Highland Jewel (The House of Pendray Book 3)

by Anna Markland

  Finally, they stood together in front of the mirror and accepted the accolades of Meaghan, Jane and Kate.

  “I canna wait to grow up and wear fancy gowns,” the eldest sighed.

  “Time enough for that,” her mother replied. “This reception will probably be as tedious as all the others.”

  “What’s the occasion?” Jewel asked.

  Beatris shrugged, handing Jewel a silk wrap for her shoulders. “A new ambassador—from the Netherlands, I think.”

  The prospect tightened the knot of anticipation in her belly. “Mr. Barclay might know him. I wonder if he’s arrived yet?”

  Beatris nodded to the window. “Take a look.”

  Jewel scanned the distant camp, the breath hitching in her throat when she caught sight of Garnet striding towards the house, Andrew at his side. “He is a Highlander,” she murmured, remembering the well-muscled body now draped in an impressive great kilt, his broad shoulders filling out the velvet doublet beneath.

  The lasses joined her at the window. “His hair’s wet,” Kate remarked.

  “Probably took a dip in the burn beyond the meadow,” her mother replied.

  Jewel gripped the windowsill as visions of Garnet bathing in the stream assailed her—strong arms, flat belly, long legs. She’d grown up with two brothers and was aware men were made differently from women. She hadn’t seen either Munro or Gray naked since they were all bairns and supposed male parts grew like every other aspect of their bodies, just as her breasts had swelled to embarrassing proportions. She watched Garnet’s confident walk, trying to imagine the appendage between his legs. Her mother had made sure she knew about the mechanics of sexual congress, but it was the first time in her life the notion had seemed real. Lying abed with the strapping Highlander while he…

  Heat spiraled up her spine and into her womb. “Do ye have a fan I could borrow?” she asked.

  “’Tisna that hot,” Jane replied.

  Beatris laughed, winking at Jewel as she handed her a lacy fan.

  “Everybody’s here,” Quinn shouted. “The carriage awaits. I canna be late.”

  Gray eyed Garnet up and down as he proffered a hand. “I didna recognize ye,” he confessed with a smile. “My sister will be gobsmacked.”

  “I’ll do then, will I?”

  “Aye,” Quinn replied. “Here come the ladies.”

  Garnet barely paid attention to Beatris as Gray stepped forward to offer her his arm.

  He heard Quinn corral his chattering daughters into the kitchen where Gladys Cook waited to put them to work.

  He should say something to the woman in the shimmering silk gown who stared at him, but her beauty had stolen away his ability to speak. Her gaze told him she liked what she saw. Hope for a happy future blossomed in his heart for the first time in many a month. “Ye truly are a jewel,” he managed after a few minutes.

  She fanned her red cheeks. “Ye look mighty handsome yerself.”

  “Everybody out,” Quinn urged.

  Gray assisted Beatris to board the carriage and sat next to her. Garnet took the opportunity to put his hands on Jewel’s waist to help her mount the step. She glanced over her shoulder, evidently as aware of the heat that passed between them as he was. He sat beside her, elated when she reached for his hand. It was unavoidable their thighs touch in the cramped carriage, but she made no effort to pull away.

  Quinn climbed up to sit beside the driver and they were off.

  Gray and Beatris watched them with peculiar grins on their faces. Garnet was grateful for the voluminous belted plaid that hid his body’s enthusiastic reaction to Jewel’s nearness.

  When they arrived at the castle, Quinn made his excuses and hurried away. Beatris led them to the doors of the Great Hall where a small group of guests waited. “We’re early,” she explained.

  As more people joined the throng, Jewel was reminded of the previous year’s audience in Whitehall with King Charles. Then she’d gushed enthusiastically about the tall periwigs and beribboned garments of the courtiers—men with lacy cravats and broad, turned-back sleeves; women with white paste on their faces. Munro had quipped they were afraid to smile in case they cracked the façade.

  She clung to Garnet’s arm, glad her escort was one of the few clad in a traditional great kilt, gartered knee socks, doublet and bonnet.

