The Highland Duke

by Amy Jarecki

  Within two ticks of his pocket watch, the spirit helped to dull the tension in his shoulders. Relaxing further, he continued his observation while Akira chatted with Finlay—honestly, the battle-scarred warrior did most of the talking, puffing his old chest like a molting pheasant. The heat above the fire made the air ripple. Geordie’s eyelids grew heavy; he was hypnotized by her beauty and her raven tresses. The locks had grown even longer since they’d met, and wisps swayed, brushing against her shapely hips as she gestured with her hands.

  Geordie rubbed his fingers together, imagining the softness of her buttocks. Aye, he could caress her as gently as her tresses were doing right this minute. A fluttering heat rose in his chest. His touch would stir a passion deep within her soul—a passion only he knew she possessed.

  Such a thought made his heart race, while his cock lengthened beneath his sporran. Christ, he wanted her. Though his desire went far deeper than the flesh. Indeed, their connection ignited much more than carnal desires. He sipped again. Surely a divine power had brought them together—a power no man could wield. Who knew he was capable of loving someone as deeply as he loved her?

  Losing Akira would cut him to the quick.

  He drummed his fingers against the flask.

  How can I convince her to return to Huntly with me?

  “Hello the camp,” Oliver hollered as he and the scout rode in and dismounted.

  Geordie beckoned his lieutenant to his side and offered him the flask. “What did you find?”

  “They’re headed west—haven’t met up with a single sympathetic soul.” Oliver took a drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Bloody oath, this is good spirit. Where’d you find it?”

  “It seems the captain has a taste for our Scottish whisky.” Geordie pointed. “The cask is over there. Help yourself.”

  After the meat was served, Oliver tossed his saddle beside the duke and took a seat. “Why are you not over there with the lass?”

  Geordie scowled. Bloody Finlay had consumed all of Akira’s attention since they’d fashioned the spit, and now he sat beside her chewing on his meat like he was king of a dung pile. “She’s been busy tending to the men’s wee cuts and bruises.”

  “Och, I’ve a bruise on my arse she can apply some of that salve to,” said Patrick on Geordie’s left.

  He smacked the buffoon with a jab of his elbow. “Shut your gob unless you want my fist in it the next time you flap your mouth.”

  The sentry rubbed his arm. “Apologies, Your Grace. I thought you’d laugh.”

  When it came to Akira, the only laughing he’d do was when she decided to return to Huntly. “Well, now you ken differently.”

  His breath caught when she glanced his way. The corner of his mouth ticked up, while his heart hammered in his chest. Christ, he’d almost waved.

  She smiled and nodded, but that damned Finlay tugged her arm, rattling on about something inconsequential, his head swimming with spirit, no doubt.

  Kenneth, the clan bard, cleared his throat. “Miss Akira, have you heard the tale of the smith and the fairies?”

  She clapped her hands. “No, I cannot say I have.”

  “Och, ’tis a good yarn,” said Finlay, rolling his hand through the air.

  Kenneth looked to Geordie for a nod of approval, then, rubbing his hands, he turned his eyes skyward as he always did before launching into one of his fables. “Years ago, there lived in Glen Tanar a smithy by the name of MacEachern…”

  Geordie reclined on his elbows and listened to the familiar tale. Akira smiled, enraptured with the story. She even laughed in all the appropriate places. And Finlay cackled like the bard was the funniest nincompoop in Scotland.

  By the end of the story, Geordie had stopped listening. He sat forward, cracking his knuckles, deciding where to hit Finlay first. The jaw would do nicely—it would keep him from flapping his mouth. But then, the eye might be a better option. The ugly bastard would have to explain what happened to every passerby for the next fortnight.

  When everyone applauded, the liberty-taker slung his arm around Akira’s shoulders. “I could tell ye a tale that would tickle your toes, miss…”

  His gut clamping into a lead ball, Geordie sprang to his feet and marched around the campfire, his fists clenched at his sides. “Remove your filthy paws from Miss Akira’s shoulder this instant.”

  Wide-eyed, Finlay looked up and hiccupped. “Och, Your Grace, I was only having a wee bit o’ fun with the lass.”

