Sarah Gabriel - Keeping Kate

by Keeping Kate (lit)

  He looked up at the young officer. "Was that your ex­perience? Rendered senseless, and so on?"

  "She, er, did hit me in the head with my pistol." "Aye?" Alec glanced up, intrigued. "Go on." "She's not like the silly strumpet in that drawing, though she has a quality to her that seems ... almost magical, I'll admit. When I saw her, she wore a modest

  gown and had fine manners. I was enchanted, in a way. It never would have occurred to me that she practiced espionage, though I could believe she might possess ... well, fairy magic. That is, until she took up my flintlock and knocked me in the head with it."

  Alec nodded, perusing the page. "She looks more like a pirate than a fairy. Could you identify her if you saw her again?"

  "I am not sure. It was dark, and there was only can­dlelight in my tent. She was a lovely and gentle young lady, innocent and educated. Not that painted harlot." He gestured toward the broadsheet. "She left a token behind. A white ribbon sewn like a rose. The white cockade of the Jacobites."

  "Aye, she's left them before. I've seen other accounts—what was your experience of her?" Alec poised the pen to write.

  "Just as the sheet says, she is a siren. I could not resist her charms. There is something delectable about her."

  "Siren. Delectable." Alec made a few more notes. "So you enjoyed a tryst with her?"

  "I, uh, do not know." The black hat went round in cir­cles in the officer's hands. "I cannot remember all of it."

  Alec frowned. He had read the same in the other tes­timonies: the officers were never quite sure what tran­spired after they met the Highland wench, though they mentioned kissing, then they either fell asleep or passed out drunk. Alec suspected the girl might have used potions of some sort to affect the men. Upon wak­ing, each officer found a white cockade and discovered documents missing from his quarters.

  Heron shrugged. "And when I woke, the girl was gone."

  Alec scratched his pen over the paper. "This girl is clever, Lieutenant. None of the officers seem to know who she is, what she looks like, or what exactly hap­pened. They all seemed bewildered. Her ruse of having fairy magic is quite clever," he said wryly, "and even practical soldiers seem to believe it. Go on. Was any­thing missing from your tent?"

  "Maps and chocolate."

  "What?" Alec looked up in surprise.

  "I do cartographic drawings for General Wade to chart the Highland roads his crews are constructing. My maps were gone, and a tin of chocolate powder was missing. Our family's preferred variety of chocolate drink, if I may say so, is always Fraser's Fancy Im­ported Cocoa Powder, which I understand your family manufactures. Most excellent."

  "Thank you. I will convey your compliments." Alec shifted papers, unwilling to discuss, or even think, about his neglected role in the Fraser chocolate import business. "How do you know this girl took the things?"

  Asa knock sounded on the wooden post between the tent flaps, Alec glanced up, and the lieutenant turned.

  A Highland woman peeked through the flaps, a bulky plaid wrapped over her head and form against the wind and rain, worn over a shabby green dress. Holding a basket filled with folded linens under one arm, she spoke in Gaelic and pointed toward the bed, then the basket. Her hand was swathed in a moth-eaten fingerless glove.

  "The laundress," the lieutenant told Alec. "I've seen her around camp. Harmless. A bit of a lackwit."

  "I see. Miss, come back later, if you please." Alec half stood out of habit in the presence of a female.

  She came inside regardless, mumbling in Gaelic and waving a hand to indicate she only needed a few mo­ments. Brushing rain from her hood, she went toward Alec's narrow cot, set down her basket, and began to strip away the blanket and bedsheets.

  "Miss, we are busy here," Alec said, sitting again.

  "She doesn't understand much English," the lieu­tenant said. "A few local women tend the chores in this camp, and none speaks a comprehensible word. They do their tasks well enough, but come and go as they please without regard for manners or protocol."

  The woman hummed to herself, and seemed not only plump but clumsy, dropping clean linens on the earth floor and picking them up to shake the dirt off. Unable to see her face well, Alec noticed that under all her clothing, she had a womanly shape and was per­haps not as plump as he thought. And a glimpse of a very pleasant face under the shadow of her plaid showed a younger woman than he expected.

