by Amy Jarecki
Each night with the house dark, John had stopped by the library to review his correspondence. And it didn’t escape his notice that on both occasions letters had shifted on his writing table.
He’d also cracked open the door between their chambers and checked on Evelyn. She didn’t wait up for him as Margaret used to, which was probably for the best. In the mornings he left before she ventured below stairs to break her fast. The lads, too.
On the third day when the queen complained of a megrim, every man on her cabinet encouraged her to take to her bed, and today it was early afternoon when John handed Swenson his hat and gloves. “Where might I find Her Ladyship?”
“She’s out. Took the dog for a walk.”
“Dog?”
“Indeed.” The butler grimaced. “She sent for her beloved Corgi yesterday. A geriatric mongrel that looks like an overstuffed haggis. The house is already overrun by fur.”
“Brutus.” How could John forget? The mutt might be a bit long in the tooth, but he knew how to use those teeth.
“That’s the one.”
“I suppose if the dog makes her happy, we ought to make amends.”
“And feed the damned beast?”
“Aye, that, too.” John started for the stairs but stopped before he reached for the first step. “Who is accompanying Lady Mar on this walk?”
Swenson’s face blanched. “Beg your pardon, m’lord, but she said Brutus was deterrent enough and she wanted to spend some time in quiet reflection.”
Though John had firsthand experience with the Corgi’s bite, the dog would be no match for a musket ball or the blade of a man’s dagger. She was the bloody Countess of Mar, and as the wife of a cabinet minister, she needed a more reliable escort than an old hound. The back of his neck burned. He’d have a word with Evelyn in her chamber. “Thank you. Will you please have Cook prepare luncheon?”
“Straightaway, m’lord.”
“Da!” Both lads barreled down the stairs.
“We saw the carriage from the window,” said Oliver.
John grasped each of his sons by the shoulder and headed for the dining hall. “’Tis good to be home. Come, tell me what you’ve been up to whilst I’ve been at court.”
“Countess has a dog,” said Oliver.
Thomas ran his fingers along the wall. “But he growls a lot.”
“Perhaps we can remedy that. I’ll wager Cook has some scraps of meat and if we hand-feed him, he’ll come around.” John made a mental note to ensure that happened as soon as Evelyn returned.
“By the way, I’ve noticed the missives on my writing table have shifted. Do either of you lads ken about that?”
Thomas dashed from beneath John’s arm and climbed onto a chair. “I saw Countess in the library. I think I startled her.”
“But you know not to touch any of my correspondence? Aye?”
“I didn’t touch anything.”
“I wasn’t even in there,” said Oliver.
“Good.” John took his seat at the head of the table while two footmen delivered a pitcher of water, three glasses, and a tray of assorted sliced breads and cheeses. “Now, why are you referring to Her Ladyship as Countess?”
Thomas reached for the pitcher, which was immediately relieved from his hand by a footman. “She asked us to think about what we’d like to call her since she’s not our real mother—remember, we men discussed it as well?”
John sat back while the footman filled his glass. “Did she give you any suggestions?”
Thomas shoved a slice of cheese into his mouth. “She just told me she thought it sounded too stuffy for us to call her m’lady all the time.”
“I see.”
“I asked, ‘What about Countess?’ and she said that was a possibility, so I told Oliver that’s what we were going to call her from now on.”
“Aye.” Oliver snatched a slice of cheddar. “But I’d rather call her Tessie. That’s even more friendlier than Countess.”
“The proper form is simply friendlier,” John corrected.
The youngest looked up, his face incredibly sober. “But I wanted my idea to sound bestest.”
“Of course you did.” To keep from bursting out with a belly laugh, John frowned and stuffed a large bite of bread into his mouth.
Seated at his place at the rear of the coffeehouse, Mr. Dubois scrawled on a slip of parchment. “Hawk, Sharpe, and Richards, did you say?”
