Sarah Gabriel (9 page)

“Laundry,” she said.

“What do you know about Spanish weapons?”

She nearly gasped aloud. If she gave him any clue that she and her kinsmen and Ian Cameron were searching for those weapons, and if he then learned her name, everything that her brother and the others had struggled toward would be destroyed. They would all be arrested…perhaps executed. Unless she could trust Fraser to keep it to himself—and that thought was preposterous.

“Spanish weapons?” She shrugged. “They are quite expensive, being imported from Spain. That’s all I know.”

“Spanish weapons,” he said, “hundreds, perhaps a thousand or more guns and such hidden away by Jacobites nearly ten years ago and recently found. I think you know where they are located.”

“If they were recently found, then why ask me?”

He sighed, then reached out and placed his hand over hers. The warm contact felt stunning in the darkness. Twisting the key, he took the heavy bracelets off, one by one, and pooled the chains and manacles on the floor at his feet.

“Thank you.” Kate rubbed her chafed wrists. “Why did you—”

“I was bewitched into it,” he said sourly. “But you’ll have those back on later. There’s a good deal more you can share with me, Marie-Katie-Katherine, and I’ll not let you go.” He spoke intimately, his voice a velvety caress.

“Not ever?” Her heart beat very fast now.

“Well, of course, when the Lord Advocate decides what’s to be done with you,” he said, waving his fingers in dismissal.

Kate sighed and settled into the corner by the window, leaning her brow against the window glass. Watching the landscape fly past, lulled by the motion of the vehicle, she glanced again at Captain Fraser. He appeared relaxed and lost in thought, legs extended, arms folded.

She studied his form, the square, broad shoulders, wide chest, and strong, taut limbs. If he fell asleep, she thought, then she would have a chance to get away.

But how? Was she brave enough, or mad enough, to throw herself out the door as Fraser had suggested? She did not think so, but she would not rule it out. Any risk was preferable to trial and incarceration.

Later she would consider the possibilities, she told herself. For the moment, she felt achy and exhausted. She closed her eyes, not wanting to think about Spanish weapons, or kinsmen and friends in danger. Nor did she want to think about the man who sat so close to her now, though her mind constantly returned to him.

She wanted only to sleep, and soon enough surrendered.

A
lec reached over to adjust Kate’s head to a more comfortable angle as she slept. He paused, tracing his fingertips over her cheek—her skin was incredibly soft, the shape of her face graceful in the moonlight. He was aware of his strong attraction to her and knew the trouble that could cause for both of them. Even without this complicated situation, he kept himself clear of deeper ties and feelings.

He had lost his heart once, and it had led to betrayal, then tragedy. The chances of that happening again were very remote—he had no other brother, and no former betrothed to jointly betray him—but he never wanted to feel that hurt again.

No matter the temptation, he must not develop ten
der feelings for this girl—not because she was his prisoner and likely a spy, but because he could care deeply about her, given the chance. He could love her, were she fairy queen or laundress. And that frightened him when little else did.

His thoughts in turmoil, he closed his eyes again but could not rest. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he retrieved the small, thick envelope that Jack had given him earlier. Another letter from his aunt. He had not yet found time to read it, but he already suspected part of its contents.

The envelope had a sweet odor, which Kate had detected when she had leaned against him. It could not be a good thing, he thought, for a man to walk about smelling of chocolate.

He undid the string and opened layers of brown paper. Inside lay a letter folded around a little packet wrapped in waxed paper. He opened it, peeled the wax covering away. A sweet, rich scent wafted outward that made his mouth water, but the dark, amorphous glob that fell into his hand would kill any appetite.

He rolled it between his fingers, grimaced, tucked it back into the waxy paper, and set it aside. The letter also reeked of cocoa as he scanned his aunt Euphemia’s flourished and formal handwriting.

Alec smiled. He did not doubt Lily’s delicate nature, but his aunt was robust, despite her claims to the contrary. She competently managed the household belonging to Alec’s late brother, Edward, and fostered Edward’s three orphaned daughters with bustling efficiency. Effie was married to Alec’s uncle Walter Fraser, and they now lived in the Edinburgh town house, Hopefield House, which Edward and Amy had preferred to Kilburnie, the family estate, because of its proximity to the business. Following Edward’s death, Alec had inherited both properties and the business as well.

