Highland Tides (6 page)

When she’d finished writing she asked. “And in what year?”

“In the year of Our Lord Fourteen Hundred and Twelve.”

She raised an eyebrow and wrote, “Evidently he is sticking to his story.” She hastily added
1412
in brackets next to her notation then did a quick calculation on the paper.
 

Three hundred and thirty four years!

The wig became heavier, the throbbing more intense. “You’re in remarkably good shape for a man of three hundred and thirty-four,” she quipped, instantly regretting the remark. Now he would know she didn’t believe him, and that she’d noticed his
shape
.

He picked up a chicken leg from a plate she hadn’t noticed on the bed and bit into the flesh. “Aye,” he rasped, licking the grease from his lips, his eyes fixed on her wig.

He took a sip of the coffee and grimaced. “What is this stuff?” he asked.

“Coffee,” she explained. “Tastes better if it’s hot.”

He eyed her as if he didn’t believe a word of it.

She’d rehearsed the questions she would ask him a thousand times over, now she couldn’t recall a single one. “How did you get to Culloden?” was what came to mind.

He was pensive for a moment or two. “In truth, I dinna believe I was ever at Culloden. I hae no memory of a battle, only of drowning in Corryvreckan and then waking up in the cell below. I was in chains and assumed I’d gone directly to Hades.”

She dipped the quill in the ink, but had no idea what to write. Her heart grieved for his undeserved torment.
 

He put the bone he’d picked clean back on the plate. “I ken ’tis difficult to believe. I can scarcely credit it myself, but ’tis the truth. At the time I drowned James Stewart was King o’ Scotland.”

She put the quill down, at a loss to explain the sincerity in his voice and in his gaze. “You aren’t aware James the First was assassinated?”

He unfolded his legs. “I ken it now, because George Robertson told me, and I must find out more.”

She hadn’t been totally untruthful about her interest in history. The sad saga of the Stewart kings was known to every Scot. “I can tell you. He was assassinated in February of Fourteen Thirty-seven by his uncle, Walter Stewart, Earl of Atholl, and the Earl’s grandson, Robert Stewart. The third regicide was Robert Graham.”

Braden’s brow was furrowed and he gripped the bed, his shoulders hunched. “Aye, and I must find out what happened to the woman who was betrothed to Robert Stewart.”

This was puzzling. “Why?”

“Margaret was my sister.”

