The Highland Duke

by Amy Jarecki

Steadying Polwarth with his elbow, Aiden chuckled under his breath. Fit as a stag, he could sprint up the steep slope to the gate even with ice making the stone steps slippery. And it was all he could do to suppress his urge to run. Officers didn’t race through castle gates like wee lads. But by the saints, he’d been aboard the Royal Mary for the past month without setting foot ashore. Bloody oath, he intended to kick up his heels this eve—swill ale, swing the lassies in a reel—mayhap he’d even find a bonny lass he fancied.

  Damn the cold.

  Damn political posturing.

  Damn the war.

  And whilst I’m at it, damn the queen.

  This was Hogmanay—a pagan Scottish holiday—and he would enjoy the piss out of it for once in his miserable, highborn life.

  Before he reached the gate, he stopped and regarded his companions, thirty paces behind and looking like a gaggle of old men. “Put on your bloody masks.”

  “What?” sniggered MacPherson. “Do you not want to hear your name boomed throughout the hall?”

  MacBride laughed. “The right royal and very miserable…”

  “Don’t forget honorable,” piped Captain Polwarth.

  True, Aiden could tolerate a ribbing from his mates, but the captain? Good God, he was sunk.

  “Aye, the miserable yet honorable Lord Aiden Murray,” MacBride finished.

  “Shut it.” Aiden tied his mask in place just beneath his tricorn hat. The officers had received masks from groomsmen once they’d reached the shore—compliments of the earl, as were the coaches that had ferried them to the castle. “Last I checked, I was First Lieutenant Murray, division officer of the Watch.”

  Stepping beside him, Captain Polwarth clapped his shoulder. “Nay, tonight you’re a courtier behind a mask, m’lord.”

  “A rogue,” said MacBride.

  MacPherson snorted. “A rake.”

  “I’m a bloody maker of merriment.” Aiden gave Fraser a shove. “Give me a meal and a tankard of ale and I’ll be in heaven.”

  “Not me. I’m looking for a woman to ignite my fire.” MacPherson secured his long-beaked mask in place. At least Aiden didn’t have to put up with a crook on his face that looked like a phallus.

  MacBride pushed to the lead. “Ye ken what you need, Murray?”

  Aiden followed beneath the sharp-spiked portcullis. “I ken I bloody well do not need you to tell me.”

  “Och aye?” MacBride snorted. “’Tis on account of you’re too embarrassed.”

  “You’re full of shite.” Aiden threw his shoulders back and clenched his fists. He could best every one of them, and showing an iota of fear now would only serve to elicit a month of jibes in the officers’ quarters—but he knew what was coming, and the twist in his gut merely increased his dread.

  “I agree with MacBride.” MacPherson jabbed him in the shoulder. “Young Aiden here needs to dip his wick.”

  “Ye miserable, ox-brained maggot.” Aiden could have slammed his fist into the papier-mâché beak on the bastard’s mask. They’d all guessed he was a virgin, though he’d never admitted it to a soul. How in God’s name was he supposed to sample the offerings of the finer sex? He’d matriculated at the university at the age of seventeen, spent three years with his nose in volumes of books, and from there went straight into the Scots Navy, where he’d scarcely had a chance to step ashore. Aye, the whores in port always tempted him, rubbing their buxom breasts against his chest, but it only took one peek at a flesh ulcer to turn his gut inside out.

  At the age of two and twenty, the last thing he needed was to contract the bloody pox.

  Regardless, Aiden refused to allow MacPherson’s remark to pass. Oh no. There wasn’t a self-respecting sailor in all of Christendom who wasn’t man enough to come back with a retort. “And whilst we’re ashore, make certain you go shag your mother.”

  Take that, ye bastard.

  Before the braggart could take a swing and start a brawl on the icy gateway steps, a yeoman stepped between them. “Welcome to the Royal Scots Navy.”

  Aiden shot a look to Captain Polwarth and grinned. “It seems news of the Act of Union hasn’t reached this far north.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir,” said the yeoman. “Only the Royal Mary and the Caledonia are moored in our harbor. Mark me, no bleeding English warships would be welcomed to a Hogmanay gathering at Dunnottar.”

  “I would think no less from the Earl Marischal,” said the captain.

  “Indeed.” The yeoman gestured to the gatehouse. “Gentlemen, if you’ll check your weapons, we shall escort you to the gallery forthwith.”

  Once inside the enormous fortress grounds, a sentry ushered Aiden and the officers past the old keep to the North Range, where stood the more modern buildings of the castle. Luck rained down upon them when he found the dining hall spread with platters piled with meats and slices of fine white bread to fill his gullet. Aiden continually ate like a glutton, yet never managed to put on an ounce of fat.

  Tankard of ale in hand, he and Lieutenant Fraser MacPherson headed from the dining hall to the long gallery where the music had already grown jaunty. Though constantly at odds, Aiden always stepped ashore with the stout Highlander, the son of the MacPherson laird. They quarreled like brothers, though if Aiden had to choose anyone from the crew to watch his back, it would be Fraser MacPherson…or the captain.

