Sarah Gabriel - Keeping Kate

by Keeping Kate (lit)

  Prologue

  London March 1,1728

  O

  ne glance spared for the golden beauty standing in the crowd nearly cost Alexander Fraser his life, and certainly his timing. Stepping back, he lifted his sword to parry again, aware that his opponent could have taken the advantage while Alec's attention had been briefly diverted.

  Fortunately, swordsmanship was not Jack MacDon-ald's strong point. But Alec was not about to prove that by being inadvertently skewered in front of the afternoon assembly of King George's court at St. James's Palace.

  Captain Alexander Fraser, Highland regimental offi-

  cer, laird of Kilburnie, and heir to a fortune he did not want, sidestepped in a wary dance. With his targe shield braced on his left forearm, he waved the dirk in his left hand like a wicked thorn and gripped a basket-hilt broadsword in his right to parry Jack MacDonald's on­coming stroke. The clash of steel rang out in the great hall, echoing against vaulted ceilings, wood-paneled walls, and a slate floor laid two centuries earlier.

  Turning, Alec saw the dazzling girl again, closer to him now. Who the devil was she, he thought—and why should he care? Yet he noticed her sparkling presence even in the midst of a fight, noticed her blond beauty, her gown of cream and gold, and the silk tartan shawl tucked at her elbows.

  A beautiful young Scotswoman, bold enough to wear the plaid in this nest of Whigs and Englishmen, in the presence of the king: he ought to know her, but did not. Shifting on his feet, he angled his back to her and re­gained his focus.

  Taking catlike steps to the right, he swept his blade down. The broadswords struck together, hard enough to vibrate along his arm to his shoulder. He smacked his hilt backward into Jack's left hand, loosening the dirk clutched there. Flexing his empty fingers, Jack glared at Alec.

  With a quick upward thrust of his long dirk, Alec stabbed into the wedge of space between Jack's torso and his sword arm. In return, Jack whipped his blade wildly, and Alec tilted back to avoid the sweep. He cir­cled sideways, wary and watchful, while he and Mac-Donald gauged each other's next move.

  The audience stood several deep in the hall now, a mass of colored fabrics, powdered wigs, unfamiliar faces. The press of bodies warmed air already thick with perfumes, pomatum, wine, and sweat. King George, portly in green damask and a silvery wig, oc­cupied a gilt chair on a decorated dais. His queen sat beside him, lush and blowsy in flowered silks.

  Alec saw all of it in a blur, but for the beautiful girl who glowed like a sunbeam. She leaned sideways to lis­ten to a woman dressed in black. Whirling away, Alec lunged, pulled back.

  Quarter guard, parry, stepping together, then apart in a lethal dance. Gasps fluttered through the crowd as Alec's next thrust deliberately missed his opponent. Leaping to one side, he met Jack's next advance with a hanging guard, sword tipped downward, then flicking up to catch and tear cloth, all the while keeping a steady rhythm of breath and motion.

  Lifting his blade, MacDonald overshot just as Alec stepped aside, and steel bit into slate. Alec brought his blade in a swift upward arc within an inch of Jack's side, and tapped his blade against the plaid and shirt over the man's ribs—a deadly blow had he put force into it—and he held the sword in position, while Jack froze under that lethal guard.

  Breathing fast, Alec waited, shirt clinging damp to his back beneath his wrapped plaid.

  She was there again, just at the corner of his vision. He sensed her wherever she was in the room, foolish as it seemed, though he did not take his gaze from Jack.

  Finally, MacDonald opened his hands in defeat,

  dropped his sword with a clatter to the floor, and stepped back, bowing graciously. Alec only inclined his head.

  Jack smiled, quick and boyish, then turned to bow as the crowd erupted in applause. His bright grin and handsome, chiseled face, his black hair clinging in curls to his brow, his romantic Highland plaid, coaxed ripples of sighs among the ladies. Jack MacDonald had many talents, Alec thought, among them natural charm. Women loved him no matter what sort of ras­cal he could be.

  Jack turned, clapped Alec amiably on the shoulder. Silent and somber, Alec nodded, wiped his sweaty brow with his forearm. He held no grudge against his friend, but he was no showman, only glancing at the audience before laying his weapons on the floor, but for the basket-hilt sword. Jack collected more smiles, ap­plause, and three perfumed silken handkerchiefs tossed his way, and as the applause ended, he turned with Alec toward the dais.

