than just his heart. “Am I to be allowed to accompany ye?”

“Aye,” she murmured. “But he’s not happy. However, I’m confident you’ll win him over.”

The spark caught fire. It sounded like he’d succeeded in winning her over.

~~~

As Charlotte expected, her uncle looked far from pleased when she entered the dining hall on Braden’s arm. It was of some satisfaction, however, that his anger seemed tempered by a hint of surprise. Her braw Highlander now looked far different from the last time the Duke had set eyes on him. She’d at first been hesitant to accept his arm when he proffered it, fearing he might turn out to be some imaginary being. But his muscles were like iron and she relished his strength.
 

In a clipped voice her uncle bade them sit, then took his place at the head of the table.

Braden pulled out her chair, and then did the same for her sister.

She’d forgotten Augusta would be present. Predictably, she ogled Braden, holding out her gloved hand. “Augusta Tremayne,” she gushed before she took her seat beside Charlotte. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

Braden gaped at her, evidently missing her meaning. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of the Duke’s mouth.

“May I introduce a friend,” Charlotte said to her sister. “Braden Ogilvie.”

To her relief he understood the sharp glance she directed at his bonnet. He hastily removed it, clutching it to his chest before kissing Augusta’s hand.

“Charmed,” her sister replied in a sultry voice, her eyes widening at the sight of his shaved head. “Where have you been hiding this handsome friend, Charlotte?”

The Duke cleared his throat. “We’ll say grace.”

Braden took the chair across from Charlotte, bowed his head and made the sign of the Savior’s cross, his eyes tightly closed while her uncle intoned his favorite prayer of thanks.

Augusta eyed him curiously, obviously wondering what a Papist was doing in their midst.

Charlotte was suddenly too hot. She would have to educate her protege on religious matters, but she relaxed as servants brought the soup, sliced cold meats, wine and bread.

Braden looked relieved when a maid took his bonnet.

At first she found the attention Augusta paid to their guest rather amusing. The silly woman would have run a mile in the opposite direction if she’d set eyes on him when he emerged from the cells.
 

But soon the false tinkling laughter became irritating. And did her sibling have to make her eyes overly round when she spoke to him?

Had her uncle noticed how Braden followed her lead with the utensils? If she suddenly had to share a meal with people three hundred years in the future, she’d be a nervous wreck, yet he seemed to be taking it in stride, smiling politely in response to Augusta’s endless chatter. She took comfort in recognizing that, in contrast, the smiles he occasionally bestowed on her seemed genuine.

As the soup bowls were being cleared away, the Duke broke his silence. “We must speak of the future, Ogilvie.”

She was probably the only person to notice a slight tic worry Braden’s right eye. She understood. The past was more important to him.

He shifted his weight in the chair. “Ye’re right, my lord Duke, the future is of concern, and I thank ye for welcoming a stranger to yer table. ’Tis true Highland hospitality.”

Augusta gaped, evidently as enthralled as she by the deep sincerity in his husky voice.

The Duke frowned. She understood his reaction too. Braden’s life had depended on their last interview.

“However, as ye can imagine, there are things from the past I need to know before I can look to the future.”

Augusta’s fork clattered to the plate, then somersaulted to the floor. She blushed, mumbling an apology. A servant discreetly fetched a replacement.

“What
things
specifically?” the Duke asked.

“I must find out what happened in the aftermath of the assassination of James Stewart.” He glanced at Charlotte. “It has a bearing on my family.”

Augusta’s eyes darted to her uncle, to Braden, to Charlotte then back to the Duke. “I haven’t a clue what’s going on,” she complained. “Who on earth cares what happened hundreds of years ago?”

Charlotte was enjoying her sister’s consternation, but had to admit relief when her uncle came to the rescue. “These are important matters, Augusta. If you have nothing constructive to contribute, you may as well leave.”

“But I haven’t had my liqueur yet,” she whined.

“Then please sit quietly,” he retorted.

“Charlotte tells me the closest university is in Aberdeen,” Braden said.

The Duke waved his hand. “That’s too far in these dangerous times. Besides, I’ve a man temporarily billeted with his troops near here who probably knows more than most about those days. He’s a Robertson, but fought with us against the Jacobites.”

Braden frowned. “Then clans weren’t united in the side they supported? George Robertson told me some of the story.”

“He saved your life, young man, by vouching for you. And yes, sons fought against fathers.”

Augusta came to her feet, throwing her napkin to the table. “I don’t understand a word of this conversation. Have my
Vespetrò
sent to the solar.”

She stomped out, nose in the air.

“I regret causing any upset,” Braden said.

The Duke smiled. “Don’t be concerned for Augusta.” He winked at Charlotte. “She thrives on tantrums. I’ll send word to John Reade to join us for dinner.”

“You said his name was Robertson,” Charlotte said.

“It was. He changed it to Reade in honor of an ancestor who was a chieftain.”

Several hours later everyone assembled around the same table where they’d eaten luncheon, except it had somehow been made larger, and they had a guest. Braden was impressed with eighteenth century furniture. The woods were rich and dark, the upholstery thick and comfortable. Every table and chair was embellished with ornate gilt work or carvings.
 

As dinner progressed, John Reade’s perusal made him uneasy, but he had a suspicion anyone who fell under the man’s keen eye would feel uncomfortable.

Their guest wore a uniform similar to the Duke’s, and his grey hair was styled the same way. Braden had learned from Charlotte that it was a wig her uncle wore.

Men and women of this century seemed fascinated with wigs. Charlotte had donned the peculiar powdered contraption she’d worn earlier. Incredibly, two ornamental birds now clung to it, one blue, the other pink.

Given the grey wig, it was difficult to guess John Reade’s age. According to Charlotte, he’d commanded a regiment during the uprising, but it transpired his father had also taken an active part in the fighting. He couldn’t be more than a score and ten.

The talk initially was of the man’s keen interest in music. He was a composer and played the flute.

That reminded Braden of something he’d been told as a youth. “They say King James Stewart, er James the First, was a fine musician. He too played the flute, drum, organ and lyre.”