Sarah Gabriel - Keeping Kate

by Keeping Kate (lit)

  "That's quite astute," he said, sounding surprised.

  "I would not be proud of the association, either, if I were you. Simon Fraser of Lovat has long toed the line in this dispute, when he is not turning in Scotsmen whom he has befriended. And now they say he refuses to acknowledge James as Scotland's true king."

  "Well informed, lass." He folded his arms.

  "Your chief is well-known among Highlanders and Lowlanders alike. He began the first independent com­panies himself to form several companies of the High­land Watch. A good thing, until he gave control over to the British. Surely Lovat would place his own trusted kin as officers so that he could maintain a hand."

  "He likes money and the convenience of no longer having to supervise the companies," he answered.

  "And now you supervise one for him?"

  He shook his head. "My father bought me a commis­sion when I was younger, and Lovat made me a captain in one of his watches, the company called Am Fre-iceadan Dubh—"

  "The Black Watch. I've heard of it," she said. "So you are in Lovat's pocket! Do you flip and flop as he does to protect yourself?"

  "I am firm as a rock," he drawled, "in my convictions."

  "I cannot argue that," she murmured. Then she scowled, for his answering chuckle thrilled her too much. "But I cannot trust a turncoat, even one with Highland blood."

  "I am not a turncoat. And are you so willing to forget that we enjoyed ... a friendly encounter previously?" he asked softly.

  "It did not end on friendly terms. And," she said em­phatically, "it will not happen again."

  He was quiet. "Agreed."

  She felt disappointed by his reply rather than vali­dated. Looking away, she watched the passing land­scape in silence, then glanced at him again. "When we arrive in the city, will you deliver me to the Tolbooth, or to Edinburgh Castle?"

  He settled back, glanced at her. "So eager to be con­fined?"

  She lifted the chains, shook them. "I would rather be free. You could easily do that for me."

  "If I let you loose, you might decide to fling yourself from the carriage and run off."

  "What an interesting idea," she drawled. "But my back and my limbs are still sore from the courteous treatment I had at Inverlochy Castle, thank you."

  "You can thank Colonel Grant for that. Tell you what," he said, reaching into his sporran. "Promise me something, and we will bargain."

  "For my necklace?" she asked.

  In answer, he waggled a small iron key with two fingers.

  "I promise my good behavior," she blurted.

  "I was thinking of a more reliable token than that. Your name would be good for a start."

  "Kate."

  "Now, now. Full name." He flipped the key, caught it.

  "Katherine."

  "Pretty, but it won't win the bargain, Miss Katherine. Or shall I call you Katie Hell?"

  "You may call me Miss Hell," she said primly.

  He laughed. Kate had not expected that, or her reac­tion to its quiet warmth. She wanted to hear the sound again.

  "Miss Hell," he mused. "What clan is that? MacHel-lion? Are there many like you, Amazonian Jacobites snatching documents, hefting pistols and poison, and using female wiles on unsuspecting governmental offi­cers?"

  She lifted her chin, unsure how to reply. There was little point in denying that she was Katie Hell. Fraser and Grant, too, had sorted out that the laundress, the widow, the old wisewoman, the young woman in search of her brother—all the roles she had played over the past year—were the work of Katie Hell. Part of her secret was revealed—but Fraser alone knew more about her than any other man.

  Not only had he claimed her body and captured a lit­tle of her heart in ways no man ever had—but he also had seen her in St. James's Palace last spring. His testi­mony, if he chose to give it, would be enough to hang her as an intriguante. He could place her not only in the military encampment but near the king.

  And if he learned her name, he would have enough evidence to arrest her kinsmen as well.

  "Kate," he prodded, as she remained silent.

  She did not answer as she watched scenery flash by the window. The rain clouds were clearing, and she

  saw the glitter of water beyond the lacy shapes of the trees. The chaise rushed over the road, and Kate shifted in her seat, chains jangling.

  "Those irons look beastly uncomfortable," Fraser said.

  She shrugged. The chains were painfully heavy.