  King George nodded his approval, and a solemn valet in a bag wig and a green coat beckoned the High­landers forward, indicating that they should bow.

  Alec hesitated. He was loath to bow before the Ger­man elector when the rightful king of Scotland and En­gland, James Stuart, lived in exile in Rome. But James had nearly given up hope, they said, and would prefer Providence, or Jacobites, to make the effort to restore his throne.

  As an officer in a Highland Independent Company,

  Alec knew he must conceal his true loyalties here. Dis­cretion and secrecy were the wisest choices when work­ing covertly for the Jacobite cause. He inclined his head slightly, while Jack bowed without his usual flourish.

  "Your Majesty," Alec murmured.

  "Very goot demonstration," King George said. "Dat is a clay-mer?"

  "Aye, claidheamh mor in the Gaelic, Your Grace," Alec said. "It means Trig sword.'" As he spoke, he saw the golden young woman glide closer to where he stood. The older lady in black was with her like a duenna. Alec wanted to turn, feast his gaze upon her, learn who she was—a finer reward for demonstrating Highland fighting technique than an audience with this particu­lar king.

  "I thought dey were bigger, dose swords," the king ob­served. Tittering laughter spread through the assembly.

  "Your Majesty," Jack replied, "early Highland clay­mores were much larger, with two-handed hilts and blades near as tall as their owners. They were suited for brutal battle, not close combat. Broadswords now have shorter blades, and the basket hilt is a Scottish improvement. Our weapons have German blades as well." Jack bowed again. Alec stood ramrod straight and silent.

  "Goot German steel, yes! But all weapons is confis­cated in da Highlands now." The king snorted a laugh.

  "Sire, we are aware of that," Alec said stiffly.

  "A goot performance for da queen's birthday," the king went on, "better dan dat Beggar's Opera in de the-

  ater house now." He turned to speak to Queen Caro­line, seated beside him. Plump and pretty in silks and pearls, she smiled at the Highlanders, then leaned to­ward her husband to murmur in confidence.

  Dismissed, Alec thought.

  The valet came toward them, gloved hand extended first to Alec, then Jack, as he dropped a gold guinea into each man's palm. "For your trouble," he murmured haughtily.

  Staring at the insulting payment, Alec felt himself flush to the roots of his golden brown hair. Neither he nor Jack were hired performers. They had been invited at the king's request to demonstrate sword technique for the queen's birthday.

  Alec spun on his heel, turning his back to the king, and strode to the center of the room to retrieve his weapons, while Jack followed. Shoving his dirk into the sheath at his belt, Alec fumed in silence.

  "Between the journey and waiting here in London for the royal summons," Jack muttered, "we've spent over a fortnight on this damnable task."

  Alec glanced at his cousin without reply and snatched up his sword.

  Nearly three weeks ago, Alec had been reviewing lists of confiscated weapons at Fort William, in Scot­land, for General Wade when the general had asked him to travel to London to display Highland fighting skills at the king's court. Wade had chosen Alec as the logical choice, since h
e was a trained swordsman under the tutelage of an uncle who had written a training manual on the subject. Alec had brought Jack MacDon-

  aid, his cousin and ghillie, along to act as his opponent in the mock contest.

  Once in London, waiting upon a royal summons, Jack dove happily into court life while Alec—by nature keen on his solitude—strolled alone through the streets and court gardens, or tended to correspondence gener­ated by his position as a lawyer for the Highland com­pany in which he was also a captain. The work made it increasingly clear to him that he needed to be in Scot­land, not cooling his heels in England.

  Now the show was over, and he and Jack were free to go. Glancing up, he saw that the crowd had dispersed. The Highland "performers" were no longer of interest.

  The beauty stood nearby, fluttering an ivory fan and murmuring with the older lady. As Alec watched her, she glanced his way again. Her gaze, charming, coy, and entrancing, struck him like a spark.

  He returned his attention to attaching the scabbard to his belt. Jack picked up Alec's short red military coat and captain's sash, but he refused them. He felt obsti­nate. If the sight of his Highland gear made Whigs and Londoners uncomfortable, so be it.

