The Highland Earl

by Amy Jarecki

  John glanced up with a pointed stare. “We’ve been over this time and time again. It will take three days to reach Dundee and—”

  “I know, and we must skirt past the towns and villages, which will add time to the journey. But that’s not why I stopped you.”

  He arched an eyebrow, the saddle balanced against his shoulder.

  Evelyn unfastened the brooch pinning her arisaid. “The soldiers are looking for a man and a woman, correct?”

  “Aye.”

  “And they’ve seen my arisaid as well as my saddle.”

  “’Tis hardly likely anyone will take note of this saddle.” He inclined his head toward it. “After all, the leathers are well worn.”

  “Yes, but what if I wore the arisaid like a kilt? Then I’d be able to ride like a man.”

  John audaciously rolled his eyes. “You do not have the proper saddle to ride straddling a horse like a lad.”

  Evelyn turned a toe inward while she batted her eyelashes. “I could use yours.”

  “Och, I’m glad you didn’t suggest you go without.”

  “That’s because I knew you wouldn’t stand for it if I had.”

  John lowered the old saddle to his hip. “Are you certain about this? Your legs are not accustomed to riding astride. I reckon you’ll be sore after the first hour.”

  “I don’t know about that.” She sniggered, while dancing through her mind came an image of numerous hours in her husband’s arms, riding a beast of a different nature. “I’ve been doing a lot of riding since we’ve been here.”

  “What a wanton wife you’ve turned out to be.” Laughing, he started for the cottage. “I’ll leave your sidesaddle inside, then. Come along. We have some work to do if you intend to impersonate a laddie.”

  Evelyn followed with ideas brewing for her disguise. Folding the arisaid in pleats and forming a kilt was easy enough. So was binding her breasts. She wore John’s spare shirt, her own boots, and among the castoffs in the cottage they found a moth-eaten feathered bonnet. She even shouldered the bow and quiver of arrows for added effect.

  John unsheathed his dirk. “I can help you club your hair, but ’tis far too long. We’ll have to cut to the shoulder.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Throwing up her hands, Evelyn scooted away. “Sheathe your weapon this instant!”

  “But—”

  “No. You are not hacking off my tresses with that monstrous dagger. Do you know how long it will take to grow them back?” She dashed to the satchel and retrieved a drying cloth. “We can tie it back, fold it under, and wrap it up in this rag.”

  He stood agape, the dirk still firm in his fist. “What if a bit comes out? You’ll have mile-long strands whipping everywhere—a sure clue of your true sex.”

  “Hardly.” Evelyn shook the cloth a safe distance from the accursed knife. “Lesson one in being a lady’s maid. Take a thong and tie my tresses taut, braid the tail, fold it half the length, then wrap a strip of cloth down and up—very, very tightly. Trust me, it will look just like a club.”

  “A thick one.”

  “Some people have thicker hair than others.”

  John sheathed his dirk and dug in his sporran for a leather thong. “I’ll give it a go, but if you end up looking like a lass trying to impersonate a lad, I’m cutting your blasted mane off at the shoulders.”

  Turning Evelyn into a man took a good hour longer than she’d anticipated, but when she went outside and studied her reflection in the lake, she thought she looked like a Highland chieftain with a cape draped around her shoulders. “See? It was well worth the effort.”

  John’s towering reflection moved in behind her. “Ye might pass if no one looks too closely. But no red-blooded man will be fooled for long.”

  “Let us just pray we fool them for long enough.”

  John inclined his head toward the horses. “Then let’s away afore nightfall.”

  Evelyn tsked her tongue. By the angle of the sun, it was still morning. “My disguise didn’t take all that long. And now we ought to be able to travel via a more direct route, mayhap even stay at an inn.”

  The first test to her disguise came when they approached the bridge to Dunblane, where a whole contingent of soldiers barricaded the road. Suddenly the leathers slipped in Evelyn’s palms. And though her legs ached, she threw back her shoulders and affected a masculine sneer.

  “Should we turn back?” she asked after the reins slipped again.