  "Why did you come to my tent that night?" he asked. "What did you expect to find among my papers?" His gaze was intense.

  Any information she gave him could condemn her and her kin. This man had showed her some small kindnesses, but she could not trust him—did not know if she ever could.

  "What did you think to gain by seducing me? Not that I minded that part," he added.

  "What?" She blinked, looked at him quickly. "Seduce you? I never did that."

  "Have you forgotten?" He leaned over a little, his shoulder touching hers, the pressure sending a delicate shiver through her. "We made love that night, if mem­ory serves. Or nearly so. I do recall enough," he said, leaning closer and lowering his voice to a murmur, "to know that we shared more than just some kisses."

  "I recall nothing of the sort," she said, lifting her chin.

  "Do you not? I will not be ungentlemanly Miss Katie—Katherine—what-you-will, but truthfulness is best here. You and I both know what happened. You perhaps more than I."

  "If you want truth, then you should recall that you se­duced me," she snapped. "I had every intention of leav­ing that tent as fast as I could." She turned her head away again, heart pounding.

  He had turned the tables on her that night, some­thing she could not say aloud. Katie Hell had fallen, hard and fast and foolishly, for his kisses and his touch. And that dreadful mistake had resulted in her arrest.

  "Seduced you? My dear, I was barely conscious after you put whatever it was in my tea, but I do remember what we did, or most of it. No, do not look away again. You're no prim lass, if rumor serves. And I am not prone to bedding laundresses ... or ladies of the royal court either." He lifted a brow.

  "Rumor does not serve." She raised her chin. "And you are an insufferable cad."

  "That was you, wasn't it, in London, last March?"

  Her heart raced. "I don't know what you mean."

  "Perhaps you'll remember soon." He extended his open hand, the key upon his palm. "Sooner or later, Kate," he murmured, "you must talk for even a chance at freedom. I do not mean now, from those chains. I mean ... altogether."

  She shook her head, glanced down. "I cannot."

  "Then I presume you know something. Tell me," he went on quietly. "I'll listen. I promise not to use what­ever it is against you." His voice was soft, compelling.

  "I cannot trust you." Crazily she wanted to do so. She wanted to forget all this and go to him, feel his arms around her again. But that desire made no real sense to her—the world had gone topsy-turvy. He had arrested her. She did not know what he wanted of her. And yet, he made her feel good. Safe.

  Fraser slid the key back into his inside pocket and in­clined his head to watch her in silence.

  Kate sighed. "I suppose you think I am a true wan­ton. But I am not. Nor am I a criminal in need of re­straint." She shook the cuffs and chains. "You could free me here, in this chaise, if nothing else out of plain courtesy."

  "I would, if I believed that I could trust you." He set­tled back. "I suggest you sleep. It will be a long ride."

  "Please," she said. "The cuffs are hurting me."

  He tilted his head, relaxed and in control, an ease of manner rather than arrogance. She hated it all the same. "Just give me a little of the truth, Kate."

  "The truth is you are a damnable beast."

  "Ah. The lass needs a tongue-scrubbing." He closed his eyes as if to sleep.

  She sighed. "What can I bargain other than my name?"

  "Do you really want an answer
to that?" He opened an eye, closed it.

  She knew what he meant, knew her own reputation. Remembering deep, luscious kisses, Kate glanced at him, at his lips, his hands. Blushing furiously, she was glad of the darkness. "Very well. My name is Marie Katherine. I cannot tell you more than that. Please un­derstand. It would endanger too many."

  "Well, that's more than we had." He took the key out.

  She lifted her hands. "At least loosen the manacles."

  "Iron cuffs cannot be loosened, darling. They are ei­ther on, or they are off."

  "Off, then. Please," she added. Darling—somehow it melted her, weakened her utterly. For an instant, she felt tears sting, but drew a breath against them.

  He played with the key. "Why were you in my quar­ters?"

  "Laundry," she said.

  "What do you know about Spanish weapons?"

  She nearly gasped aloud. If she gave him any clue that she and her kinsmen and Ian Cameron were searching for those weapons, and if he then learned her name, everything that her brother and the others had struggled toward would be destroyed. They would all be arrested ... perhaps executed. Unless she could trust Fraser to keep it to himself—and that thought was preposterous.

