The Highlander's English Bride

by Vanessa Kelly

  “What’s wrong? Is Kade all right?”

  “He’s splendid,” Vicky reassured him. “He and Braden are in Hanover for a few months, where Kade is studying with a violin master in Göttingen. Braden went along to take additional studies at the medical school. I wrote to you about that last month, remember?”

  Graeme winced. “Vaguely.”

  Royal made an exasperated sound. “You clearly are working too hard.”

  “I’m just busy. And disappointed that I’ve missed them.”

  Nick was right. Graeme had stayed away too long. His family loved him and worried about him, which was not surprising after all the losses the Kendricks had suffered over the years. He made a silent vow to do better by them, once he found the time.

  “I’m here,” Ainsley said as she sailed through the door. “And that surely more than makes up for any lack of Kendricks.”

  “Does not,” Graeme muttered as he dutifully bent to receive her embrace.

  She gave him a jab before hugging him. “None of your nonsense, Graeme Kendrick. As your grandfather would say, yer nae too big for me to paddle yer bum.”

  “I’m still not sure why you ever married this woman,” Graeme said to Royal.

  Ainsley raised a dramatic black eyebrow. “Really?”

  Graeme waggled a hand, although he couldn’t help smiling.

  His sister-in-law was an extravagantly beautiful woman, with a figure guaranteed to stun any man not half-dead into speechless admiration. She’d certainly stunned Royal, who’d fallen into a fierce, though initially unrequited love within days of meeting her.

  Ainsley also possessed a mind as sharp as a finely honed blade and a tongue to match. Her family nickname was Sassenach saucebox, and the description fit. Graeme wasn’t too proud to admit she’d once intimidated the hell out of him. On two occasions, he and Grant had climbed out a window to escape a scold from her. It was hilarious and ridiculous, now that he thought about it.

  “You look like hell,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

  “I just got off the mail coach. Everyone looks like hell then.”

  “No, it’s more than that,” she countered. “I can always tell, so don’t deny it.”

  She could, too, which was incredibly annoying.

  “Leave the poor lad alone, sweetheart,” Royal said. “Although it is annoying that he felt obliged to travel on the cheap. Doesn’t St. George pay you enough?”

  “No one ever got rich being a spy,” Graeme quipped.

  “You’re not a spy,” Vicky said with a scowl. “You’re an inquiry agent contracted to the Home Office on a temporary basis. My brother specifically promised there would be no spying.”

  Ainsley steered Graeme toward one of the chairs. “Sit down and finish your drink. The countess can give you a proper scold later.”

  “Graeme, do sit on one of the sofas. They’re quite sturdy,” Vicky hastily said.

  Argh.

  “I haven’t broken any furniture in months.”

  “Of course not.” Nick guided him toward the sofa.

  “I am hardly the largest Kendrick, you know,” Graeme grumbled.

  “You are in this room,” Vicky said.

  “Grant is just as big, and he sits wherever he wants.”

  “Because he doesn’t break furniture,” Ainsley replied.

  “Please kill me now,” Graeme sighed.

  Royal smothered a laugh. “Just sit and tell us what you’ve been doing with yourself.”

  “And why the sudden visit to Edinburgh,” Nick added.

  “I just wrapped up a case and had time to come north,” he said as he gingerly settled on the sofa.

  He had no intention of discussing his mission with the ladies. Aden had been crystal clear that Graeme was to keep the women away from trouble, especially Vicky.

  Graeme launched into a colorful version of his exploits with the jewel thieves. He left out Sabrina’s dunking in Hyde Park—and her nasty encounter with Cringlewood—but her name did pop up. Overall, though, Graeme thought he did an excellent job of minimizing her involvement.

  “Aden has rolled most of the gang up, and if he hasn’t already—”

  Ainsley ruthlessly interrupted. “So, you met Sabrina. What did you think of her?”

  He mentally ground his teeth. “She seems nice enough.”

  His annoying sister-in-law scoffed. “Oh, so you completely failed to notice how lovely she is, or how sweet—”

  He tried to continue. “As I was saying—”

  “Or that she’s a considerable heiress,” Ainsley continued. “Surely you can do better than nice enough.”