  “Please, m’lord.” She batted those goddamn black eyelashes. “He’s merely been friendly.”

  “Aye?” Geordie grabbed her hand and pulled her up. “A bit too friendly, I’d reckon.”

  He slid his arm around her waist and drew her tight to his side. “Hear me, men. The lady is under my protection, and no one will place so much as a finger upon her person. Am I understood?” Panning his gaze around the circle, he received a nod from every clansman. “Miss Akira has been attacked by outlaws and dragoons, and she is in a fragile state.”

  She arched her eyebrows at him. “Your Grace, I—”

  “Come.” He tugged her toward the tent. “’Tis time for everyone to turn in for the night. We’ve a long ride on the morrow.”

  Giving her shoulder a pat, he winked. “We’ll be bedding down in here this eve. I’ve placed a pelt atop the moss—it should be a fair bit more comfortable than our sleeping arrangements when we traveled across the mountains.”

  “We, Your Grace?” She drew her fists beneath her chin as if the thought of lying beside him was distasteful.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have winked.

  He gestured inside. “Aye.”

  She inclined her lips toward his ear. “But wouldn’t it be unseemly?”

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked in a heated whisper. “That was never a problem afore.”

  Her eyes shifted to the Highlanders as she cupped her hand over her mouth. “Doesn’t it look bad to the men?”

  “Damnation, woman, I’m not going to raise your skirts,” he said, loud enough to be heard by everyone. “Have you so easily forgotten there are outlaws and redcoats in these woods?”

  She shuddered. “Do you think we’ll be attacked? A-a retinue as large as this?”

  “We’re only twelve.” He squinted with a stern eye. “Indeed, anything can happen and we haven’t Huntly’s walls to protect us.”

  “Aye,” hollered Oliver, God bless him. “You’d best listen to the duke. He kens what he’s on about.”

  When this was over, Geordie would need to find a suitable reward to recognize his lieutenant. He again gestured inside the tent. “After you, m’lady.”

  A ping of desire swirled through his loins when she bent down to climb inside, her shapely hips clearly outlined beneath her kirtle, presenting to him just the way he liked a woman.

  He swiped his hand down his face and forced himself to think of her security. He pulled his dirk from its scabbard. And once she was settled, he slid beside her and rested the weapon near his head.

  He lay on his back, his shoulder butted atop hers. The damned tent was narrower than he’d thought. “Are you comfortable?”

  “’Tis a bit close. Perhaps if I roll to my side.”

  “Good idea.” Geordie rolled with her. The only problem? He was holding his arm midair with no place to rest it.

  By the saints, I ken she cares for me.

  He lowered his arm across her body.

  Without a complaint, Akira sighed and shifted her hips. Pillow-soft female buttocks nestled flush against his cock.

  He sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, her voice sweeter than golden honey pouring from a spigot.

  “Aye,” he growled, while a lock of her hair grew a mind of its own and tickled his nose. Good God, the scent of jasmine made his eyes roll back.

  “I’m so tired. I didn’t sleep at all last eve.” Of course, her voice had to sound sultrier than sin.

  “Nor
did I. We rode all night to catch up to you.”

  She shifted again. “You didn’t sleep at all?”

  Geordie couldn’t help but tighten his grip around her waist and burrow his cock between those insanely delectable buttocks. “Nay,” he managed hoarsely.

  She sighed. “Then we must sleep.”

  He was too goddamn hard for sleep. Geordie sighed and settled in for another long night.

  * * *

  Akira opened her eyes and a sleepy grin spread across her lips. Though she couldn’t admit to it, having Geordie lying beside her, his body warming her back, his arm protectively draped across her waist, sent her to heaven. If only they could cuddle together beneath the tarpaulin all day, but the birds had begun to call and soon the camp would stir. Regardless, she intended to revel in her wee bit of heaven as long as she could.

  Who knew when she’d be this close to Geordie again—if ever.

  Did she love him to the depths of her soul?

  Aye, more than anything or anyone.

  But vines of doubt sprouted and curled through her mind. He said he cared for her, but how could she be certain his feelings ran as deep as hers?