  "Spanish weapons?" She shrugged. "They are quite expensive, being imported from Spain. That's all I know."

  "Spanish weapons," he said, "hundreds, perhaps a thousand or more guns and such hidden away by Jaco­bites nearly ten years ago and recently found. I think you know where they are located."

  "If they were recently found, then why ask me?"

  He sighed, then reached out and placed his hand over hers. The warm contact felt stunning in the dark­ness. Twisting the key, he took the heavy bracelets off, one by one, and pooled the chains and manacles on the floor at his feet.

  "Thank you." Kate rubbed her chafed wrists. "Why did you—"

  "I was bewitched into it," he said sourly. "But you'll have those back on later. There's a good deal more you can share with me, Marie-Katie-Katherine, and I'll not let you go." He spoke intimately, his voice a velvety caress.

  "Not ever?" Her heart beat very fast now.

  "Well, of course, when the Lord Advocate decides what's to be done with you," he said, waving his fin­gers in dismissal.

  Kate sighed and settled into the corner by the win­dow, leaning her brow against the window glass. Watching the landscape fly past, lulled by the motion of the vehicle, she glanced again at Captain Fraser. He appeared relaxed and lost in thought, legs extended, arms folded.

  She studied his form, the square, broad shoulders, wide chest, and strong, taut limbs. If he fell asleep, she thought, then she would have a chance to get away.

  But how? Was she brave enough, or mad enough, to throw herself out the door as Fraser had suggested? She did not think so, but she would not rule it out. Any risk was preferable to trial and incarceration.

  Later she would consider the possibilities, she told herself. For the moment, she felt achy and exhausted. She closed her eyes, not wanting to think about Spanish weapons, or kinsmen and friends in danger. Nor did she want to think about the man who sat so close to her now, though her mind constantly returned to him.

  She wanted only to sleep, and soon enough surren­dered.

  Chapter 9

  A

  lec reached over to adjust Kate's head to a more comfortable angle as she slept. He paused, trac­ing his fingertips over her cheek—her skin was incredi­bly soft, the shape of her face graceful in the moonlight. He was aware of his strong attraction to her and knew the trouble that could cause for both of them. Even without this complicated situation, he kept himself clear of deeper ties and feelings.

  He had lost his heart once, and it had led to betrayal, then tragedy. The chances of that happening again were very remote—he had no other brother, and no for­mer betrothed to jointly betray him—but he never wanted to feel that hurt again.

  No matter the temptation, he must not develop ten-

  der feelings for this girl—not because she was his pris­oner and likely a spy, but because he could care deeply about her, given the chance. He could love her, were she fairy queen or laundress. And that frightened him when little else did.

  His thoughts in turmoil, he closed his eyes again but could not rest. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he re­trieved the small, thick envelope that Jack had given him earlier. Another letter from his aunt. He had not yet found time to read it, but he already suspected part of its contents.

  The envelope had a sweet odor, which Kate had de­tected when she had leaned against him. It could not be a good thing, he thought, for a man to walk about smelling of chocolate.

  He undid the string and opened layers of brown pa­per. Inside lay a letter folded around a little packet wrapped in waxed paper. He opened it, peeled the wax covering away. A sweet, rich scent wafted outward that made his mouth water, but the dark, amorphous glob that fell into his hand would kill any appetite.

  He rolled it between his fingers, grimaced, tucked it back into the waxy paper, and set it aside. The letter also reeked of cocoa as he scanned his aunt Euphemia's flourished and formal handwriting.

  My dear Alexander,

  Enclosed is Walter's latest Eating Chocolate, which he insists you sample. Taste the wretched thing if you dare. Your uncle says it is his best effort yet.

  Your compliments over the last batch only encour­aged him. Had you told him it was vile and tasted of rotten eggs, as I did, he might have ceased his silly ex­periments, and we would be safe.

