The Highland Duke

by Amy Jarecki

  And what about the dragoons who had made chase? Were they still following? By the angry shouts of the Government troops, Akira had no doubt they’d been keen to capture this Highlander. If she was found with him, they’d lock her in a pillory or the stocks for associating with a Jacobite.

  She held her breath, listening for horses.

  I should leave him, deny having tried to help him.

  She glanced over her shoulder, out toward the wilderness. A hollow bubble spread through her chest.

  But I cannot. I wouldn’t leave a dog to suffer alone. How could I abandon a man?

  She’d given her word, and if she could do nothing else in this world, she’d stand by her honor. Besides, she couldn’t deny Ma and the lassies needed the coin he’d offered.

  Making a decision, she dashed out of the cave, took a branch, and skittered down the hill. Running as far as she dared, she worked to hide their tracks just like her Uncle Bruno had taught her, raking dirt over hoofprints and covering the wet earth with leaves.

  “No self-respecting Gypsy can go through life without learning how to disappear.” Ma’s brother was the only member of the family who still practiced some of the old ways. But Akira might need to draw upon a few tricks he’d shown her. Now more than ever.

  Chapter Three

  Though she had worked quickly, it took an hour or more to cover their tracks, and by the time she returned to the cave, the sun had moved behind the western mountains. Now that the smoke wouldn’t give away their hiding place, she lit a small fire. As soon as she examined her patient, Akira’s stomach dropped to her toes. The apron she’d tied around Geordie’s thigh was completely saturated with blood.

  If he doesn’t stop bleeding now, he’ll die for certain.

  She shuddered at the task she must perform.

  She placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Gracious, every time she touched the man, she was reminded of his size—and his braw ruggedness. Together as a whole, he didn’t seem so enormous, but when she examined his individual parts, every inch of the man was unusually large.

  “Sir?” She gave him a shake, but he made no response whatsoever.

  Chewing the corner of her mouth, she drew his dirk from its scabbard and placed the tip in the fire. She busied herself by removing his bandages while she waited until the tip glowed red—just like it ought.

  By my oath, I will do everything in my power to ensure this Highlander stays alive.

  “Mr. Geordie?” She tried shaking him again, with the same lack of response.

  Might as well have it over with whilst he’s still unconscious.

  She wrapped the dirk’s handle in her skirt to keep from burning her fingers.

  “Forgive me,” she murmured.

  Clenching her teeth, she slowly lowered the knife’s tip. With the slightest touch, sizzling flesh burned and stank. She cringed while she pressed the scorching metal to the wound to cauterize it.

  “Yeeeaaaaoooow!” Bucking a good foot off the ground, the Highlander hollered like a yearling in the castration pen. “Jesus Christ, holy hellfire, you vixen spawn of Satan!” Taking in deep gasps, he rolled on the ground, cradling his thigh. “Goddamn, ballocks, devil’s dragons, and all the putrid, vile shite in Hades! Do not ever do that again!”

  Smacked in the chest by his thrashing, Akira landed on her backside a good two feet away. She scooted back to the cave wall and stared, afraid he might wallop her again.

  “If I kent you were going to curse at me like a joob from the alehouse, I would have gone home and left you to die!” She rolled to her hip and rubbed her backside.

  He glared at her with horror, as if his angry stare could send her to hell’s fire. “Damnation, you should have had the decency to rouse me first—allowed me to bite down on a stick. Bloody hell, woman, you’re lucky I didn’t bite my tongue off.”

  She clambered to her feet, still rubbing her behind. She took great risks to help this heathen, and he acted madder than a swarm of stinging bees. “I tried to rouse you, you bullheaded bear!”

  He rolled to his back, air whooshing through his lips. “Well, you should have tried harder.”

  “Fine.” She jammed her fists into her hips. “Next time I’ll slap you across the face a few dozen times.”

  He draped his arm over his eyes. “There won’t be a bloody next time.”

  “Agreed. There won’t be.” Akira stooped to retrieve the dirk. “I kent it would hurt. Had I let it go another hour, you would have bled to death. Not to mention you were far better off unconscious, you ungrateful varlet. And there you lie, blaming me.”