  How could she be certain he would be faithful? Her father wasn’t faithful to her mother, nor was her stepfather. As a matter of fact, none of the men who’d been close to Akira had shown any propensity for fidelity. With such awful examples from her childhood, she had difficulty trusting any man, let alone a duke with a reputation for…

  She groaned. She didn’t want to think about Geordie’s past or her future. Right now, in this moment, he was unquestionably hers. He’d been adorably jealous last eve when old Finlay showered her with attention.

  Akira laced her fingers through Geordie’s and drew them to her lips. Closing her eyes, she kissed knuckles and savored his spicy male scent, the powerful breadth of his hand in hers.

  Was she being overly stubborn?

  Time will tell.

  They hadn’t arrived in Dunkeld yet. There were still many miles to traverse, and God willing, the idleness should allow him time to think. Allow her time to think as well. He’d promised fidelity. But if she gave in to his offer, what then? Could she trust him?

  She bit her bottom lip.

  What in life is a surety?

  Chapter Thirty

  The sun was dipping low in the western sky when the whitewashed buildings in the village of Dunkeld came into view. Gray smoke swirled from every chimney and hung over the town, waiting for the wind to come and whisk it away. Geordie tightened his fists around his reins, while unease heated the back of his neck. These were lands governed by the Marquis of Atholl, a man who, at the first sign of adversity, declared his support for Anne Stuart rather than her half brother, James Francis Edward Stuart. Geordie didn’t trust Atholl—could never trust anyone who cast aside his allegiance for the true king and raised his pennant for a usurper.

  Akira rode beside him, her back erect. She’d become a more assured horsewoman since their journey had started, but now Geordie sensed the lass was as tense as he.

  “Where is your family’s cottage?” he asked, his voice gruff.

  She pointed toward the outskirts of town, where a cloud of wood smoke hung lower. “The settlement yonder,” she said, chewing her bottom lip. “Are you certain you want to ride there?”

  Och, she’s embarrassed for certain. “You need not worry about what I might or might not think. I intend to accompany you to your hearth and meet your family.”

  She nodded and looked away, while her shoulders fell.

  Geordie glanced back at Oliver. “Take the men to the alehouse and tell them to lay low. No carousing with the locals—especially Atholl’s men, ye ken?”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  “And nothing stronger than ale. They’re to keep to the shadows and await orders.”

  After leaving his men in the village square, Geordie followed Akira through a narrow close. The farther they traveled from the center of town, the shabbier things became. People sat outside crumbling hovels with nothing but rags draping from their shoulders. Putrid slops lined the gutters. Men with wooden legs and women with vacant expressions stared, their cheeks hollow as if they hadn’t eaten a decent meal in years. Dirty children with no shoes clung to their parents’ sides. Geordie even reckoned he spied lepers slinking through the filth, tatters hiding their rotting flesh.

  And bloody Atholl is allowing this poverty right under his nose.

  The smoke he’d seen from afar stung his eyes, while the stench of sewage cast an unpleasant pall. “How can you tolerate these conditions?” Geordie couldn’t help but grumble.

  Akira’s shoulders dropped a bit further. She hadn’t looked at him since Dunkeld came into sight.

  Bloody hell, he could be an insensitive clod. But his observation only strengthened his resolve to convince her to return to Huntly.

  A bit farther on, the squalor opened to small farms with shabby cottages. Akira turned into the first drive. “Our shieling is at the back. The widow took us in after Ma’s accident and allows us to stay in exchange for chores.”

  Geordie nodded—the bloody widow’s cottage looked dilapidated itself. Akira led him round the back to a hovel in such disrepair it leaned as if the foundations would give way in a healthy wind. Grass sprouted from the thatched roof, the doorway covered by nothing but a blue woolen plaid—completely inadequate to protect them from winter snows. There were no windows. Black smoke seeped out the thatch at one end of the shack, which had no proper chimney.

  Afraid he’d make a thoughtless remark, Geordie clenched his teeth. When Akira finally pulled her horse to a stop, he hopped down and helped her dismount.

  She squeezed his arms, uncertainty written in those indigo eyes. “Perhaps I should go in first?”