  “Very well, she’s nice enough for a Sassenach.”

  “The men in this family have a marked inclination for Sassenachs,” Royal said.

  “Not Logan. He married a proper Scottish lass,” Graeme joked.

  “And just how considerable is Lady Sabrina’s fortune?” Nick asked.

  Leave it to his oldest brother to focus on that part of the picture. Nick was determined to see all his brothers well married. That’s why he’d hired Vicky in the first place—to teach the Kendricks how to be proper gentlemen, fit for proper wives.

  In Graeme’s case, however, she’d barely made a dent.

  “Stupendous, actually,” Ainsley said. “Musgrave is disgustingly rich, and much of the estate is not entailed. Sabrina will inherit everything not tied directly to the title.”

  Vicky perked up. “And you say she’s both pretty and nice?”

  “Oh, she’s more than pretty,” replied Ainsley. “She’s been a huge catch on the marriage mart ever since she stepped out of the schoolroom. She’s no flighty miss, either. Sabrina is very intelligent.”

  Nick lifted an eyebrow at Graeme. “That sounds very promising.”

  Graeme pointedly ignored him. “How do you know so much about the lass?” he said to Ainsley. “You didn’t go to school together. You’re much older than she is.”

  Royal winced. “Good God.”

  “Only a few years older, you jinglebrains,” Ainsley replied. “And now that I think about it, Sabrina’s much too good for you.”

  “And I think this is a ridiculous conversation,” Graeme said.

  “Hmm,” Nick murmured. “What does Lady Sabrina think of you, Graeme?”

  “I suspect she thinks him a dunderhead,” Ainsley said.

  Probably true. “I have no idea.”

  “Perhaps you could try to find out,” Nick said with an encouraging smile.

  And they wondered why Graeme never came home. “I repeat—”

  “Uncle Graeme!” Tira cried.

  Thank God.

  When his little niece belted across the room, Graeme swept her up in his arms. “You’re looking grand. Almost as tall as your da, I’m thinking.”

  Tira giggled as she hugged him tight. “You’re silly, Uncle Graeme.”

  “Your uncle specializes in silly,” Ainsley said to her daughter. “Now, sit next to him on the sofa like a good girl, before you strangle him.”

  “Yes, Mamma.”

  “You could sit on my knee,” Graeme suggested.

  Tira gave him a kind smile. “I don’t want to wrinkle my dress, but I’ll be happy to hold your hand, Uncle Graeme.”

  He swallowed a smile as she sat beside him and arranged her skirts. She’d clearly developed her mother’s regard for fashion, and was endearingly dignified for a bairn. Tira was also the sunniest, sweetest little lass he’d ever known.

  “Where’s your brother?” he asked.

  “He fell asleep in the carriage, so he had to go to bed. He’s such a baby.”

  “And what about Rowena?”

  “Here I am, Unca Gwaeme!”

  Clutching her great-grandfather’s hand, Nick’s pride and joy and toddled across the room. Nick had lost the only child of his first marriage in a tragic drowning accident years ago, leaving his spirit horribly scarred. But his marriage to Vicky and Rowena’s birth had given him true peace
and joy. The tragedies that had plagued the Kendricks for so many years seemed finally consigned to the past.

  Graeme reached for Rowena. “Give your uncle a hug, little imp.”

  “I mithed you,” she said with her sweet toddler’s lisp as she snuggled close. “Why don’t you come thee us anymore?”

  Graeme rolled his eyes at a grinning Nick. “You’re teaching her well, I see. Here, love, go sit on Papa’s knee while I say hello to Grandda.”

  Angus MacDonald was the Highland version of an Old Testament patriarch—ancient, but spry and indomitable. Today, instead of his usual tatty kilt and leather vest, he was kitted out in a respectable tailcoat and breeches, and his boots for once were polished. His hair, as usual, looked like an exploding dandelion, but at least he wasn’t wearing his beloved, ratty old tam.

  “You look almost normal,” Graeme said to his grandfather. “Has Vicky been dosing you with laudanum to keep you compliant?”

  Angus jabbed him in the shoulder with a gnarled finger. “None of yer cheek, laddie boy. Yer still nae too old for me to paddle yer bum.”