“Yes. They’re the queen’s spies in the Netherlands—but Anne’s representatives are Bishop Robinson and Lord Stafford. Neither the courtiers nor the papers have mentioned these other men. I’m convinced they are embroiled in a plot to ensure King Louis recognizes Anne as queen once and for all.”
“If he does, then our cause will be all the more difficult when the time of the succession comes.” The Frenchman scribbled, sweat beading above his lips. “And the ships? But first, I must know the most critical ports.”
“Well, the majority of the fleet are in ports along the eastern seaboard—Hull, Newcastle upon Tyne, and Port Chatham, of course. Portsmouth is well guarded. The west has fewer, but aside from Edinburgh, there are hardly any ships patrolling Scotland.”
“I need more. Can you bring me that document?”
“Mar might suspect—”
“Copy it, then,” Mr. Dubois clipped. “This information will be invaluable.”
“I think I can do that.”
“You must.”
Evelyn gripped her fingers around Brutus’s lead. She’d never seen Mr. Dubois so keenly agitated, but if her efforts would help the Jacobites come to a peaceful resolution as to the succession, then she would do whatever she could to assist them.
She stood. “I’d best hasten away, then.”
The table leg screeched against the floor while the Frenchman lumbered to his feet. “When will you have my information?”
Clutching the lead over her heart, she blinked. “Your information?”
“I’m certain you understand what I meant, my lady.”
Though she did, this entire meeting didn’t sit well. This was the first time Evelyn suspected Mr. Dubois might be withholding important information from her, and she didn’t like it.
With a rustle of skirts, she curtsied and said her good-byes, pulling Brutus along behind. Perhaps she was just being overly sensitive. It had been easy to do a bit of snooping in her father’s house. She knew his comings and goings as well as the servants’ routines. But everything was foreign in Mar’s town house—as foreign as Scotland.
Chapter Thirteen
It was late afternoon when, from the library window, John had watched Evelyn return home with her dog. At the evening meal she mentioned neither her outing nor Brutus. With the lads present, John kept mum. He didn’t want to appear to chide her in front of the boys. Besides, it was best to discuss their differences behind closed doors. Nonetheless, Her Ladyship was not only a countess, she was now the wife of one of the most influential men in Britain. If she enjoyed walking the Corgi, she needed to do so with an escort, no question.
“Do you have a moment?” John asked, popping his head through the door to her chamber.
She looked up from reading a book on the settee in front of the fire. “Of course, my lord.”
At her feet, Brutus growled.
John moved inside and gave the dog a morsel—which stopped the growling for three ticks of the clock. “I must apologize for being away so soon after our wedding.”
Grrrrr.
Evelyn ignored the rudeness of her canine. “It couldn’t be helped.”
“No, but it still doesn’t make it right.” John grabbed the growling mutt by the collar, escorted him into his chamber, and pointed to a meaty bone. “See if that keeps you entertained, ye flea-bitten mongrel.”
Evelyn gave John a half-amused, half-questioning look when he returned.
“Och.” He shrugged. “There cannot be two masters of the castle. ’Tis best early on to show Brutus his place in the scheme of thi
ngs.”
“Oh?” she asked, setting the book aside. At first she met his gaze, but slowly her attention meandered lower…then stopped at his sporran.
Except he wasn’t wearing his sporran.
John glanced downward as well. The minx looked directly at his loins. “Aye, well, ’tis a fair bit easier to talk when the wee hound isn’t growling in the background.” John moved in front of the hearth and rested his fists on his hips. He wasn’t about to let his wife flummox him. “Speaking of the dog, you took him for quite a long stroll this afternoon.”
“I did.” Again, Her Ladyship’s stare traveled from John’s head, to his chest, and this time there was no question, her gaze bloody well stopped and gaped at his loins. Even her tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth. “Brutus needed to be exercised,” she said like an innocent nymph.