  She shook the dirk right at his face. “Well, I didn’t tell you to ride into battle and get yourself shot. You did that all by yourself without my help, and now if I don’t take care of you, you could die…and if you died, I’d never forgive myself.”

  Heat flushed through her body as she threw the accursed dirk against the cave wall. “Of all the ungrateful oafs I have ever met, you must be the most boorish. If you dare die in my care, I shall—I shall kill you!”

  Without waiting for his reply, Akira dashed outside, a tear slipping down her cheek. She hated it when she cried. And she didn’t want that pigheaded Highlander to see how much he’d upset her.

  * * *

  Dumbfounded and on the brink of losing his wits, Geordie watched the waif dash out of the cave.

  Die? It will take a lot more than a wee musket ball to send me to my grave.

  Devil’s spit, Akira’s bitter tongue rivaled the duchess’s—the former duchess’s. Though Elizabeth had gone to great lengths to force him to appeal to Parliament and endure a year of miserable divorce proceedings, the wicked shrew would always be a duchess. She had demanded her right to the title throughout the whole sordid affair.

  Geordie watched Akira until she disappeared from sight. The poor lass didn’t have an inkling how right she’d been when she’d called him a bullheaded bear and an ungrateful oaf. His mother had gifted him with a handsome face, and from his father, he’d inherited the lust of ten court suitors. From the age of fourteen, Geordie hadn’t been able to keep his hands off any woman who struck his fancy. Worse, the more resistant the woman was, the more he enjoyed the chase. Aye, a resistant woman, once won, always proved to be more ardent in the bedchamber.

  But no more. Women are the devil’s spawn—especially that blue-eyed, raven-haired vixen who just branded me within an inch of my life.

  Geordie winced at an onslaught of searing pain shooting through his thigh.

  Bloody hell, the wound felt the size of a fist, like she’d carved out a cavern with the damned dirk. Hissing, he placed his palms either side of his thigh and examined the damage. Angry red, scalded flesh puckered, looking like singed raw meat and smelling of horehound.

  Aye, he’d spewed a string of curses at the lass, but she should know better than to jam a red-hot knife into a man’s leg without giving him fair warning. Regardless, Geordie knew many a man who would have struck out blindly given such a rude awakening.

  He’d scared her, too. He could tell she was about to cry when she’d rattled on about trying to help him. And damnation, she was adorable, justifying her actions with such conviction. For a lass no more than five feet tall, Akira surely stood her ground like a badger. Either she thought he was too weak from pain to overpower her, or she was just plain determined. He reckoned it was the latter, else she would have robbed him blind, then left him in the cave to suffer alone.

  He almost wished she had, until he again glanced down at his thigh. The bleeding had stopped. His head still spun like a top, but with a bit of rest, he’d be able to ride for certain.

  Dear Lord, what a mess. He should be riding home by now with Willy and his cousin’s regiment. But there he lay, George Gordon, the first Duke of Gordon, half-dead in a cave not but five or six miles from the disastrous Battle of Hoord Moor.

  Aye, he supported King James III, the true king of Scotland, England, and Ireland recognized by Louis XIV aft
er the death of James II two years past. Yet still the boy king continued to live exiled in France. A staunch royalist, George would support the true king until he took his dying breath. James Francis Edward Stuart’s usurping and incompetent sister, Anne, had no right to the throne. The only heir born with the birthright to rule all of Britain was King James, but these were precarious times, and a man, especially a nobleman, had to be very careful to whom he proclaimed his allegiance, lest his head end up on a chopping block like the Earl of Argyll in 1685. Geordie shuddered. He’d rather die in a fight than be paraded up the scaffold to meet the headsman’s ax.

  No, he wasn’t a coward. He’d fight for his king—he’d give his life, especially if it guaranteed James’s ascension to the throne. But he would be of better use to Scotland and the cause if he remained alive.

  Bloody hell, ages ago, when Geordie had barely reached his majority, King James II had appointed him Governor of Edinburgh Castle and Geordie had held it against that imposter William of Orange for nearly a year. Even John Murray, the Marquis of Atholl, had stood by Geordie’s side and fought against the rebels. But Atholl was like a bobbing buoy on the high seas. That man would kiss the arse of any usurper on the throne.