As the younger son, all that had come to him upon the deaths of his parents had been a house on Kilburnie’s property and a share in the business. He had been content with that, but Edward’s death had left him greater shares of Kilburnie and Fraser’s Fancy, with considerable portions set aside for each of Edward’s daughters once they reached adulthood. Alec would not have quibbled had all of it been left to the girls—he
did not begrudge them a penny of the family fortune and had little use for luxury himself.

He did not visit either Kilburnie or Hopefield House often anymore, although military matters and holidays required that occasionally he visit the family town house. He possessed a fortune, a thriving business, a Highland estate, and a handsome town house, and he had family who cared a great deal about him.

Yet at times he felt alone, without a real home or close family. That was his own perception, he knew, for he had closed off his heart that much. Frowning, he looked at Effie’s letter.

At the bottom of the page, in a childish and ink-spotted scrawl, was another signature:

Rose Alexandra Fraser

Frowning, unwilling to admit how much the little signature affected him, Alec folded the letter quickly and tucked it, with the untasted chocolate sample, back into his pocket. He sighed and shifted on the bench seat. That single line of blobbed ink had wrenched his heart.

He was guardian to his three orphaned nieces, though he knew they were in better hands with Effie and Walter than with him. The business was in better hands, too, for his uncle had been devoted to the success of Fraser’s Fancies since its inception in his youth. Alec served only as a silent partner, issuing bank drafts as needed and acting as legal advisor. That suited him, but Walter and Effie were in their seventies now, and could not continue to watch the girls and tend the business indefinitely.

He should go back to Edinburgh, resign his commission, and take a larger hand in running the Fancies. He knew that day would come. But each time he saw Amy’s daughters, he felt such longing and loneliness that he resorted to keeping away altogether.

As for “eating chocolate,” Alec felt that, despite Effie’s fears, Walter’s dream had merit, given a good recipe. But so far that recipe had eluded his uncle.

Watching the landscape in the darkness, Alec realized he had not visited the Edinburgh town house since
midsummer. Edward had died months ago following a wound taken in a sword fight—though a skilled swordsman, his brother had lacked Alec’s level head. Edward’s quick temper, combined with a love of whiskey and late nights in oyster bars following Amy’s death in childbirth, had put him in one last predicament, a duel that he had not survived. Alec had been grateful when his aunt and uncle had offered to continue to manage household, children, and business, leaving him free to resume his military duties.

Though he was named heir to his brother’s estates and guardian to the girls, he could not nursemaid a pack of tiny females on his own. Nor did he want to be a chocolatier, but his father had trained both sons in the family business. That training and experience would suffice when he needed it.

Alec did not consider himself competent to raise children, especially small girls who had lost both parents within a span of three years. They needed more than he could possibly provide.

Despite her outward bristly quality, Euphemia loved the girls with a generous heart. Amy would have been glad to see her daughters raised with warmth and security. Alec, unmarried and a commissioned officer, could not provide that for them.

This time, when he returned to Hopefield House, he would arrive with a guest who refused to divulge even so much as her full name. He wondered how to explain her away to his family.

Kate gave a soft snore and slid sideways, her shoulder pressing his arm, her head tipping against his
chest. He let her rest there. Moonlight bathed her face so that she looked more like a fairy queen than a hellion or a spy.

He sighed. What the devil was he to do with Katie Hell?

She shifted in her sleep, and Alec settled his arm rather comfortably around her shoulders. The rocking of the coach brought them close together, and she snuggled against him.

Sitting with her in so cozy a fashion, he relaxed a little further. Feeling tired, he rested his chin upon her head and closed his eyes, enjoying the sway of the coach and the warm, sleepy weight of the woman against him.

She made a sound like a mewling kitten, her cheek resting on his jacket lapel, her breath tickling his chest, blowing warmth through the fabric above his waistcoat.

“Oh,” she murmured, her eyes still closed. Her hand lifted, her fingers splayed on his waistcoat. “You smell so nice.”

Alec glanced down. Her face rested inches from the pocket where he had tucked the wrapped chocolate.

He smiled and brushed a hand over her hair, quickly, almost furtively, so that she would not know, and he would not have to acknowledge it even to himself.

A sudden lurch of the post chaise startled Kate out of a soothing dream that was lost the moment her eyes opened. She sat up, mortified when she realized that she was leaning against Captain Fraser’s chest. His fingers cupped her head, but he was awake, tense and braced.

“What the devil—” he growled as the chaise careened sideways, undercarriage creaking. Kate bounced on the seat as Fraser held her tightly by the shoulder, keeping her in place. He peered through the window, twisting to view the road behind them as the vehicle skittered around a curve.