“Hmm…” John rubbed his neck and looked away—she’d moved the sunflower from the window to the seat in the embrasure. Damnation, it was difficult to concentrate on what needed to be said when the lass was distracting him. “I ken the dog is your beloved pet and he needs to be walked, but I must ask that in the future you take along an escort whenever you step out.”
In a blink, Evelyn’s gaze shot to his face. “Escort?” she asked as if his request were ludicrous.
“Och aye. You’re not only a countess, you are the wife of one of the queen’s cabinet members. I do not care to own to it, but I have my enemies, and if any one of them realized you were out and about with that wee beastie, you might be kidnapped or worse.”
“Good gracious, I hadn’t thought about that.”
“I’m surprised your father let you wander about Town with only the dog in tow. And you, a highborn lassie.”
Evelyn looked away.
“Your da didn’t ken you went out alone, did he?”
Nodding, she smoothed her palm over the book at her side. He sensed she had a hundred things to say but chose to hold them all in.
John stepped up and raised her chin with the crook of his finger. “Promise me you’ll be more careful in the future.”
“I will.” Her gaze dipped again.
Holy hellfire!
Cupping her cheek with his palm, John grinned, unable to remember the second matter he’d come in to discuss. “Is there something beneath my kilt that has captured your interest, lass?”
“Um.” She turned as red as the wool of his plaid. “I was wondering…”
“Aye?”
“Never mind. I-I cannot utter it.”
“Look at me,” he said, needing those vibrant eyes on him again. But this time he wanted to acknowledge her not-so-subtle interest. As she looked up, the heat swirling in his loins made him lengthen with the tug of desire.
Gently, he dipped his chin and plied her delicate lips with a kiss. “Behind closed doors is the only place you are free to ask me anything.”
“I may?”
“Aye.” He waited for a moment, but when she remained silent he added, “I like it when your gaze rakes along my body.”
“You do?”
“It makes me feel like a man—as if you desire me.” He took a seat beside her and twirled a lock of her hair around his finger. “Tell me now, wife, what were you thinking when your eyes meandered to my kilt?”
“Well, if you promise not to be cross with me.” If a scarlet blush could deepen, Evelyn just grew redder. “Ah…I-I was wondering if it, that, um, your…” Her gaze dipped. “Ah…was stiff as an iron rod all the time?”
Unable to help himself, he threw back his head and laughed from his belly. “Most of the time my cock, if you will, is more like a sausage, as is every other man’s. Though when a woman shows her interest—as you just did—it lengthens like a stallion near a mare in heat. Would you like to watch it grow even more?”
She smiled. “Now?”
“The hour is late. There’s no one here but us.” He spread open his plaid, revealing himself, already well on the way to being fully erect. “There should be no secrets between husband and wife.”
Her wee gasp went straight to his balls. “I think it…ah…your…yes, no question, that is quite amazing.”
Who knew Evelyn would take to lovemaking with such curiosity? “Do you want to touch me?”
“May I?”
“It would send me to the stars if you did. Grip it firm but do not squeeze—’tis the most sensitive place on a man.”
His thighs quivered as she wrapped her fingers around his shaft, her lips parted as if she were discovering the secret of wisdom and truth.
John watched her examine and toy with him, being ever so gentle. Mayhap the secret of passion.
“Like this?” she asked.
He gripped his hand over hers and showed her how to pleasure him. “Like this. All the way up and all the way down.”
John dropped his head to the back of the couch and moaned.
Evelyn’s hand stilled. “Am I hurting you?”
He studied her through half-cast eyes. “Nay, just driving me to the ragged edge of madness.”
She grinned. “Am I?”
“Come here.” He pulled her to straddle his lap and pushed up her skirts. “I sense you like being in control, do you now, lassie?”
Those turquoise eyes grew dark as he bared her sex. “I do,” she whispered breathlessly.
“Then ride me,” he said, brushing himself across her sensitive flesh.
“Here?”
He slid a finger into her hot, wet core. She was ready, and on the verge of panting. “Aye,” John growled, coaxing her over his cock.