  But not George Gordon. Geordie believed in the line of royal ancestry, in the right of birth, and in the laws that governed the Kingdom of Scotland.

  As governor, he’d stood down only after he’d received a missive from James in France telling him to pass the keys to the Williamite government. Then they’d tried to lead him to the gallows, spewing a contrived list of misdeeds that had put him into more hot water with William of Orange, the inglorious usurper. Worse, now William’s sister-in-law Queen Anne and her bumbling Dutch prince had ascended to the throne and proven even more inept.

  With his next blink, a wave of pain made the bile in Geordie’s stomach churn. Sweat streamed from his forehead and the chills started again. He curled into the musty thresh.

  I’ll be ready to ride in a few hours.

  He chuckled. The lass had called him a joob from the alehouse—a Gypsy insult. Nonetheless, he’d seen many a young woman ruined by the whoring and abuse that went on in such establishments. But this lass didn’t seem rough around the edges like a harlot. Perhaps healing was her way out of the gutter?

  Chapter Four

  Geordie squinted in an attempt to open his eyes. How long had he been asleep? Blinding rays of sunlight glared through the vines that dangled from the cave entrance. He winced. Good Lord, his mouth was drier than sand. Chills skittered across his skin.

  “Water,” he croaked, sounding like a toad from the River Deveron behind Huntly Castle. His gaze shifted, searching for the wee lass, but dammit if he wasn’t too weak to lift his head. A fire crackled, warming his right arm, but the rest of his body shivered with the cold.

  “Water,” he said, louder this time, praying the lass hadn’t abandoned him.

  Something rustled across the fire. Geordie’s vision adjusted enough to see the raven-haired woman push up and sit. “You’re awake?”

  Licking his arid lips, he managed a nod.

  “You thrashed throughout most of the night.” Akira reached for a satchel and moved to his side.

  Odd, Geordie didn’t remember the satchel. “Where’s your basket?”

  “It fell by the wayside when we were fleeing from the soldiers.”

  “Hmm.” He closed his eyes, recalling the battle, the field surgery, the horse, the chase. Good God, the bloody searing knife singeing his flesh. Moving his toes, he winced.

  She pulled the cork from a water flask. “Are you in pain?”

  “Bloody right I am.” At least he could still feel his toes. That had to be a good sign.

  “I’d best reapply the salve. ’Twill ease your suffering.” Placing her palm under his head, she helped him sip.

  When the cool water slid past his lips, he reached up and tilted the flask higher, guzzling greedily. By God’s grace, he could pour the whole thing down his gullet and still have a thirst.

  “Easy, Mr. Geordie,” the woman cooed as if speaking to a wee bairn. “You’ll end up with an awful ache in your stomach if you keep drinking like that.”

  Such an imperious warning only served to make him gulp faster, downing the water until he had emptied the flask. With a shudder, he again looked at the satchel. Truly, he didn’t remember it.

  “Are you cold?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  Unfastening the brooch at her neck, she removed her arisaid and draped it over him. The billowing motion blew a warm breeze of exotic fragrance—like jasmine oil from the Orient. The scent enlivened him, made tingles course over his skin. Better, the warmth calmed his chills.

  He swallowed. “Where did the satchel come from?”

  She reached inside it and pulled out a small pot. “’Tis mine.”

  He narrowed his gaze. Asking her if she’d been carrying it at the battle site mightn’t give him the answer he sought. It would be too easy for the lass to say yes. “You said you had a basket in Hoord Moor—not a satchel.” His heartbeat speeding, he tried to sit up but only managed to roll to his elbow. “Where in God’s name did you get the bag?”

  She studied him for a moment, eyebrows arching with intelligence, her teeth grazing her bottom lip. Devil’s bones, those glistening, pert lips were too goddamned kissable.

  Geordie clenched his jaw. The last thing on earth he should be thinking about was this woman’s lips. She might be as pretty as a rose, but her ragged kirtle spoke volumes about her commoner status. “I slipped away home last eve. Collected a few supplies.”