  She took a clean sheet from her basket and snapped it out to spread it over the mattress. The crisp scent wafted through the tent, pleasantly dissipating the musty smells of grass and earth.

  "Miss," Alec began. "Please—" But the girl ignored him.

  "It's no use, Captain," Heron said. "So long as we set up military camps in Highland areas while General

  Wade's road-building campaign continues, we must hire help from among the locals. Many of them only speak the Irish tongue, and while they are genial—and the women are bonny," he added, glancing at the laun­dress, "they can be a stubborn and superstitious lot."

  "To be fair," Alec murmured, "Highlanders are also a generous, polite, hospitable sort. And there is no more handsome race on earth, so they say." He cocked an eyebrow. "I was raised in the Highlands."

  "I, ah, beg your pardon, Captain," Heron mumbled.

  "Now," Alec continued, "I presume the sentries check the identities of all women entering this camp, given the events of the last several months?"

  "Of course." Heron waved his hand. "They're often kinfolk, sharing the work among themselves."

  "Not reassuring, given the bonds among Jacobite families."

  "Aye, but we've had only two incidents here, myself and Colonel Grant." Heron cleared his throat. "Ever since the colonel met this Katie Hell himself, he makes certain no female goes in or out of camp without identi­fying herself. He was furious about his experience. Still is—claims she was a harlot and threatened his life. Though he was not crowned with a pistol butt, sir."

  "I've read the testimony. His pride was more wounded than anything else," Alec agreed. "To con­tinue, Lieutenant, how do you know the girl took your things? The maps and the, er, cocoa?"

  "She complimented my drawings and expressed in­terest in the chocolate, even made us each a cup with

  boiled water and sugar. Said she was devoted to choco­late and must have some."

  Having tucked the sheets, the laundress lifted the blanket to shake it out. The movement rustled the pa­pers on Alec's desk, and several of them scattered to the ground.

  "Tcha," she muttered, turning to catch up the pages, stepping on some and crumpling others in handfuls as she bent to fetch them. Her hands were swallowed by the shabby sleeves of the overlarge dress she wore un­der her plaid cloak. Alec noticed that her hands were slender and pale in the fingerless gloves.

  Mumbling in Gaelic, she slapped crushed pages on his desk and bent to fetch the rest. Alec leaned down to do the same, and their heads knocked with an audible sound. She gasped and glanced up at him.

  Beautiful eyes, he saw, of an extraordinary silver color. He stared, and his mind flickered over a memory. Had he seen this simple Highland woman before?

  "Sorry," he said, stretching out a hand to touch her plaid-swathed head. An odd ripple plunged through him, an instant need, a craving. Had it been so long since he had been near a woman?

  She rose quickly, and Alec turned back to his work. "Pardon, Lieutenant. We were saying." Alec picked up the broadsheet to look at the image of Katie Hell again. "So the vixen snatched your pistol? Why was that?"

  "Well... I attempted to demonstrate my affection by, ah, kissing her. Then she hit me with the butt of my pistol."

  "Ah." Alec glanced up. "And why was she in your tent?"

  "I found her wandering in the camp after dark. She said she was looking for a kinsman but seemed to be in the wrong encampment. She was weary and lost, and I offered my help."

  "Did she give you her name?"

  "Marie. It's ... all I remember, at any rate."

&n
bsp; The laundress picked up a feather pillow and smacked it hard, then laid it on the bed and smoothed the blankets again.

  "Was she Scots or Highland?"

  "She spoke excellent English, without a trace of brogue. And she understood French when I, er, recited some poetry to her."

  "Poetry." Alec wrote it down. "Would you say she was bonny?"

  "Yes. Quite young, and delicate in appearance. Her hair was blond, or perhaps ash or reddish, and her eyes were blue, or green. Could have been gray. I remember that her gown was dark, and she wore a lace cap and a dark cape and hood. She smelled like lavender. Her hair was so soft," he said dreamily.

  Alec took up the pen. "Eyes of an uncertain color, hair of an indeterminate shade, speaks French and En­glish, dark clothing, smells like a sachet... not very specific. Can you add anything?"