  While Jack bundled their things and tucked them under his arm, Alec glanced his way. "Jack, who is that lass there?"

  "Och, the lovely creature? I do not know—but I heard that she and her aunt are here to petition the king on be­half of Jacobite widows who are entitled to pensions following the deaths of their husbands. The executions of their husbands," he added. "She's Highland, I would guess."

  "Aye, by that plaid. Did you hear her name, or clan?"

  "I did not, alas. I do fancy a mystery." Jack looked speculatively at the girl.

  She glanced toward them again, directly at Alec over her fan. Her gaze was like a true arrow straight to his heart.

  "Surprising to see Jacobite ladies here at court," Jack said, "but the king favors their petition, I hear, because the girl is such a beauty. Championing widows is a re­spectable cause, and what her Highland kinsmen might do up north may not affect her here. Plaid is so rarely seen at court that she could be taken for a spy if she were not... so utterly charming."

  Nodding in silence, Alec saw the two women pick up their skirts and cross toward him. He stood with his broadsword clutched in his hands, steel point pressing into the floor. His heart pounded like a hammer. Beside him, Jack said something mundane—collecting their belongings at the inn, paying their stable bill—then he, too, fell silent.

  Grace and magic turned to woman, she moved to­ward him. Though not tall, she was slender and ele­gant, her slim hands resting upon wide silk skirts the color of rich cream, embroidered in gold. The tartan shawl caught at her elbows was patterned in light col­ors. A choker of pearls wrapped thrice around her slim throat, and a twinkling crystal pendant on a silver chain rode above a lush bosom made demure by a translucent mantle of lace.

  Alec stood like a statue and drank in the sight of her: heart-shaped face, flawless skin, rosy lips, a slightly up-

  turned nose, and extraordinary eyes of light gray. The deep gold of her hair, caught high, was tucked beneath a lacy cap. Without powder, paint, or overdecoration, she was a vision.

  "My God," Jack breathed. "A fairy queen."

  Alec silently agreed. She sparkled. He hardly noticed her companion, a small woman swallowed in black silk. As the two women approached, he inclined his head respectfully to the other lady. Then his gaze met the girl's again, and held it.

  She tilted her head in silent acknowledgment and moved past him, but an arm's length away. Her skirts brushed near his feet, and he could have touched her smooth hand.

  Then she glided past like stolen sunlight.

  He felt different suddenly, as if her incandescence dissolved shadows that had surrounded him for years. Motionless, he watched her depart by a side door opened by a page boy.

  Exhaling, he scabbarded his sword with a swift push. Never had he felt such a headlong rush of attrac­tion, like a physical force sweeping through him—not even for the woman he loved, gone two years now.

  The delicate, mysterious Scottish beauty had sent chills clear through him. He still felt the resonance.

  Beside him, Jack looked dumbstruck. "I've just seen the wee queen of all the fairies. I think I'm in love."

  "Aye? The older lady seems just your sort," Alec drawled. Ignoring Jack's quick scowl, he strode toward the hall's main doors, where two liveried porters stood.

  Still clutching the shining guinea in his hand, he

  handed it to the porter as he left the hall. He did not want the English king's gold.

  She felt taken up by a whirlwind and left trembling. Setting a hand over her thumping heart, Kate MacCar-ran watched the taller of the two Highlanders through the narrow gap of the doorway.

  With only a few searing glances, he had captured her attention utterly. His handsome strength, agility, and the aura of quiet power that surrounded him fascinated her. Blue eyes piercing under straight brows, dark hair touched with sunlight, he seemed as rugged as the mountains of his origin, as strong as earth and rock, an honorable Highlander like her own kinsmen. His com­rade was a lean, dark young man of startling beauty, but Kate noticed only the taller of the two and won­dered at his identity.

  Her aunt touched her arm to urge her onward, but Kate waved her ahead to where others strolled in the gallery. Left alone, she braced a hand on the doorframe and watched as the two Highlanders departed the hall and vanished in the shadows.

  She felt a sudden wild longing, wishing she could go with him, back to the Highlands, into adventure. But she had business here before she could return north, and she could not allow herself to become infatuated with a stranger. The dream might be pleasant, but the risks were far too great.