  “I feel a wee bit out of place among all this finery,” he confided. “Reminds me of Amsterdam.”

  “Nonsense,” she replied, leaning into his arm. “Ye look like a real mon, nay a fop.”

  Startled by the brazen nature of her own remark, and perplexed by the hint of regret in his voice at the mention of Amsterdam, she took a breath. “Ye’ll mayhap be acquainted with the new Dutch ambassador. The reception’s in his honor.”

  The smile fled as his eyes darkened. He gripped her elbow when the double doors opened and they were swept along with the now boisterous crowd. She assumed he was worried they’d be separated in the crush, but one glance at the stern set of his jaw suggested something else had caused his sudden change of demeanor.

  The din echoed off the giant roof beams held aloft by stone corbels, rendering conversation impossible. Folk pushed and shoved their way to the front of the gathering. The domed ceiling of dark wood loomed like a storm cloud on what she’d expected to be a bright sky.

  When they lost sight of Beatris and Gray, she craned her neck to see if she could espy Quinn at the front of the crowd, but all she could see was the ostentatious feather of someone’s hat—probably the newly arrived Dutchman. Garnet’s height gave him an advantage. He tightened his grip on her arm and she sensed he’d recognized somebody. He bent his head when she stood on tiptoe to speak to him. “Is it Quinn?” she asked close to his ear, already certain of the answer.

  “Nay,” he replied. “I canna stay.”

  Despite her alarm at his obvious distress, she was relieved when he linked her arm and pulled her along to the doors. Whatever the problem was, she wanted to be at his side while he dealt with it.

  They emerged into the late afternoon sunshine, not exchanging a word until he stopped in the shadow of Queen Mary’s Tower and leaned back against the stone wall, his hands at her waist. “I apologize,” he said hoarsely, looking to the sky. “’Twas no way to behave. Ye’ll miss the reception.”

  “I dinna care about that,” she replied, distraught by the panic in his eyes. “Tell me.”

  He glanced across the courtyard at two dragoons on sentry duty. “We’re attracting attention.”

  Jewel had a choice. She could take the easy road and demand he escort her back to the safety of the hall. Instead, she leaned into him, pressing her body to his. “They’ll think we are lovers who’ve stolen away for a kiss.”

  His nostrils flared as his arms tightened around her. He shook his head, nay, but the longing in his eyes said aye.

  “Jewel,” he whispered before his mouth came down on hers, nibbling gently, then coaxing her lips with his tongue. She opened, heart pounding in her ears as he took possession.

  She surrendered to the growl that emerged from deep in his throat, answering with a mewling noise she’d never made before. She matched the rhythm of his hips, not a little overwhelmed by the hard flesh pressed to her mons. She suddenly knew exactly what her mother meant about the alchemy of a kiss.

  When they broke apart, he inhaled deeply and pressed his head back against the wall, but his hold on her didn’t lessen. “’Tis foolhardy, sweet lass. Ye ken naught about me.”

  She rested her head on his chest, listening to the thudding of his heart. “Then tell me. I willna judge ye.”

  Downhill

  Garnet had carried the burden of resentment alone for too long. He knew deep down Jewel wouldn’t betray him. “Ye’ve probably surmised the Dutch ambassador would have recognized me,” he admitted.

  “Aye,” she murmured in reply, seemingly content to stay in his arms.

  “He’s a friend of the man who destroyed my life.”

 
; She looked up at him, but didn’t pull away. “I had a feeling some dire circumstances caused ye to leave Rotterdam in a hurry.”

  He snorted at the irony. “Ye could say being accused of stealing emeralds and committing murder in the process were dire circumstances.”

  “But ye’d never commit such heinous crimes.”

  His throat constricted. He held a woman who barely knew him, yet she recognized his true nature. “Didna matter. When ye offend a powerful mon, he makes sure the evidence mounts against ye.”

  “But what happened?”

  “I was sentenced to hang. Donald helped me escape and flee to Rotterdam. He paid for my passage home. The ambassador would have clamored for my arrest if he’d seen me.”