  "She had a rare quality," Heron said, nodding. "A sort of allure and innocence all at once, so that I wanted to protect her as much as ... make love to her. An irre­sistible combination and hard to define. I felt besotted,

  even bespelled. Perhaps the rumors that she is a fairy, or practices magic, are true."

  Alec set down the pen. "The other officers reported similar impressions. You may have been drugged by something she put in your cup of chocolate."

  "I find that hard to believe—she was so appealing, so tender and gentle. I desired her completely—"

  "I hope your sore head convinced you otherwise," Alec added with chagrin. While Heron nodded and fidgeted with his hat, Alec glanced again at the laun­dress, who took a shirt and a pair of tartan stockings from the basket and laid them on the bed.

  The garments were not his own, but he'd accept them regardless, he thought. Wiggling his feet inside his buckled shoes, he realized he had worn the same shirt, plaid, waistcoat, and stockings for far too long. Cloth­ing often had to last indefinitely in the field, but he pre­ferred fresh shirts and stockings whenever possible. The clean bed linens the laundress had brought were an unexpected boon. The local washerwomen were effi­cient at their work, he thought.

  Narrowing his eyes, he studied the girl, whose back was turned. She seemed plain enough, with no trace of the irresistible female described by the men who had met the intriguante Katie Hell. But for those lovely eyes, which he had glimpsed when she had dropped the papers ...

  Thoughtfully, he watched the Highland girl.

  Katie Hell would have to be stupid as well as bold, he decided, to enter a tent with two officers inside. He glanced at the lieutenant. "That will be all, Lieutenant.

  I'll give the notes to General Wade. He's anxious to find the woman who has been harassing his officers."

  "Sir, I would not call it that. It was more like ... a few moments of bliss, sir. A taste of magic. She is enchanting."

  "She's a clever vixen, who has turned some soldiers' hearts and turned the rest on their ear."

  "Yes, sir. I suppose that's true." The officer glanced down.

  "Dismissed, Lieutenant. But first, allow me to replace your supply of cocoa powder." Alec stood. "My aunt posts tins to me often. Far too often." He indicated a small table that held cups, spoons, a silver pot, and a stack of black-and-gold tins of tea, cocoa, and coffee. Choosing three tins, he handed them to Heron.

  "Thank you. That's very generous."

  "Not at all. I prefer stronger drink, but my aunt will not post whiskey." He grinned.

  Heron laughed, nodded his thanks, and left the tent.

  Alec returned to the desk. The laundress pushed the used bed linens in the basket, then picked up the load and prepared to leave. He looked up, and again some­thing tugged at his memory—had he seen her before?

  He studied the concealing drape of the plaid, the up-tilt nose, the curve of her cheek. Just a bonny Highland girl, he thought, with a bonny shape hidden under all that clothing. She did not look at him, and the notion passed from his head. She was nothing like the clever wanton in the descriptions.

  He folded into his chair and took up the broadsheet illustration once again. "Katie Hell," he murmured,

  "you've tied a few knots in the British military fabric, lass."

  The laundress walked past him, basket in her hands, heading for the doorway. Again a feeling nudged at him. "Miss," he said.

  She stopped, back turned. "Oiche mhar," she answered.

  "Oik-uh var," he repeated, his accent stiff with dis­use. "Not 'good night' just yet, Miss. Come here, if you please."

  Chapter 2

  K

  ate's heart sank as she faced the tent flaps. Dear God, did Captain Fraser remember seeing her in London?

  He would need only a small leap of reason to realize that a Scotswoman who had appeared at the king's London court, then turned up in a governmental offi­cer's tent posing as a Highland laundress, must be an intriguante—and might be Katie Hell, the spy wanted by the military. If he asked Lieutenant Heron or Colo­nel Grant to identify her, the ruse would be over, and she and her kinsmen, too, would be in grave danger.

  She kept her head turned away, knowing she could not allow the captain to recognize her as the lady from St. James's Palace.

