The Highland Earl

by Amy Jarecki

  “I ken what’s right.”

  “Thank God someone does. I am in your debt, my friend.”

  “Och, ’tis I who should be thanking you. With your background on Anne’s cabinet, I reckon you’ll make a fine leader when the time comes to raise the standard for James.”

  So that’s why the marquis had come to their rescue. “Are you not putting the cart afore the horse?”

  “I’m planting a seed—one that’s long overdue.”

  John snorted. He and Evelyn had a good long ride ahead of them, which, with luck, would afford him plenty of time to think.

  Tullibardine looked on while John bent forward and laced his fingers to make a step. “My lady.”

  Evelyn still hadn’t come to grips with her husband’s change of demeanor, but she liked it—almost hoped this time of danger might never end. “It’s already past six. Do you think we’ll make it all the way to the cottage by dark?” Even though sunset wouldn’t be until eleven, they had an arduous journey ahead.

  “Not afore dark, but I ken the way—and we’ll not stop unless you’re fond of sleeping in the rain.”

  Evelyn looked up. The blue skies from earlier in the day had been replaced by ominous clouds—and it had rained a bit while they’d eaten a meager meal of oatcakes and cheese. “I think we’ll end up wet no matter what.”

  “She’s right. I reckon the rain will be upon us within an hour, perhaps two,” said Tullibardine.

  John moved to the packhorse he’d purchased, now laden with supplies acquired from the only shop in Callander. He pulled out two oiled tarpaulins, shook one, and handed it to her. “Drape this over yourself. You’ll stay warm and dry, as well as keep the ticks off.”

  “Ticks?”

  “Aye. We’re heading into the Highlands, lass. Many of your countrymen cannot manage to follow a Scotsman up there due to the perils. ’Tis why it is the best place to hide.”

  “Lovely.”

  “I can take you to Blair Castle,” suggested the marquis. “You could pose as Lady Tullibardine’s maid.”

  “I am not about to tuck my tail and hide. Especially not when this mess is my fault.” And she wanted to be with John. How could she possibly leave his side when they were only beginning to make amends?

  The marquis patted her horse’s neck. “Och, Argyll would have found a reason to dirk Mar in the back no matter what.”

  “Thank you for the offer, my lord. But I will not abandon my husband.”

  Mounting, John slid into his saddle. “Ye say that as if I’m helpless.”

  “Hardly.” She tapped her riding crop and started off. “Shall we?”

  “Aye, but you’re headed the wrong direction.” As Evelyn groaned and turned her mount, John reached down and shook hands with the marquis. “Thank you, Tullibardine. You will always be shown hospitality at my table.”

  “Mark me, we’ll set up a diversion. No one will have a clue where you’ve gone.”

  John kicked his heels and gave a wave. “Too right. I wouldn’t even look for myself up there.”

  “Let us hope Argyll gives up the chase in a sennight or less.” The marquis gave a salute. “I’ll spread the word you’ve fled to Ireland.”

  Evelyn allowed herself to smile for the first time that day. “Brilliant.”

  It took less than five minutes to start up the steep slope leading to mountains so high their peaks were hidden by the clouds. Under cover of the forest, she had no other thought but to follow John, praying nothing ill would befall them. As they climbed, the pony beneath her proved his worth as a sure-footed shaggy mount.

  About an hour on, the rain came as the marquis had predicted. Evelyn hunched over the pony’s withers, keeping the tarpaulin clinched tight at her throat as the temperature grew icy cold.

  Evelyn had lost all concept of time when John stopped at the acme of a mountain and pointed. “The cottage is at the far side of the loch down below.”

  Narrow and long, the lake looked more like a great river. “I cannot see the end of it.” Shadows from the setting sun, a sliver of a ray peeking through the clouds, made the water look fathomless.

  John looked at his pocket watch. “It will be dark in a half hour.”

  A brown eagle screeched overhead, making Evelyn hunch lower.

  “Are there any wild animals I should be wary of?”