Her wee gasps and mewls made heat swirl in his balls, made him thrust like a wild man. Grasping his shoulders, Eve held on and rode him like an untamed lioness. John gritted his teeth and made himself wait until her eyes opened wide with lust and she cried his name. Only then did he let loose his ravenous desire, throwing his head back and plunging deep into her core. As he bellowed with his release, she claimed his mouth with a deep, frantic kiss.
For the first time in his life, John stayed hard and pleasured her again and again until finally, soaked with sweat, Eve curled into his arms and slept.
He kissed her temple. She mightn’t be his Margaret, but the lass was gifted in the bedchamber beyond his wildest imaginings.
The mantel clock chimed one in the morning when John carried Evelyn to her bed, tucked her in, and kissed her cheek. “I think we will be happy, wife,” he whispered as she rolled to her side.
Tiredness weighed in his bones, so much so, he considered climbing in and sleeping beside her. But no, he mustn’t. That was where he’d always slept with Margaret—in the countess’s chamber. Making love with Evelyn was one thing—after all, John wanted more children and they may as well have fun creating them—but he drew the line at emotional entanglements. He’d already fallen in love once in his life, and once had been quite enough.
Chapter Fourteen
John looked up from his writing table as Swenson opened the door. “The Duke of Kingston-upon-Hull is here to see you, m’lord.”
“’Tis unusual for him to come without sending advance notice.” John rested his quill in its holder. “Did he state the nature of his visit?”
“Only that he needed a word forthwith. Shall I show him in?”
“Please do.”
By the time John rose, straightened his cuffs, and squared the plaid across his shoulder, Hull boldly strode through the door with a scowl. “This Scottish piracy had best stop, else I’ll be ruined for the rest of my days.”
“Piracy, Your Grace?” John asked, looking beyond the duke. Evelyn stood in the corridor with her mouth agape. Frowning, he gave her a subtle shake of his head. This obviously was no social call. “Swenson, leave us and close the door, please.”
Once they were alone, he turned to the duke and gestured to a chair. “If you will have a seat.”
“Sit? Who can sit at a time such as this?”
“Of course.” John leaned against a bookcase,
crossing his arms and ankles. He’d lost count of the number of nobles who’d barged into his home and blamed him for all manner of Scottish anarchy. “Tell me, exactly what have my countrymen done now?”
“Bloody thieves, the lot of them.” Hull paced while John considered slipping his toe out and tripping the man. The duke might be the father of his wife, but he had no patience with any fellow who waltzed into his house spewing barbed accusations about Scotland. “They’ve plundered one of my ships—laden with Spanish gold, mind you.”
“Spanish gold?” asked John. “Exactly who was pirating whom?”
“Hold your tongue. You know as well as I of the peril my ships face on the high seas.”
“Very well, let us report your losses as a chest of gold and omit ‘Spanish’ to avoid suspicion.” John moved to his writing table and reached for a sheet of parchment. “What would you say the cargo is worth?”
“Priceless.”
“I need a number.”
“Upwards of five hundred thousand pounds.”
“Good Lord,” John said as he wrote. “Who knew you had a king’s ransom of gold aboard…which ship?”
“The…ah…Flying Robin. No one in Britain knew the value of its cargo aside from the captain of the ship and my factor.”
John stilled his quill. “And the Spanish.”
“Spain will never catch wind of what really happened.” Hull paced, rapidly rubbing his signet ring on his lapel. “Their plundered ship is at the bottom of the Caribbean Sea—not a soul survived.”
“Let us keep that bit of information between us.” John looked up, frowning. He dipped his quill in the ink. “What else did you say was in the Flying Robin’s hold?”
“Rum and coffee, but the goods are all accounted for.”
“Then someone knew.” And John doubted it was a Scot. “Do you have possession of a manifest or any document mentioning the gold?”
“I received a letter from Captain Henry advising of the shipment and requesting finder’s terms.”