  “Graeme’s already been warned,” Ainsley said.

  “He’ll need more than one.” Then the old man’s face split into a grin. “Give yer grandda a hug. I’ve missed ye somethin’ fierce.”

  Smiling, Graeme complied. Grandda had always been his ardent champion, through thick and thin. Of course, the crazy old fellow had often instigated the thick, but he had always stuck up for Graeme, no matter what.

  After heartily slapping Graeme’s back, his grandfather gave him a sharp eye. “Yer lookin’ fashed, son. What’s amiss?”

  Ignoring the question, Graeme gave Angus a gentle push toward the sofa. “Sit with Tira while I get you a dram.”

  “Can I have a dram, too?” Tira piped up.

  Rowena, snuggled on her father’s lap, pulled her thumb out of her mouth. “Me too.”

  “No drams for little girls,” Ainsley said. “Graeme, will you pull the bell for tea?”

  He complied and then went to fetch a whisky for his grandfather. By the time he returned, the girls were already chattering like magpies, describing all they’d seen on their drive through town.

  Graeme settled in to listen to several overlapping conversations. As always, Kendricks were a noisy lot, but the lively scene felt surprisingly peaceful to him. He realized that he’d not had peace in a long time.

  Not that he was truly looking for it, not with his life. His life was exactly as he wished.

  After the tea things had appeared and everyone had been served, Angus turned his attention back to Graeme. The rest of the adults fell silent, also placing their focus on him.

  “Now, lad,” his grandfather said in a shrewd tone, “why don’t ye tell us why ye really popped up on our doorstep like a bolt out of the blue?”

  Chapter Eight

  The royal yacht was due in three days. The wet, blustery weather was already complicating security plans, as was the complete lack of credible information regarding potential threats to the king. Graeme didn’t feel close to being prepared.

  For now, all he could do was focus on overseeing the arrival of the steam packet transporting most of the king’s luggage from London. It made sense to keep a close eye on the arriving supplies, which included dozens of crates of ceremonial silver and plate, and even food. If someone was trying to assassinate the old fellow, tampering with the specially chosen food supply could do the trick.

  Royal joined Graeme on the landing as the steam packet approached the Leith docks.

  “I sent the coachman into the shelter of the warehouses,” his brother said. “No need to have the horses standing about in this wind.”

  Graeme glanced up at the angry gray clouds scudding overhead, the reason they’d traveled here by carriage. “Bloody inconvenient, this weather.”

  “Not as inconvenient as the bloody crowds,” Angus said as he stomped up. “Idiots, the lot of them, prancing aboot in silly outfits, pretendin’ to be true Highlanders.”

  The throngs pouring into Edinburgh did worry Graeme. But Sir Walter Scott, the chief architect of the king’s visit, was actively encouraging a large turnout for the festivities, as were the Edinburgh authorities. That was exactly why Graeme needed his family’s help. The local constabulary would be too challenged with managing the massive event to investigate any nefarious activity.

  Of course, family assistance also meant having Angus in the mix, with the usual unpredictable results. Grandda had insisted that his number one job was to help Graeme and keep him from falling into the shite.

  “I’m as wily as an old fox, ye ken,” he’d said. “If there’s anything afoot, I’ll be sure to hear aboot it first.”

  The notion of Angus conducting spy work, as he liked to call it, was alarming. Still, it was less problematic to bring him along than to let him wander about on his own.

  Royal watched the steam packet fight the heavy chop as it neared the pier.

  “So,” he said to Graeme, “we’re to be on the lookout for evil assassins, but we really have no idea who they might be or why they wish to kill the king. And we’re to stop any potential plots, even though we have zero information to guide us.”

  “I’m aware that it’s ridiculous and frustrating,” Graeme said, “but annoying commentary will not make the task any easier.”

  Royal laughed. “Laddie, maybe there is no actual plot. Vague rumors are hardly unusual, given George’s lack of popularity.”

  King George had been roundly disliked both during his time as Prince Regent and now as monarch. His profligate ways, numerous mistresses, and selfish behavior were strong black marks against him. The recent debacle of the queen’s trial had only increased the general animosity and heightened the fraught political climate. All sorts of people thoroughly hated the king, including more than a few Highlanders.