  “Only the two-legged variety.” John looked out over the great expanse. “But I’ve not seen one of them since we left Callander.”

  “I doubt we’re the only folk silly enough to ride in the rain.”

  “You’d be surprised.” John tapped his heels. “Come, there’s another hour or two yet. How’s your backside?”

  Her bum was stiff and sore and most likely chafed, but she wasn’t about to complain. “Fine.”

  John’s shoulders shook with his deep laugh. “Ye must stop telling me tall tales, wife.”

  A laugh tickled her insides. “Very well. My backside will be quite relieved when it’s no longer sitting atop this old saddle.”

  “Aye, but at least the leathers were broken in afore we set out. A new saddle would have made ye sore afore we reached Stirling.”

  Evelyn grinned the whole journey down the slope. Aside from last night, he’d hardly said a kind word to her over the past month. Early this morning they’d left his sons with a vicar in Linlithgow, had been shot at by dragoons, run for their lives, and as they rode down to the loch in the midst of the wild Highlands, he saw fit to speak to her as if they were once again allies.

  If a crisis was what gave John a change of mind, she’d endure hardship any day. Last night there had been so much to say. Obviously Tullibardine had painted her in a good light—bless him. Still, Evelyn needed to make peace with John. She needed to confess all now he seemed willing to listen.

  “John?”

  His horse faltered and he lowered his reins. “Ho there, lassie. You’ll have to let your horse pick its way from here out. We’ll follow the course of the loch.” The whites of his eyes flashed as he turned back. “Do not lag behind.”

  “I haven’t yet, have I?” It seemed as if with her next blink, all rays of daylight disappeared and the horses made their way through complete darkness. No, now wasn’t the time to talk about the past. But soon.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Evelyn braced her hands on John’s shoulders while he helped her dismount. “Ugh.” The groan pealed from her throat as she took her weight on her feet. After riding for countless hours, straightening her knees hurt. Rubbing life back into her thighs, she peered at the cottage through the darkness. It had a thatched roof and squat stone walls. And though the light was dim, she’d seen stables in better repair.

  Though she’d expected the cottage to be rough-hewn, she hadn’t anticipated staying in accommodations quite so crude even if they were in hiding.

  He pushed on the door. It didn’t budge. “Not what you expected?”

  Evelyn clasped her hands expectantly. “I’m sure it will be quaint inside.”

  “’Tis a hunting cottage. You’re more likely to see the bones of a stag than tea service.” Running his hand above the lintel, he found a rope and pulled it. Groaning like a dragon awakening from a hundred-year sleep, the door opened. “I’ll go inside first, ensure all the silkies have gone away home for the night.”

  Evelyn shivered. “The what?”

  “Ye ken.” She could see the whites of his eyes just enough to catch him wink. “The fairy folk.”

  “You’re jesting.”

  “Aye.” He shoved the door fully open. “But you’re out of your element, m’lady.”

  “I suppose any English duke’s daughter would be.” She peered around him. It was inky black inside and impossible to see a thing, but something scurried for certain. “What’s that?”

  He pulled his dirk from its scabbard. “Och, I wish it were fairy folk.”

  “Rodents?” she ventured.

  “Most likely.”

  “Oh, my goodness.�
� Hopping back, Evelyn wrapped her arms across her midriff. “If we slept outside, rodents oughtn’t bother us.”

  He took a step inside and looked back. “Ye reckon?”

  She nodded emphatically.

  “Why do you not gather some wood for a fire whilst I make a torch and rid the place of all vermin.”

  “Wonderful idea.” Evelyn picked up a twig and dropped it alongside the door. “I’ll just start a stack here…where I ought not be eaten by Scottish silkies.”

  Evelyn set to task, piling up bits of wood she found around the clearing while a great deal of banging came from inside the…whatever it was. It certainly did not fit her idea of a cottage. Shelter. I’ll call it a shelter—for vermin.

  When finally the door burst open, John headed for the bushes, carrying a parcel of sorts.