  “You what?” His voice shot up and cracked. Christ, he almost wished she’d lied. “To bloody Dunkeld?”

  She topped off her pout with a defiant little glare. “There’s no need to start cursing—”

  Damnation, did she have to purse those lips with her rebuke? “I’m not bloody cursing. Who saw you?”

  “No one. Only my family.”

  He dropped to the thresh. “Jesus Christ.”

  “You needn’t worry. The lassies won’t say a thing, and my mother…” Akira’s eyes shifted. “Well, she keeps to herself. Doesn’t see anyone outside the cottage.”

  “Who are these lassies you speak of?”

  “My three younger sisters. I-I am their main support. I had to take them the shilling you gave me and let them know I was all right.” She flinched. “And…”

  “What else?” he groaned, picturing a family gathering.

  “Ma said dragoons came by the cottage looking for me. It appears I’m in trouble for associating with a fleeing Highlander.”

  “Good God, it grows worse. Did the redcoats see you?”

  “Of course not. I know how to be a ghost. I waited until well past dark.” She smiled as if she thought her skills were pretty damned good—though he sincerely doubted this wee lass knew a thing about being a spy. She’d be more likely to wave a red flag when she entered the village.

  Geordie snorted and shoved himself up, his head spinning and threatening to rob him of consciousness. “You may think they didn’t see you, but I’ll wager they were watching the cottage.”

  “They were not—and I rode the horse through the burn so they wouldn’t see my tracks.” She shifted his plaid aside and gently rubbed in her salve. “I used a twig to cover our tracks just like Uncle Bruno taught me.”

  Geordie tried not to wince. Her deft fingers were ever so gentle, but nonetheless, pain shot clear up through his hip like she’d just stabbed him. “And whereabouts is this uncle?” he asked, his voice clipped and straining. “Did you have a family gathering whilst you slipped into the village?”

  “No, silly. He lives on the borders—only comes to see us at Yuletide.”

  “Thank goodness for small mercies.” Geordie shoved the arisaid aside and grunted at the shooting agony his movement caused. “Give me a hand. I need to be on my way afore the bloody dragoons find us.”

  “Now, sir?”
r />   He held out his palm. “Why not now?”

  “’Tis midday. Would you not be less conspicuous traveling at night?” Ignoring his hand, she let her gaze slide down to his thigh. “Are you certain you’re well enough to travel?”

  “Of course I’m well enough to travel.” Bracing himself, he pushed with all his might. He gnashed his teeth, and a deep bellow strained his voice. He blinked in rapid succession as stars crossed his vision. His leg wouldn’t work worth a damn. “Devil’s fire, what’s in that salve? Bloody sheep’s piss?”

  “Well, actually, ’tis goat—but not much,” she said with the sweet tenor of an angel rather than the tones of the vexing nymph she was. “It has avens oil and houseleek and a number of other herbs. The concoction has been handed down through the family for generations.”

  Geordie propped himself against the craggy wall, his chin dropping to his chest. Holy hellfire, he was tired. The maid might be young and inexperienced, but she was also right about traveling at night. This close to Hoord Moor, in daylight they’d be spotted by scouts for certain.

  “I brought some sausages to cook over the fire. Why don’t you set back down and rest that leg whilst I prepare them?”

  His stomach growled. Perhaps she was right. He ground his back molars and gingerly slid down to his pallet. “Och, very well then.”

  Akira had already skewered two links on a pair of sticks. Turning away, she bent down and set them in the flames. Without the arisaid draped around her back, the lassie’s kirtle skirts clung to her hips—quite shapely hips. The corners of his mouth turned up. He doubted she wore more than one petticoat beneath.

  Geordie rubbed his fingers, aching to reach out and raise her hem ever so slightly just to prove himself right. Then his head swooned and lolled to the side. For the love of God, he’d never been this close to death, and there he sat contemplating a woman’s petticoats? Could he not give his lustful urges a rest?

  He picked up a bit of her arisaid and held it to his nose.

  It must be the damned jasmine fragrance addling my mind.