He swore under his breath. “We’re being pursued.”

“Who is it?” She craned her head to peer over his shoulder, the angle of the carriage on the road allowing a glimpse of the road behind them. For a moment, she saw the moving shapes of horses and men. “Red soldiers! Is that an escort?”

“No,” Fraser said. He rose from the seat, half-bent in the cramped space, swaying with every jounce of the chaise. Grabbing the door handle, he opened the door just enough to stick his head outside. “Jack!” he called. “Jack MacDonald!”

The next wild bounce of the post chaise threw Kate off the seat, and she fell in a heap on the floor. Fraser braced himself with a hand clamped over the doorframe. “Jack! Get off the main road!” he bellowed.

Trying to stand, Kate lost her balance and knocked into Fraser, who supported her with one arm while he pulled the door shut. With another bounce of the carriage, both of them tumbled onto the seat. Another sharp turn in the road tossed them into a corner, so that her cheek met Fraser’s. The raspy feel of his whiskered jaw, the hard brace of his arms felt secure—felt safe. She clung to him.

“Hold on,” he said—unnecessarily, as she had no intention of letting go just yet. “Jack knows the tracks
and paths in this area. He’ll lose those fellows in the darkness.”

The post chaise rumbled down a steep hill at a reckless pace, swaying dangerously. Sliding from the seat again, Kate felt Fraser’s hands around her arms, pulling her back into a hard, practical embrace. He leaned back to balance the wild rumbling of the chaise, which tilted down a steep incline.

“Your ghillie is a lunatic!” Kate looped her arms around his neck as the world tumbled and leaped around them.

“Fortunately,” he answered.

The chaise careened to one side, righted, and stopped. Kate heard the snorting and stamping of the horses, and heard the ghillie call out. “All’s well in there?”

“Aye,” Fraser called back, sitting up, one arm around Kate. “Are you hurt, lass?”

“I’m fine.” She sat up, limbs shaking, and pushed her hair out of her eyes, shoved her skirts down over her legs.

“Stay here.” He stood and opened the door, stepping out into the cool night air.

Not about to take orders, Kate followed, nearly tumbling to the ground when she discovered that the drop step was still up.

Fraser spun, caught her deftly, and set her on her feet, then turned her toward the ghillie. MacDonald clamped an arm around her shoulders, while Fraser walked away.

“He’s gone to look for them. You’ll stay here with me, Miss,” Jack MacDonald said.

Hearing the soft accent of a true Gael, Kate glanced at him in surprise. He smiled down at her. He was only a few inches taller than she and dressed in Lowland gear, yet in the moonlight, she saw a lean and muscular man, younger than she expected, with a startlingly beautiful face, clean-chiseled and perfect. And he looked familiar, which she had not noticed earlier upon hastily boarding the vehicle.

“We’ll wait here, you and I,” Jack said.

Nodding, still trembling, Kate glanced around. Fraser was nowhere in sight, and the post chaise had come to rest at the bottom of a long hill, which faced another steep hillside, forming a pass far below the level of the road. They had taken a drover’s track down the hillside. A thick fringe of trees and underbrush screened the gully from the road above.

Catching her breath, Kate realized that not only was Fraser gone—her confining chains were off, and she was outside. This might be her only chance to run. If MacDonald released her even for a moment, she could slip into the trees and disappear. She glanced at him again—and nearly gasped.

Now she knew him: MacDonald had been in the London court, too, as Fraser’s opponent in the swordsmanship demonstration.

Her thoughts whirled. This was trouble indeed.

Both Fraser and his ghillie could place her in the royal court, with access to the king—a true threat of
treason if Fraser also identified her as the girl who had come in disguise to his tent intent on stealing documents. All of it would spell Jacobite intrigue and danger for her and her kinsmen.

She looked around, increasingly desperate. In the darkness, she saw that a tangle of trees and underbrush edged the track that led through the hills. Black mountains thrust into the night sky, feathered with mist. Kate recognized the profile of those hills: they bordered Perthshire from the north.

Duncrieff Castle, her home, lay just west of those peaks, and not so far from here. A day’s walk between a gap in the range of hills would bring her to Glen Carran. Her brother, Robert MacCarran—chief of their clan—and several of their kinfolk would be at Duncrieff even now. Her sister, Sophie, had recently married Connor MacPherson of Kinnoull, whose Highland estate was not far from the family seat. Anywhere in that long, narrow glen, she would find kin and clansmen willing to hide and protect her.