  On its silver chain, the crystal pendant at her throat sparkled. She touched her fingers to it, reassured by its

  presence, which subtly enhanced the gift of the fairy blood within her, the legacy of her family.

  Love makes its own magic, said the motto of her clan. Kate had been born with the gift of the glamourie—the ability to cast a spell—in her case, she could captivate a man with a mere touch or a glance. But the tall High­land swordsman had not wavered under her glance, had not turned adoring and obedient, ready to do all her will. His silence, his stillness and pride intrigued her deeply.

  Yet she must not let herself be captivated by a stranger, though he made her heart beat faster, in a way she had never experienced before. She must use her gift of charm to help her Jacobite kinsmen—that was why she was here. She must not lose sight of her purpose.

  Yet somehow she felt as if the unknown Highlander had thrown a glamourie over her—she was the one caught, for a moment, while he walked away without a backward glance.

  Closing the door, she turned, smoothing the skirt of her satin gown. Across the room, her aunt conversed with a blustery lieutenant general who had spent years plotting military strategies against the Jacobites. Kate felt sure she could coax a smile or two from him—and soon enough, learn some tidbits of information to ben­efit her northern kinsmen.

  Summoning a smile, she moved forward.

  Chapter 1

  Scotland, the Great Glen October 1728

  %% M y reposterous," Alec muttered as he regarded .MT the broadsheet in his hand. The creased, worn page had just been handed to him by the young officer standing before his makeshift desk in the field tent. " 'Highland menace/ it says here. Do you agree, Lieu­tenant Heron?"

  "Perhaps, Captain." The young officer turned his black cocked hat nervously in his hands. "General Wade asked me to come here to tell you about my en­counter with this, ah, menace."

  Alec sifted through some of the papers on the table

  surface. "I've read several accounts in the few days I've been here, but you're the only one I've interviewed per­sonally regarding the matter. This is the first I've seen of this broadsheet. She's rather fetching
," Alec drawled, eyeing the page.

  "Not so much in that drawing, perhaps, but she's very fetching in person." Heron cleared his throat.

  "Ah." Alec tilted the page toward the lantern's glow to read the text again. In the silence, rain and wind bat­tered the canvas shelter, and the door flaps billowed. The tent was crammed with a cot, a wooden chest piled with papers and books, the narrow folding table, and a rickety folding chair that Alec occupied. With nowhere to sit but the bed, the tall young lieutenant stood be­neath the tent's peak.

  " 'Katie Hell,'" Alec read aloud. " 'Notorious High­land wench.'" He tipped a brow as he scrutinized the illustration above the caption. " 'A thief and a spy, a threat to the crown ... possessing a most peculiar magic' What the devil does that mean?" He looked up.

  "She's notorious among General Wade's troops, and she will lure a man like a siren—before she steals docu­ments out from under him. There is ... a peculiar power about her. I cannot quite explain it. Have you come here intending to capture her, sir?"

  "No. I'm a lawyer, not a constable. But since I was here reviewing legal documents, General Wade asked me to look into this matter as well. I'll take a written testimony of your encounter with this Katie Hell, if you don't mind, Lieutenant." He pulled a sheet of paper from a stack, picked up a pen, and dipped the point in a small inkpot.

  "Of course, sir. She must be caught."

  "Indeed. She's making a mockery of all of us with these antics." Alec turned his attention to the woodcut image printed on the page: a slender young woman with a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other. She was dressed in tartan knee breeches and a snug match­ing jacket, with a plaid sash crossing her ample bosom, and jaunty buckled shoes on her feet over stockings that clung to shapely calves. A Highland bonnet with a feather sat upon her hair, which was pulled back by a loop of ribbon, with fat curls spilling over one shoulder. A beauty mark graced her cheek, and her eyes were large and clear above a pouting mouth.

  Alec began to read aloud.

  Katie Hell, Notorious Highland Wench, acts as an in­triguante for the Jacobite Cause. Using feminine wiles, this Highland wanton lures governmental sol­diers with her charms, then renders her victims sense­less and purloins the property of crown and king. Of a wild and unpredictable temperament, this siren is thought by superstitious Highlanders to possess the magic of the Scottish fairies . ..