  “Whilst I mind the horses, m’lady?” he said with a hint of sarcasm, then shook his head. “Apologies. Do what you think is best.”

  Blushing the color of a beautiful rose, Akira gave him a pat. “I’ll only be a moment.”

  A puff of smoke swirled out when Akira pulled aside the plaid to enter. The shrieks and screams that followed from within made Geordie laugh. ’Twas definitely for the best she went in first. It sounded as if twenty female voices all asked questions at once, and he couldn’t decipher a one.

  “Silence!” a mature woman’s voice bellowed.

  All yammering ceased.

  “Thank you, Ma,” Akira said. “Before I utter another word, I must tell you someone very important is waiting outside.”

  “Oooooh?” Ma’s voice slid up the scale until it squeaked. “Who is this? Why didn’t you say something straightaway?”

  “I tried, Ma.” Akira drew the woolen plaid to one side again, poked her head out with another billowing swirl of smoke, and beckoned Geordie inside.

  Forced to duck beneath the lintel, he straightened, then plastered on a polite grin. The place looked like a cannonball had hit—hazy smoke and all. It was dimly lit, but he saw disarray everywhere he looked. Clumps of dried herbs hung from the rafters, piles of fabric, sewing, and God knew what else cluttered every available space. At least the cooking fire at one end was reasonably tidy, with a cast-iron pot suspended from the support beam. A griddle, stone grain grinder, and utensils were neatly stowed, hanging against the wall from blackened iron nails.

  Four pairs of eyes stared at him without blinking. By their shocked expressions anyone would have thought the lassies had never seen a Highlander before.

  Looking very officious, Akira gestured toward him. “This is His Grace, George Gordon, the Duke of Gordon.”

  He gave her a wink. The title sounded sultry and far less pompous when it rolled off her tongue.

  One of the lassies dropped her jaw, her eyes growing wide as sovereigns, while everyone else bowed their heads and dipped into curtsies.

  Akira’s mother appeared about to swoon and wobbled on her crutch. Akira steadied the woman. “This is my ma, Laini.” Then she nodded to the o
thers. “Kynda is the youngest, then Scota and Annis.” Annis was the one who’d gaped at him, and though beautiful, she tossed her hair and assumed a haughty expression as if she were as self-absorbed as Elizabeth. Aye, most highborn women behaved similarly toward him—shallow lust that as a younger man would have caught his attention.

  But no more.

  Turning his attention to Akira’s mother, Geordie bowed. “Pleased to meet you at long last.”

  Laini regained her composure and blessed him with a warm smile, her brown eyes full of intelligence. But her smile didn’t work on one side of her face, where a deep scar trailed from the corner of her mouth down her jaw. “Please, do come in.” She flicked her wrist at her brood. “Lassies, make room at the table.” Then she turned back to Geordie. “We were about to sit down for a bite of pottage. I hope you can join us.”

  “Ah.” He shot a panicked look to Akira, who nodded vigorously. Again he bowed, deeper this time. “I would be delighted, thank you.”

  The questions started again, with each lass yapping louder than the last. Akira held up her hands. “Once the meal is served, I’ll start at the beginning.”

  “You’ll sit beside me, Your Grace,” Laini said with a great deal of confidence. She settled herself on one end of the bench and patted the seat beside her. “Before anyone says another word, I want to know what the Duke of Gordon is doing accompanying my daughter to my home.”

  “He’s the man who was shot in the leg with the musket ball,” Akira explained.

  “Ooooooo,” everyone said at once.

  As he climbed over the bench, Ma gave him a most pointed look-over. “You appear as if you’ve come through your injury quite well?”

  “Aye.” Geordie affixed his most endearing grin—one that always worked on his mother. “Thanks to Miss Akira, I’m fitter than a colt on a spring morn.”

  Laughing, Laini shook her finger. Now he was closer, he couldn’t help but regard the scar. She’d received a vicious cut, though it didn’t mar her beauty overmuch. There were streaks of gray in her dark hair, tied in a chignon at her nape. “Thank you for bringing my daughter home. I’ve no idea what we would have done once the coin was gone.”