  “Nay. The last time we tried to avoid them, we would have ended up with our necks in a noose if it hadn’t been for Tullibardine’s diversion.” John motioned for her to ride alongside him. “Keep your head down and utter not a sound.”

  As they neared the soldiers, the silly reins started shaking of their own volition, and tensing her muscles only made the problem worse. She lowered her fists to the horse’s withers, trying to keep her head down exactly as John instructed. No matter how much she wanted to look up and take note of what the soldiers were up to, she kept her gaze fixated on her horse’s ears.

  “Ho,” boomed a dragoon, moving beside them and grasping Evelyn’s bridle.

  “Is there a wee problem with the bridge?” asked His Lordship. Normally he spoke with a Scottish brogue, but now he poured it on thicker than she had ever heard.

  “State your name and where you’re from,” said the soldier, ignoring John’s question.

  “I’m Jimmy MacDonald and this is my son Lachlan.”

  Evelyn forced a frown against her urge to smile. Lachlan, was it? She’d have to commit the name to memory. Jimmy, too.

  John stroked his hand along his horse’s mane and tilted up his chin. “We hail from the Coe.”

  Suspicion filling his eyes, the soldier inspected their horses while he moved over to John’s side. “You mean to say you survived the bloody massacre?”

  “’Twas but a lad of twelve.” John watched as the man stroked his hand down the horse’s nose. “Me, I was lucky, but my parents didna make it.”

  Goodness, he sounded convincing, but was a tale about being from Glencoe the right choice?

  The soldier took a step back. “Where are you headed?”

  “Up to Crieff,” John explained. “I aim to buy a milking cow.”

  “Or cause trouble,” said another dragoon.

  Evelyn bit her lip. She and her husband looked like a pair of poor crofters, not a pair of mercenaries. Why couldn’t these mutton-heads leave them alone?

  “Nay, sir.” John pointed across the bridge. “We aim to stop at an inn, have a warm meal and find a cozy loft, and bed down for the night, then we’ll be on our way.”

  Squinting his eyes, the redcoat studied their faces. “We’re looking for a pair of renegades. A man and a woman.” He held up a slip of parchment. Evelyn leaned in and shifted her gaze enough for a glimpse of the worst rendering of the Earl of Mar she’d ever imagined. The sketch looked like the Angel of Death wearing a periwig. “Have you seen this man?”

  “I canna say I have,” John replied with a straight face. “In truth I havena seen many Sassenach fops crossing the Highlands.”

  “Hmm. If these miscreants ever come down from the hills they will be tried and hung for treason.” The man backed away from their horses. “I’ll grant you leave to stop for a meal, but then you’d best be on your way. And we’ll be watching. Your kind are not welcome in these parts.”

  John’s fist tightened around his reins, making his knuckles white. “My kind?” he growled. “It sounds as if Scots are no’ welcome on their own lands.”

  Before the soldier responded, John kicked his heels. Evelyn did as well, urging her horse to keep pace as they crossed the bridge. “Do you think your last comment was wise?” she asked once they were out of earshot.

  “Mayhap not wise, but necessary.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Two dragoons are following.”

  John opted to stop in Dunblane for two reasons. First, the horses were spent and wouldn’t make it much farther. Sec
ond, they hadn’t eaten since the morning meal, a good seven or eight hours past. If two soldiers opted to follow, then God save them.

  After they stabled the horses, John almost made the mistake of taking Evelyn by the hand. “Och,” he growled, speaking for the benefit of any eavesdroppers. “Come, son. We’ll eat whilst the horses are resting.”

  She fell in step beside him. Damn. No matter how hard she tried, the woman would never look like a lad. Her feet were too small. Her gait was too—too bloody feminine. And no matter how long they’d been staying in the Highlands, she still smelled like fragrant blooms.

  As they stepped inside the alehouse, John grabbed Evelyn’s shoulder and stopped her while he took in the scene. Only a half-day’s ride from Alloa, even with his ragged clothes and a scruffy beard, someone might recognize him.

  The place was thick with pipe smoke and smelled of stale beer. A boisterous group of men filled the south wall, toying with a barmaid. But there was an empty table at the back near the bar.