  She remained silent for long minutes. He wondered if she was thinking of some way to extricate herself from the situation, but then he heard the quiet sobs. He tilted her chin to his gaze. “I’m nay worth crying over.”

  Her eyes darkened. “Aye, ye are. The travesty makes me angry. This mon murdered someone just so he could implicate ye?”

  The memory was too painful. “A lass. Lotte.”

  “She was dear to ye.”

  “We were to marry.”

  Her heavy sigh touched his heart. “We were good friends, comfortable with each other,” he rasped.

  “But what did ye do to make such an enemy?”

  “Weel, ye ken we Scots tend to take offense easily. I was proud of my high standing in the bank. I lost my temper and called him out in public when he made advances. In hindsight, I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “Advances?” she asked.

  He cursed inwardly. A gently brought up lass like Jewel would have no knowledge of such things. “Of the amorous kind.”

  “To Lotte?”

  “Nay, lass, to me.”

  She giggled. “But…oh, now I remember a remark my older brother, Munro, made when we were at court in Whitehall—about certain men.”

  His gut roiled again. “Ye went to the court of King Charles?”

  “Aye, when my father’s earldom was confirmed. It only took His Majesty twenty years to give his royal blessing to my father’s inheriting the title from my mother’s uncle.”

  His heart lurched. Even before his downfall, she’d have been so far out of his reach. “Yer father’s an earl?”

  “He inherited the title from my mother’s uncle, Munro Cunynghame, because of course a woman canna be an earl.” She hesitated, as if she’d revealed too much. “’Tis a long tale.”

  The name she mentioned seemed familiar. He sensed he wasn’t going to like the story, but she’d heard his sorry saga and not censured him. He kissed her forehead. “Ye can tell me as we walk.”

  Jewel shivered as they walked down the hill away from the castle. “It has cooled off,” she said, pulling Beatris’ wrap tighter.

  “I can keep ye warm with my plaid,” he replied, “but ’twill mean being closer than just holding hands.”

  When she nodded, he hooked his fingers in the folds of the great kilt draped over his shoulder and put his arm round her. She leaned into him, deriving as much warmth from his body as from the plaid.

  He matched the length of his stride to hers and they fell into a comfortable rhythm. “We fit well together,” he said.

  His words conjured wanton thoughts she was too shy to give voice to. “Gray will wonder what has happened to me,” she replied lamely.

  “He’ll discover we’re both missing and realize ye’re with me. He’ll think we got swallowed up by the crowd once the reception is over.”

  “Beatris will deem it improper.”

  “I suppose it is, but dinna worry. Ye’re safe with me.”

  A pang of disappointment niggled. She didn’t want to be safe. She wanted to be kissed again, to be held against his strong body, to feel desired.

  “Now, tell me about yer family. I suppose the older brother ye mentioned is the heir to yer father’s earldom.”

  “Aye. Munro was named for my great-uncle.”

  “The one who was the earl during the rebellion.”

  She wasn’t sure why he was suddenly interested in her family history, but he’d held nothing back about his misadventures in Amsterdam. She recounted the convoluted twists and turns of the Royalist uprising against Cromwell’s invasion of Scotland and the subsequent restoration of the monarchy that had resulted in her father—a soldier in Cromwell’s army—inheriting the lands and titles of her mother’s Royalist family.

  “So yer father married a Royalist?”

  She chuckled. “Aye. A spy at that. Actually, more than a spy.”

  He fell silent.

  She sensed she’d said too much when he called a halt within sight of the Guthrie house and withdrew his arm.

  “I’m an idiot,” he snarled.

  “I canna believe I didna see what was right under my nose,” Garnet spat, not certain why he was angry. “There were enough clues—ye insist on visiting Dunnottar Castle, yer escort consists of a bunch of Highlanders who served time in Edinburgh Castle, ye have a horse named Scepter, and yer name is Jewel. Ye are the children of Hannah Kincaid.”

  Even in the gathering shadows of dusk, he could see she was alarmed. The color had drained from her face. Her bottom lip quivered, but confused anger blazed in her eyes. “Aye, but I dinna like to boast my mother is a national heroine,” she retorted. “Why are ye so angry?”