She picked up the quill and made a note of his claim. It might prove an interesting twist to the story and his obvious anguish over this Margaret tore at her heart.

~~~

Charlotte deemed him a liar, or a lunatic. He sometimes feared madness had seized him, but he had to cling to what he knew to be true, no matter how incredible it seemed. He needed to gain her trust if he wanted her help. “Margaret was a sweet lass, youngest in the family, a tomboy with three older brothers. She didna deserve to be executed as the wife of a traitor. Robert Stewart came to Oban when she was twelve to sign the betrothal documents, but we never heard anything from him after that, as far as I ken.

“George told me Stewart was tortured to death after his capture. I canna bear the thought of the same thing happening to Margaret.”

Charlotte gaped at him, the ridiculous contraption teetering atop her head.

“I dinna ken what that is, Lady Charlotte, but it seems to me yer uncomfortable, so why not remove it?”

For a moment he feared she might burst into tears, but then she lifted the thing off her head and put it on the desk. “It’s a wig. My hair is a mess.”

To his eye, the lovely blonde curls were far preferable. “Yer hair is beautiful, Lady Charlotte. Best not to cover it.”

The urge to sift his fingers through the mass of curls was overwhelming, but he feared it might offend her. He’d rarely seen a woman without a head covering, but did that mean they’d allow their hair to be touched?

She picked up the quill, twirled it between her fingers, then set it down again. “I’m not aware that Robert Stewart was married,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t.”

“How can we find out?”

He suspected two reasons lay behind her hesitation—she didn’t believe his story and genuinely didn’t know. But she was visibly intrigued, drumming her long fingers on the desk. “You said the man you spoke to in the cells was George Robertson?”

“Aye. He told me his clan pursued and captured the assassins.”

“Clan Robertson was indeed credited with tracking down the regicides, but as to the details…”

“George recommended me to his chieftain at Dunalastair, but I dinna ken where it is.”

Her beautiful green eyes brightened, lifting his spirits. “I do, but it’s a long way from here. The elderly Robertson chieftain fought with the Jacobites and may not have survived.”

This brought up a question that bothered him. “Tell me about the Jacobites,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “You truly don’t know?”

“Help me understand.”

Braden had to be sure he’d understood. “Bonnie Prince Charlie is Charles Stuart, not a descendent of the same Stewarts of my day?”

Charlotte frowned. “Well, yes he is, from a junior branch of the line. They changed the spelling of their name to the French version.”

Braden scratched his scalp which seemed to be itchier by the minute. “Therefore he has the right to be king instead of the Hanoverian who’s king now.”

Charlotte made an unsuccessful attempt to tuck an errant curl behind her ear. “No. Charles Stuart is the son of James Stuart, half brother to Queen Anne who claimed the crown of Scotland when she died.”

Braden was still confused. “But ye told me Scotland and England combined into one kingdom.”

Charlotte got up from the stool and paced. “James the Sixth of Scotland became James the First of England when his cousin Elizabeth of England died.”

Braden’s mind rebelled. “I canna believe a woman ruled as Queen for so many years. Are ye sure that’s true? And she never married?”

Charlotte sat down again. “Oh yes. Elizabeth ruled with an iron hand, and in my opinion was a better monarch than many of the men who preceded her on the throne. However, as I told you, it was she decided the fate of Mary, Queen of Scotland, though the Scots had driven out the Catholic Mary eighteen years before her execution in Fifteen Eighty-Seven.”

“They beheaded an anointed Queen?” he asked, shaking his head.

Confusing as the history was, Braden admired Charlotte’s obvious intelligence. She had no hesitation expressing her opinions. It was refreshing. However the notion that many Scots now rejected the Catholic faith he espoused was difficult to swallow. He wasn’t sure what his opinion was of this Presbyterianism she spoke of. “And ye claim Elizabeth and Mary were cousins, yet Elizabeth had her beheaded?”

Charlotte put her elbows on the desk and rested her chin on her palms. “It’s complicated.”

His heart fell. She looked like an exasperated tutor trying to teach an awkward child. “I apologize I’m slow to digest all this.”

She smiled. “No. I don’t mind. It’s three hundred years of history you’re trying to comprehend.”

Hope flickered. Was she starting to believe him? “Let’s see if I understand then,” he said, holding up one finger. “Mary Queen of Scots had a son, James the Sixth of Scotland who was also James the First of England.”

“Right.”

He put up another finger. “Charles the First was his son, but he was executed by the Puritans.”

“Right.”

“’Tis a dangerous occupation, this kingship,” he quipped, sticking up a third finger. “Charles the Second was his son and he was restored to the throne, then lost it, then got it back.”

She grinned. “You were listening.”

Fourth finger. “Charles died without issue and his brother James became king, but he was driven out by the Protesters after three years.”

She clapped her hands together. “Protestants, but yes, now we’re getting to it.”

He stuck out his thumb. “William of Orange and his wife Mary were invited by the English Parliament to become joint monarchs because they were the grandchildren of Charles the First.”

“You’re amazing!”

He wanted to strut like a peacock. “Then Anne became Queen.” To his frustration, his memory failed. “What was her claim again?”

“She was a Stuart, the daughter of the James they kicked out.”

“Right.”

They laughed at the same time at this reversal of roles. Her bright smile fired his blood. “Then her half brother claimed the throne after her death, but it went to her cousin, the Hanoverian George, father of the George who is king now.”

She nodded vigorously. “Because the Protestants didn’t want a Catholic king.”

“So the half-brother, James, launched a rebellion in Seventeen Fifteen. It failed, and now thirty years later his son, Charles has failed again with his rebellion.”

“That’s it in a nutshell.” The grin disappeared from her face. “Except this time I fear the consequences for Scotland will be dire. The king’s brother, the Duke of Cumberland, believes any possibility of future rebellion should be stamped out. He’s bloody-minded. My uncle says there’ll be more widespread devastation and retribution than we’ve already seen.”

Braden thought of the wretches in the cells, but then it dawned on him what she’d said. “Yer uncle?”

Her face reddened. “You met him. The Duke.”