  John nodded at the bristly barman and pointed to the table. “Two ales, bread, and pottage for a pair of weary travelers.”

  Using a cloth to dry a tankard, the man stared back through beady eyes, his thick black beard hiding his mouth. One thing for certain, he looked none too happy.

  It nearly cut John to the quick not to hold the chair for Evelyn, but it mustn’t be done. She started for the seat with its back to the stone wall. “Not that one,” John groused with a bit more bile in his tone than he’d normally use with her.

  The lass’s lips parted with a silent gasp and then she gave a knowing nod. “I should have thought,” she whispered.

  “Oh?” John slipped into the spot where he had a view of the door, the bar, and the miscreants slapping the barmaid’s behind.

  Evelyn didn’t take the chair across but the one around the corner, and once she sat, she cupped a hand over her mouth. “Dubois never sat with his back to the door.”

  That bloody figured, the lout. The Frenchman had cause to be worried about being dirked in the back—and John wouldn’t mind being the one to wield the blade.

  The door opened and in sauntered the two dragoons who’d obviously been assigned to ensure John and Evelyn didn’t linger about town.

  She turned her head away and spoke over her shoulder. “They’re looking straight at us.”

  “Pay them no mind.”

  But his hackles stood on end when the bastards moved to the bar and were served ale first. Bloody hell. He might be an earl in disguise, but he expected common courtesy from the damned Scotsman behind the bar.

  Rather than rescue the barmaid and have her bring the ale, the barman stepped from behind the board with two frothy tankards.

  “I’ll wager he’s a royalist dyed in the queen’s red,” Evelyn mumbled.

  “Wheesht.”

  The man set the drinks on the table, then glanced over his shoulder. “Those yellow dogs appear to have quite an interest in you pair—even asked me if I kent who ye were.”

  “They’ve no cause to suspect us of any wrongdoing.” John casually took a drink, his fingers brushing the hilt of his dirk. “What did you tell them?”

  “I said I’d never seen the likes of you afore and hope I never again do.” The man wrapped his meaty fingers around the back of an empty chair as he leaned very near. “But I do ken who ye are. Recognized you as soon as ye opened the door, I did.”

  “Ye reckon?” As his fingers gripped his dirk’s handle, the familiar tic twitched beside John’s eye as he imagined all manner of blackmail brewing in the barman’s piddling mind. “Who might that be?”

  The big man’s gaze intensified. “Listen well, m’lord. Those underhanded dragoons have the road to Crieff and the road to Stirling blocked.”

  John’s heart nearly stopped. Shite.

  There were two main roads out of Dunblane, one leading north and one south. Only the locals knew about the third, and it was little more than a path. “What about the road to Sheriffmuir?” he asked.

  “That’s what I recommend.” The barman threw a thumb over his shoulder. “But those pair aim to follow whichever road you choose—and just when you think you’ve lost them—”

  “Can you help us?” Evelyn whispered.

  “Stay for a bit. Nurse your ale and eat your pottage.”

  The barman pulled a vial from his apron and held it up. “A few drops of this and they ought to be in their cups within an hour.”

  “What the blazes are you yammering about?” hollered one of the dragoons. “Bring us some bloody food, ye flea-bitten wastrel.”

  A tempest passed through those beady eyes. “See what I mean? Everyone in town is hankering to dirk the lot of them.” The barman turned. “A moment, sirs.”

  John grabbed the man’s arm. “Thank you, friend.”

  The big fellow leaned over the back of the chair and lowered his voice. “Rumor is you’re raising the standard for James. If that is true, every man in this town will take up arms and join ye.”

  “Your news is a wee bit premature. But the queen’s health is failing and mind you, when the time comes, I’ll remember you, friend.” John inclined his head in the direction of the stables. “Our horses are spent. Is there any chance—”

  “I’ll arrange for two of Dunblane’s finest to be waiting out the back.”

  “Without anyone knowing?”

  The barman winked. “Ye can count on me.”

  “Are you going to flap your bloody mouth all day?” bellowed one of the soldiers.

  John flicked his hand toward the dragoons. “Go on then. Tame the angry beasts.”