  Rosie thinks this latest effort is not so bad, but Lily was confined to bed for a day with the headache after only a taste. She and I share a sensitive constitution. Daisy was not allowed to try it, though Walter would have permitted it had I not rescued the wee lass. Choco­late should not be given to bairns, I told him.

  Alec smiled. He did not doubt Lily's delicate nature, but his aunt was robust, despite her claims to the con­trary. She competently managed the household belong­ing to Alec's late brother, Edward, and fostered Edward's three orphaned daughters with bustling effi­ciency. Effie was married to Alec's uncle Walter Fraser, and they now lived in the Edinburgh town house, Hope-field House, which Edward and Amy had preferred to Kilburnie, the family estate, because of its proximity to the business. Following Edward's death, Alec had inher­ited both properties and the business as well.

  As the younger son, all that had come to him upon the deaths of his parents had been a house on Kil-burnie's property and a share in the business. He had been content with that, but Edward's death had left him greater shares of Kilburnie and Fraser's Fancy, with considerable portions set aside for each of Edward's daughters once they reached adulthood. Alec would not have quibbled had all of it been left to the girls—he

  did not begrudge them a penny of the family fortune and had little use for luxury himself.

  He did not visit either Kilburnie or Hopefield House often anymore, although military matters and holidays required that occasionally he visit the family town house. He possessed a fortune, a thriving business, a Highland estate, and a handsome town house, and he had family who cared a great deal about him.

  Yet at times he felt alone, without a real home or close family. That was his own perception, he knew, for he had closed off his heart that much. Frowning, he looked at Effie's letter.

  Walter is sure that his Chocolate Confections will invig­orate Eraser's fancies, but he is not a practical man, I fear. Your brother had such a gift for business. Tea is a re­liable commodity, Edward used to say, and chocolate is a luxury, yet Walter expects his Confections to become household fare in Britain and on the Continent, too.

  Please come home as soon as you can and talk Wal­ter out of his mad scheme. Other matters require your attention as well. May this note find you in good health, which I pray Walter's Nasty Concoction will not interrupt overmuch, should you be so brave as to consume it. The lasses send their love.

  Yours affectionately, Euphemia

  Po
stscript: Rosie will send a letter when she masters penmanship.

  At the bottom of the page, in a childish and ink-spotted scrawl, was another signature:

  1(?ote tAle-Xfindwv 7-hase^

  Frowning, unwilling to admit how much the little signature affected him, Alec folded the letter quickly and tucked it, with the untasted chocolate sample, back into his pocket. He sighed and shifted on the bench seat. That single line of blobbed ink had wrenched his heart.

  He was guardian to his three orphaned nieces, though he knew they were in better hands with Effie and Walter than with him. The business was in better hands, too, for his uncle had been devoted to the suc­cess of Fraser's Fancies since its inception in his youth. Alec served only as a silent partner, issuing bank drafts as needed and acting as legal advisor. That suited him, but Walter and Effie were in their seventies now, and could not continue to watch the girls and tend the busi­ness indefinitely.

  He should go back to Edinburgh, resign his commis­sion, and take a larger hand in running the Fancies. He knew that day would come. But each time he saw Amy's daughters, he felt such longing and loneliness that he resorted to keeping away altogether.

  As for "eating chocolate," Alec felt that, despite Eftie's fears, Walter's dream had merit, given a good recipe. But so far that recipe had eluded his uncle.

  Watching the landscape in the darkness, Alec real­ized he had not visited the Edinbureh town house since

  midsummer. Edward had died months ago following a wound taken in a sword fight—though a skilled swordsman, his brother had lacked Alec's level head. Edward's quick temper, combined with a love of whiskey and late nights in oyster bars following Amy's death in childbirth, had put him in one last predica­ment, a duel that he had not survived. Alec had been grateful when his aunt and uncle had offered to con­tinue to manage household, children, and business, leaving him free to resume his military duties.

  Though he was named heir to his brother's estates and guardian to the girls, he could not nursemaid a pack of tiny females on his own. Nor did he want to be a chocolatier, but his father had trained both sons in the family business. That training and experience would suffice when he needed it.