~~~

Charlotte sensed Braden had indeed not known of the complicated history of the Scottish monarchs. Her heart was starting to believe he’d travelled from the fifteen century, but her mind refused to accept it.

Retelling her country’s story had unsettled her. She was strongly on the government side, and was fully aware of the unsuitability of the wastrel Bonnie Prince, yet the Jacobites did have a legitimate claim to the throne.

Now she’d blurted out her identity. It was difficult to tell from Braden’s facial expression if he’d suspected her relationship to the Duke.

On top of that, she’d barely written a word. They’d spent hours in discussion, yet she knew little more about him. However, it had been stimulating. She was comfortable with him.

Her uncle had paraded many
eligible
young noblemen before her in the hopes of a
good
marriage, but she was more at ease with this rough diamond than with any of them. And nary a one had caused the peculiar sensations that crept up her thighs and into her womb when she raked her eyes over his braw body.

He’d a ready smile that sent hot and cold shivers up and down her spine, and he’d refrained from using the word
Bollocks
after her first look of indignation. Now she wished she hadn’t been so judgmental. It was a good word in that it conveyed exactly the speaker’s feelings. She couldn’t wait to see Augusta’s reaction when she blurted it out.

He’d mentioned his sister’s censure of the expression.

His sister. She’d forgotten his concerns. “Now you’re up to date, we must devise a way to find out about Margaret.”

His eyes lost their glow. “Aye. We must.”

She tapped her fingers against her chin. “The closest university is King’s College in Aberdeen, but that’s three days away, through territory where many fugitive Jacobites might be hiding.”

“Mayhap yer uncle will have a suggestion.”

She tried not to appear startled, but he wasn’t fooled.

“He isna aware ye’ve taken me under yer wing, is he?”

No point lying, Braden was too perceptive for that. “No, but perhaps it’s time to tell him.”

“Does he share yer interest in history?” he asked, locking his gaze with hers.

Had he guessed she was devising a plan to explain her rescue of Braden to her uncle? Did he sense she was hiding something?

She became nervous when he sauntered over to the desk and picked up the wig. “He’ll be angry. I should leave Inbhir Nis now. I dinna want to bring ye trouble.”

The prospect of losing him left her distraught. She grabbed the wig out of his hands and clamped it onto her head. “Nay. You’re not guilty of any crime, but it would be a punishment to cast you out now. Where would you go? You don’t know anyone in this cent—”

God help me, I do believe him.

She wondered if he smiled because he recognized her epiphany, or because the wig made her look ridiculous.

Of all the men in Scotland she was drawn to one who was more than three hundred years old—that was ridiculous, so she may as well look the part.
 

Charlotte hastened along the corridor to her uncle’s office, afraid she might be too late. Perhaps he’d already left for the midday meal. The wig teetered precariously, tempting her to toss the contraption to the floor.

She tapped on his door, relieved to hear his voice bid her enter.

His mouth fell open when he saw her.

The sergeant who served as his secretary rose too quickly, jostling his desk and causing the inkwell to clatter to the floor. He cursed under his breath as he fell to his knees to retrieve it. Black ink trickled out, staining his hands. He reached for paper to mop up the mess.

One of the two chained prisoners gaped at her wig, the other sniggered at the sergeant when he bumped his head on the desk. It dawned on her that the acrid odor filling the office emanated from the Jacobites. She thought of Braden who’d endured the stench of the cells. No wonder he feared he’d arrived in Hell.

She wrinkled her nose, toying briefly with the notion of offering the wig to the sergeant in lieu of a mop.
 

She’d come in search of her uncle’s favor, but had instead caused an embarrassing disruption. He scowled at her. “What is it?”

While she appreciated he hadn’t used her name in front of the prisoners, she didn’t recall him ever addressing her so abruptly. “My lord,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster. “I was hoping for a few minutes of your time.”

He drummed his fingers on his desk. “As you can see, I am rather busy. Can it not wait until luncheon?”