  Evelyn only imagined the carnage wrapped in the old bit of cloth. “Where are you off to?”

  “The hay is musty. It won’t take me but a moment to cut some rushes.”

  “Rushes? Is there no bed?”

  John didn’t answer as he disappeared into the shadows.

  Standing with her muscles tense as iron, Evelyn had never missed Brutus so much in her life. On tiptoes she stepped inside, ready to run if some rat or badger came dashing out the door. John had lit an oil lamp and left it sitting on a wooden table surrounded by four stumps. In the center of the cottage was a fire pit, of all things, with a griddle suspended from the rafters above. And to her horror, there was no bed—just a bit of straw piled in the corner, and she didn’t dare go near it.

  Crude seemed too pleasant a descriptor for this place. No wonder John had tried to persuade her to go to Blair Castle and pose as the Marchioness of Tullibardine’s lady’s maid. At least Evelyn would have been able to sleep in a bed. Again, she shuddered.

  Do people actually live in such filth?

  As the thought passed through her mind, she threw back her shoulders.

  My word, I sound like my father.

  Hadn’t she pledged her life to helping those less fortunate than she?

  Appalled with herself, Evelyn checked every corner for rats, even the disgusting pile of straw, and when she found none, she marched outside, gathered an armload of wood, and dropped it beside the pit. Spying a bit of flint and flax tow, she set to lighting a fire—not that she had any practical experience whatsoever at starting fires, but she certainly had seen it done enough.

  Unfortunately, fire-starting wasn’t as easy as it looked. By the time she ignited a spark by striking the flint to stone, her knuckles were bloodied. Encouraged with her efforts, however, she moved the flax tow beside the stone and struck again. And again. And again.

  When a tiny spark leaped from the flint and glowed upon the white fluff, her heart soared. Ever so carefully, she lowered her lips and blew.

  Smoke swirled around her—but no flame.

  Please, please, please work.

  She blew again and, this time, a bit of fire about the size of a candlewick came to life.

  “Oh praises be.”

  Evelyn lowered the bundle to the center of the pit and stacked dry twigs around it. The pop and crackle of burning wood grew like music to her ears and, once the twigs were glowing red, she added bigger sticks.

  John stepped through the door, his arms laden with fresh rushes. “Good of you to set the fire. ’Tis cold out.”

  Evelyn rocked back on her haunches and smiled at the popping blaze. “Thank you.” There was no use in boasting that she’d just accomplished the impossible. He’d never understand.

  Had John known the cottage had fallen into such ruin, he wouldn’t have brought Evelyn up there. She’d been bred for a life of privilege. That she was capable of starting a fire surprised him.

  He spread the rushes over the dirt floor. At least it was dry. And once he placed a woolen blanket over the top, they’d be cozy enough.

  Cozy.

  Heat spread through his loins. Every night for a month he’d longed to hold Eve in his arms.

  He stood and brushed off his hands. “With the fire you built and this wee pallet, we ought to be toasty warm tonight.”

  Sitting like a queen on one of the stumps, Evelyn wrung her hands. “Only one bed?”

  John scratched the stubble on his jaw—itching already. She’d be far more comfortable beside him. “We’re married, are we not?”

  “Yes but…never mind.”

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, glancing to the pallet forlornly. God, he was tired. And he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. “If it would make you feel better, I’ll sleep by the fire.”

  She stood and picked up a stick of wood and put it on the flame. “To your first question, yes, I am famished. And to your second, how on earth do you intend to keep the silkies at bay if you’re over by the fire?”

  He gave her a crooked grin and sauntered toward her. Until his stomach growled. Damn, he should have thought about eating sooner, rather than sleeping…and holding Eve in his arms. “I’ll fetch the supplies.”

  He found a leather parcel, spread it open on the table, and uncorked a bottle of spirit. “I ken it’s not what you’re accustomed to, but the fare will keep us alive.”

  “I’m glad to have it.”

  He offered her the bottle. “Have a swallow of this. It will help you sleep.”