  He removed his bonnet and paced away, then back to confront her. He’d lost his temper in Amsterdam and regretted it ever since. Now, he’d frightened the woman who’d stirred intense feelings in his body and his heart. But the need to lash out consumed him. “I’ve a suspicion yer grand uncle was Glenheath. Do ye deny it?”

  “Why should I?” she replied defiantly, hands on hips.

  He gritted his teeth. “Do ye ken anything about the atrocities carried out in the Highlands by Glenheath and his marauding bands of Royalists?”

  She inhaled deeply and pulled the shawl around her shoulders. “I’ve a feeling ye’re going to tell me.”

  A lifetime of resentment seethed in his heart, but it was pointless to direct his anger at a lass born years after his ancestral home had been destroyed. They were within sight of the house. Most women would have fled in the face of a man’s anger, but she’d stood her ground and he had to admire that. It grieved him he’d probably alienated her forever. He settled the bonnet back on his head. “I apologize,” he said. “I lost my temper.”

  “Aye, ye did,” she agreed. “Listen, I ken folk did terrible things during the rebellion—on both sides. I can scarcely believe some of the tales my parents tell.”

  A need to bare his soul welled up inside. “They burned down my grandparents’ home, stole all the cattle.”

  She frowned. “Glenheath’s men?”

  “Aye, and nay doot yer beloved Murtagh was among them.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I find that hard to believe. Have ye confronted him about it?”

  Nay, he’d been too much of a coward, plotting instead to gain the mon’s trust and then kill him.

  “I thought not,” she declared when he hesitated.

  He had no choice. “We’ll ask him now.”

  Thieves

  Dread knotted Jewel’s insides. She’d known Murtagh all her life. He was like an uncle, the bond between him and her father unbreakable. “I canna come with ye,” she told Garnet. “Ye must speak with him alone.”

  He was about to reply when they noticed Michael Cameron and another man approaching the house, two saddled horses in tow.

  “That’s a relief,” Garnet muttered. “They dinna look like military saddles.”

  “Got yer mounts,” Cameron growled. “Farmer Bovey here drove a hard bargain, but ye need something sturdy for the trek into yon mountains.”

  Bovey held the reins while Garnet looked the animals over with a practiced eye before returning to her side. “’Tis the most I’ve heard Michael say since I arrived, but he’s mana
ged to procure two worthy geldings,” he confided. “Fine horses. I’ll repay ye,” he shouted to Cameron.

  He received a shrug in reply before his host and the farmer led the animals around the house to the back yard.

  “Where would he get his hands on coin?” Jewel asked as Garnet led her to the Guthrie house.

  “I dinna ken, but it seems the Covenanters have plenty.”

  He raised his hand to knock, but the door stood slightly ajar.

  “Gladys Cook probably left it open for us,” she said, turning to face him. “Murtagh is an honest mon. He willna lie to ye. Whatever he did in the past, he paid for it with years in prison.”

  “I ken,” he replied. “I actually like him, despite being determined not to. Ye’ve helped calm my anger, and I thank ye. I’ll offer to help Michael unsaddle the horses, then talk to Murtagh.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” she promised.

  “Ye canna appreciate the peace ye’ve brought to my heart,” he whispered. “In return I’ve given ye naught but angry accusations.”

  He opened the laces of his shirt and untied a thong from around his neck. “I want to give ye this,” he rasped, offering a tarnished amulet on his palm.

  She frowned. “What is it?”

  He shrugged. “Something of so little value even the Dutch jailers didna steal it.”

  She traced a finger over the engraving of a man. “Who is he?”

  “My mother’s a died-in-the wool Catholic who insisted I wear a St. Christopher medallion when I embarked for Amsterdam. She believed the saint would keep me safe. Legend has it he carried Jesus across a swollen river.”

  She shook her head. “But ’tis precious to ye.”

  He fastened the thong around her neck. “I’m ashamed to say I kept it hidden of necessity in a Protestant country, but maybe it did save my life.”