  Evelyn stared while the black-bearded Highlander left to tend to the dragoons. “Mercy.”

  John’s gut twisted. He wasn’t about to raise the standard for anyone until he cleared his name. “I reckon the townspeople are a bit tired of being browbeaten by those sniveling maggots.”

  “Clearly.” She placed her hand atop his. “But the time to take a stand is anon.”

  “I’ll be the one to decide if, when, and where.” John snapped his fingers away. “And it will serve you well to remember that you are parading about as a lad.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  They might have made it through Dunblane without being caught, but after seeing the concentration of red-coated dragoons amassed on the Dundee pier, Evelyn feared their luck may have run its course. Worse, a three-masted barque appeared to be at the center of the turmoil.

  “Is that Sir Kennan’s ship?” she asked as a lead weight dropped in her stomach.

  John reined his horse to a stop and groaned. “Fie, can something not be immersed in complication for once?”

  “Should we find a place to weather the storm—come back after things have settled?”

  “Nay. It looks as if the men on deck are unfurling the sails yet again. If we wait, Cameron will not be here when we return.” John reached for her nearest rein and tugged Evelyn’s horse alongside his. “Stay beside me and stop for no one. I aim to ride straight up to the gangway.”

  But that was where the dragoons congregated, shouting, waving their arms. Evelyn spotted a familiar face. Oh dear, in the middle of the mayhem stood Sir Kennan himself. Not to mention the myriad of barrels stacked on the pier as well as on deck. Riding for the gangway now was insanity.

  Nonetheless, the Earl of Mar, disguised as a crofter, led her toward anarchy.

  And as they neared, the shouting escalated. “You’re robbing me of my livelihood!” Sir Kennan bellowed. “With your inflated duties I cannot pay my men, let alone feed them.”

  A dragoon dressed in an officer’s coat stood holding a musket across his chest. “I don’t give a rat’s arse if you starve. You’re not offloading another barrel without payment.”

  “You’re thieves, the lot of you,” yelled a man from the pier.

  “Hang the bastards by the cods!” another yelled while Evelyn’s horse stutter-stepped in the midst of growing unease.

  “Th
e queen doesn’t give a lick about her Scottish subjects.”

  “Aye, all she cares about is to use our sons to man her armies.”

  “And pay her bloody taxes!” Kennan bellowed, throwing up his arms to encourage the hecklers.

  Evelyn ducked as something soft and sloppy sailed overhead. “I fear the men will riot.”

  As she spoke, a skirmish broke out on the gangway. Men pushed and shoved. Fists flew. Her horse whinnied and reared. Leaning forward, Evelyn brought the pony under control as a snarling man grabbed her arm and tugged.

  “No!” she shrieked, clenching her knees, fighting to maintain her seat while the horse snorted, growing more and more agitated.

  “Unhand my—” John grunted as, in one move, he latched his arm around her waist and leaned across, smashing his fist across the rioter’s temple.

  With a tumultuous uproar, the entire pier broke out into the very insurrection Evelyn had predicted. John dragged her across his lap while her horse was pulled away. Kicking his heels, he forced open a gap. His mount managed to surge ahead, only to have their momentum stopped by a stack of barrels.

  “Hide in between the casks!” John hollered, sliding off his mount and depositing her in the only spot on the entire pier where she might be safe.

  Evelyn crouched low, removing the bow from her shoulder and reaching for an arrow.

  Sword in hand, John leaped onto the barrels and hopped across them, fending off rioters until he landed in a crouch on the gangway beside Kennan.

  Peeking over the tops of casks, Evelyn gulped, her pulse quickening. How on earth did I ever believe him to be anything other than a brawny Highland warrior?

  Kennan addressed John with his sword, but as soon as the captain recognized him, they stood back to back and took charge of the fight. Looters began smashing the barrels and stealing the booty inside. Before she was exposed, Evelyn spun and let an arrow fly, hitting a dragoon with a musket aimed straight at John. The weapon fired as the soldier fell. Thank God the bullet went astray.

  Crouching, she skittered nearer the Highland Reel, its sails slowly winching higher above.