  She took a tiny sip and coughed. “’Tis awful.”

  “You’ll grow accustomed to the burn.” He inched the leather her way. “Go on, take a bit of meat.”

  She did, her face reflective as if she had a great deal on her mind.

  As he bit into a chewy piece, John didn’t doubt that she did. A lot had transpired since they’d awakened at dawn this morn—yesterday morn, given it was past the witching hour. “Would you mind…”

  She looked up, a bit of dried meat halfway to her mouth. “Hmm?”

  Shaking his head, John reached for the whisky. “I’m sure you’re not in a mood to recount the past. Perhaps on the morrow.”

  “But what were you about to ask? Would I mind what?”

  “I’d like to ken what led you to become a spy.”

  There. He’d said what had been on his mind for a bloody age.

  “Well, it wasn’t as if I opened my eyes one morn and decided to become a Jacobite.”

  “Nay?”

  “I told you about Mr. Wilson and the way Papa dismissed him.”

  “Aye.”

  “I also used to read to the soldiers at the hospital, and not long after Mr. Wilson died, Mr. Dubois began speaking to me.”

  “At the hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  John swirled the salty meat in his mouth and swallowed. “What was that backstabbing Frenchman doing in Nottingham?”

  Evelyn bit into a piece of oatcake. “Now that you ask, I have no idea.”

  “But he knew your father, did he not?”

  “He did, and he was well versed in Papa’s affairs. Of course it didn’t take a great deal of convincing after Mr. Wilson died, but Mr. Dubois made it quite clear that I was living under the roof of a tyrannical, elitist monster and that it was my bounden duty to do something about it.”

  “I reckon the scoundrel sought you out and played you like a fiddle from the outset.” After taking a drink, John corked the bottle. “He’s an ill-bred cur.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Evelyn pulled a comb out of her hair and let the locks cascade down to her waist in waves. “At first he convinced everyone he was working for the cause not only to bring James back to England, but to improve the lot of the common man. And the more I learned about my own father’s treacherous, underhanded dealings, the more I wanted to do something about it.”

  Taking a silken wisp, he twisted it around his finger. “Weren’t you concerned about hurting your da?”

  “I was, of course. Though dukes—and earls—are above the law.”

  John gestured to himself. “Unless they’ve committed treason.”


  “Quite.” Evelyn removed the brooch from her arisaid and placed it on the table. “When you boil it right down, I wanted to make a difference for good.”

  It took only a downward glance to reignite a flame beneath his sporran—but he needed to uncover her full story before he acted on his desire. “And Dubois promised you the moon.”

  “That and he made me feel as if I were an important part of his work.”

  “Did you ever suspect him?”

  “Not until I married you.”

  John cracked his knuckles. “I can only imagine.”

  “Though he was the one who convinced me to accept your suit.”

  “Dubois?”

  She rubbed her palms on her skirts. “He thought I could gain more information for the cause through you.”

  “Of course he did, the lout. I should have known.”

  “If it weren’t for him, I might have refused you. Truly, at the time I was blind as to who was the hero and who was the dastard.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I knew you through reputation only—and at the time I thought you stood for everything I abhorred.”

  Any amorous feelings he may have had were quashed by a surge of angry heat flushing through his body. Aye, he knew Evelyn had her doubts, though he’d had no way of knowing why. He’d assumed it was their difference in age and the fact they were practically strangers when he’d proposed.

  “Why did you marry me with such haste?” she asked.

  As long as they were making confessions, she deserved to know the truth. “I cannot lie and tell you ours was a love match—though I found you lovely and endearing.”

  Sniffing, she gave a nod and lowered her gaze to her hands.

  He chose to omit the part about how much he’d been in love with Margaret and how her passing had cut him to the quick. Besides, his first marriage now seemed like a lifetime away. “To be honest, I desperately needed your dowry. But not to squander the coin, as you accused. My father left the estate riddled with debt, and I didn’t want the same for my sons.”

  Eve gave a nod as if she already knew. “Your decision was governed by necessity.”