  Aiden jabbed his mate in the ribs. “Why did you choose a beaked mask? You look like a charlatan.”

  “Isn’t that what a masquerade is about?” MacPherson’s grin stretched under the ugly black nose. “Besides, the lassies like charlatans.”

  Aiden rather doubted such wisdom. “Do they now?”

  “Aye, but you wouldn’t ken anything about that, young pup.”

  “Two years my senior and you’re so much wiser in the ways of the world, aye?” Pushing through the crowd toward a gathering of more masked gentlemen, Aiden took a healthy swallow of ale.

  “Agreed.” MacPherson slapped him on the back, making froth slop down Aiden’s doublet.

  He brushed away the mess. “Well then, why is it I outrank you?”

  “That’s easy. Your father’s a duke.”

  Nothing like a cutting slight to make Aiden’s gut clench—most every officer in the navy was a second son of a noble lord. “You ken as well as I my da has nothing to do with my rank.” Holy Christ, how many times must he prove himself? Being the second son of a duke should have made his lot easier, but thus far his birthright had brought only a heavier burden. Aiden learned early on he had to be better skilled with a sword, have better aim with a musket, be wittier at the captain’s table, and sing like a lark while doing it all.

  “Jesus, I’ve died and have gone to heaven.” MacPherson’s jaw dropped like a simpleton’s while he gaped at the dancers.

  Aiden followed his friend’s line of sight. With a quick inhale, he tightened his fist around his tankard’s handle. The woman dancing a reel smiled as if a dozen torches formed an archway around her. She wore a shimmering blue gown, and her fair hair curled down the back of a slender neck, secured by a plume of feathers. Though a bejeweled mask hid part of her face, by the smile on her rosy lips Aiden could tell the lass was bonny—possibly the bonniest woman in—

  MacPherson gave him a nudge. “I saw her first.”

  Aiden arched an eyebrow. “Stand down. That’s an order.” Being a senior officer did have its merits and before the braggart could make a move, Aiden strode straight to the line of dancers. He tapped the lady’s partner on the shoulder. “Cutting in.”

  The man gave a haughty cough. “I beg your pardon? Have you officers forgotten your manners whilst at sea?”

  “Forgive me, sir. I meant no impertinence, ’tis just that the ship sets sail at dawn and I haven’t much time.” Perhaps the rake in him had finally come to call. Aiden handed the man his tankard of ale, then stared directly at the lady, who stood aghast with her hands on her hips while the other dancers skipped in a circle. He bowed slowly and politely. The l
ast thing he needed was to ruin his chances before he even kent the lassie’s name. “Forgive me, m’lady. Have mercy on a young lieutenant. On the morrow I’ll be back at sea for months on end, leagues away from civilization.”

  Gripping the tankard with white knuckles, the man didn’t budge. “Do you approve, my dear?”

  The beauty gave Aiden a look from head to toe. “Very well. After all, you told me to ensure the officers enjoy the merriment this eve.”

  Aiden sized up the man. Far older, he was nearly as tall and broad-shouldered, he wore finely tailored velvet and sported a periwig that had not a hair out of place. Recognizing nobility, Aiden again bowed. “I thank you, m’lord.”

  The lass resumed the reel, regarding Aiden with an enormous pair of blue eyes peeping through her mask—blues as hypnotizing as a shimmering crystal.

  He quickly joined the men’s line, thanking his mother for her interminable enforced hours of dreary dancing lessons.

  “You’re light on your feet for a sailor,” she said as they moved together and joined elbows. Heavens, her voice sounded alluring like nothing he’d before heard.

  “Thank you.” A subtle grin played across his lips. “But my polish is nothing compared to your grace.”

  She actually laughed out loud—quite audacious for a lady. “It must be exciting to see exotic places.”

  A frigate, the Royal Mary mainly patrolled the waters of Scotland, and now England. Not exactly exotic. “Aye, but ’tisn’t much fun when you’re under cannon fire.”

  Those blues grew rounder beneath her mask. “Cannons?”

  “Aye, we are at war, miss.”

  They parted as he took his place in the men’s line and waited for the next couple to sashay through. Across the aisle, the dance partner seemed enlivened by their separation, smiling and clapping. Though poised like a queen, there was something about her that was more common. Possibly explained by the fact she actually looked like she was having a good time rather than donning aristocratic airs and pretending she but merely endured the dance.

  The tune ended and Aiden dipped into a bow, but he knew the fun to be had this night was only just beginning.

  Amy Jarecki is a descendant of an ancient Lowland clan and adores Scotland. Though she now resides in southwest Utah, she received her MBA from Heriot-Watt University in Edinburgh. Winning multiple writing awards, she found her niche in the genre of Scottish historical romance. Amy writes steamy edge-of-your-seat action adventures with rugged men and fascinating women who weave their paths through the brutal eras of centuries past. Amy loves hearing from her readers and can be contacted through her website at AmyJarecki.com.

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