  Upon entering the tent, she had seen with sudden shock that the captain was actually the Highland swordsman she had seen in London. The other man was the young lieutenant she had met weeks ago. Yet neither man paid much attention to her as she had moved cautiously around the tent. For weeks she had come and gone in the camp on the pretense of doing laundry, which she delivered to some local cousins who did the actual work for the soldiers.

  Even now her heartbeat quickened foolishly in his presence. Months ago, she had learned that the High­land swordsman was a Fraser from a family of tea and cocoa importers, a younger son with an officer's com­mission, not uncommon for sons of wealthy merchant families. Certain she would never see him again, she had nonetheless dreamed of another meeting and ac­quired a passion for Fraser chocolate.

  But she had never dreamed of encountering him like this. The man could have her arrested. Had he asked about her that day in London, as she had done? Had he learned her name?

  "Miss," Fraser said firmly. "Come here, please."

  "Oiche mhar," she repeated, hand on the tent flap. Her knees had begun to tremble, and she did not turn around.

  She had taken great risk in coming to his tent to search for some vital documents for her Jacobite kins­men. She had learned that the new captain had the lists of recently arrested Highland prisoners—and her kins­men needed that list. Even now, one of her cousins waited outside in the darkness and the rain to get the paper, and to spirit her away to safety.

  "Miss, come here, please," he repeated in a stern tone.

  Running would only raise his suspicions. Turning slightly, she ducked her head under the shadow of her plaid shawl.

  "Shirt," Fraser said, plucking at his sleeve. "Leinenl"

  "Leine," she corrected in surprise.

  "My Gaelic is not what it was when I was a lad," he explained. "My leine needs laundering, if you will take it." As he spoke, he undid the buttons of his waistcoat.

  Kate pointed to the garments folded on the bed, care­ful to answer in rapid Gaelic. "Your clean shirts are there."

  "Leine," he repeated.

  "For a Highlander," she went on, "you do not know your own language very well." He blinked at her and smiled vaguely. Then he lifted his shirt high to remove it. "Ach, but you are a beautiful Highland man," Kate murmured.

  She moved close and stretched out her arm for the shirt, which he quickly stripped over his head, then tossed toward her.

  Catching the garment, she stared, stunned. He stood bare to the waist in lanternlight, taut and beautiful as a god. His wide shoulders and chest were smoothly muscled above the wrapped plaid draped around his taut abdomen. His shining brown-gilt hair slipped loose from its ribbon to brush his shoulders. He looked more like a proud Celtic warrior than a loathsome king's man.

  Again, as in London, she felt the strange effect he

 
had on her, powerful and somewhat entrancing. She could barely think.

  Holding the shirt, she spun away, and her basket knocked against the table. Papers fluttered to the floor.

  "Blast," Fraser muttered, and bent below the level of the table to fetch the fallen pages.

  Kate took that moment to quickly scan the papers on his desk: the dreadful broadsheet depicting the "High­land Wench" as a virago or worse; Fraser's interview notes; a few long lists written in a clerk's hand. Those pages must be what she needed.

  She reached out, but Fraser stood again. Kate whipped her hand away so quickly that next she tipped over a china cup perched at the edge of the table. Liquid— strong hot tea, by the look of it—spilled over the pa­pers, soaking the broadsheet. She snatched at the page just as Fraser did, and it tore.

  As he grabbed at the other papers, Kate dropped her basket and snatched a linen towel to sop up the spill. Fraser took the cloth from her to swipe at the rapidly blurring ink, swearing under his breath as he did so.

  More flustered now, Kate righted the cup and set it on a table that held the silver pot and tins. The pot con­tained steaming tea, so she refilled the cup, wondering frantically how to get a closer look at the lists that Fraser was salvaging from the mishap she had caused.

  With the other officers she had encountered, all she needed most of the time was to let her charm work its magic through soft conversation, smiles, flattery, a laugh, a touch on the arm. More often than not the men

  fell into a dreamy daze, particularly if they had already been imbibing. Then she usually found a moment to look through papers and slip important pages into her pocket.

  She could not risk taking time to use her natural magic on this man. Not only might he remember her from the London court, but she had the sense that her fairy gift would not work with him as easily as it had on others.