  “Aye, we could be in for trouble when old King Fathead arrives,” Angus said. “After all, what self-respecting Scot wouldna want to pop off that Sassenach twiddlepoop?”

  That trenchant comment did nothing to improve Graeme’s mood. “Please keep your voice down, Grandda. I would prefer you not be arrested for sedition.”

  “And don’t forget that King Fathead is Vicky’s father,” Royal added. “Your arrest would embarrass the family.”

  “That old ninny never did a bloody thing for the puir lass,” Angus protested. “And ye ken as well as I do that the Sassenach royals are nae but trouble for true Highlanders.”

  “May I remind you that His Majesty—whom you will be meeting in a few days—is your king, too,” Graeme said. “And if you embarrass Vicky by spouting off about evil Sassenachs, I will be forced to murder you.”

  Angus bristled. “I subscribe to a higher power than any Sassenach king.”

  “Really? Who?” Royal asked.

  Their grandfather’s dramatic pose, right hand soulfully pressed to his chest, was diminished when a gust snatched his ratty tam from his head. Graeme barely managed to catch it before it flew into the water.

  He handed it back. “You were saying?”

  Angus crammed it on and resumed his pose. “Our laird, chief of Clan Kendrick, is the only power I need hear and obey.”

  Royal practically doubled over with laughter, while Graeme shook his head in disbelief. “Grandda, you hardly ever do anything Nick asks. Usually you do the opposite.”

  “Ye exaggerate, lad. And sometimes I do ken what’s best, whether Nick kens it or not.”

  “Like you did this morning, when you tried to get him to boycott the Regalia Ceremony?” Royal choked out.

  The Regalia Ceremony was the first major event to mark the king’s visit. The Scottish crown, scepter, and sword of state, which had been tucked away in an old trunk and essentially forgotten since the Act of Union, were being moved in procession from Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood Palace. Sir Walter Scott had instructed the clan chiefs to provide regiments of “well-dressed Highlanders” to march in the parade. In so
me cases, that garb consisted of highly inaccurate versions of Highland attire.

  “Fah,” Angus said. “That bloody Walter Scott deserves to be shot, along with the rest of those no-nothing ninnies running aboot in fancy dress. Silly poofs.”

  Graeme yanked his outraged grandfather out of the way of two dockhands, who were rushing to prepare for the ship’s arrival.

  “Fortunately, you were neither forced to attend nor forced to dress like a silly poof,” he said. “And also, fortunately, the packet is about to dock. I want to see that cargo unloaded and stowed as quickly as possible.”

  “At least that jinglebrains of a parade will be over by then,” Angus said. “I well nigh shot that idiot Glengarry when I spotted him in the procession from the castle. If I see him again, I just might.”

  The chief of Glengarry, who fancied himself an exemplar of Highland tradition, had all but forced himself to the front of Scott’s carefully planned procession, wearing a highly colorful interpretation of clan garb. Angus had practically climbed out the carriage window, ready to challenge the man for his mockery of the old traditions. Graeme had hauled Angus back in, while Royal had patiently explained that since almost everything about the king’s visit would make an unintentional mockery of the old traditions, there was little point in getting fashed about it.

  “Glengarry’s a disgrace in more ways than one,” Royal said. “Acting like a bloody throwback to Robert the Bruce, all while clearing the tenants off his lands.”

  “Hypocrite.” Angus leaned over to spit in the water.

  “He’s not the only one engaging in Clearances,” Graeme said as he watched the packet slip into its berth. Dockhands deftly untied the massive ropes from the bollards, waiting to tie the boat off.

  An alarming number of landowners were emptying out the glens, driving tenant farmers from their homes. The appalling practice upended a social order based on clan ties and traditions that had stood for centuries. After all the English had done over the years to degrade the Highland way of life, some Scottish lords and ladies were now doing the rest, essentially destroying the old ways. Money drove their decisions, since sheep and cattle were now more profitable than people. Left with nowhere to go, many crofters and tenants had moved to the cities or departed for America, hoping for a fresh start.