A Secret Scottish Christmas (Agents of the Crown Book 4)

by Regan Walker

  “Robbie? I don’t think so. He’d prefer the woods, cold though they may be.”

  She gave him a lopsided grin. “So would I if I were with you.”

  “I shall remember that,” he said, gently taking her elbow. He led her toward the cluster of people gathered in front of the fire, the dancing flames casting a warm glow over their faces.

  Emily was the first to greet them. “Why Ailie, you look lovely.”

  “Doesn’t she?” agreed Will.

  Ailie felt herself blushing at the compliments.

  Smiling at Nash, Emily said, “Good evening.”

  Since Emily had not added a name, Ailie felt the need to say, “He is Nash, Emily; Robbie has yet to appear.”

  “I do apologize, Nash, for not recognizing you.”

  “Worry not,” Nash quipped. “It happens quite often, I can assure you.”

  Emily gazed up at Will. “I do hope you and Ailie won’t have to spend the whole of tomorrow at the shipyard. I was hoping we might go skating on the pond. I’m certain it’s frozen by now.”

  “A most excellent idea, Leannan. With hot wassail and warm brandy to follow.”

  Ailie took a sip of her claret. “I might have to check on matters at the yard in the morning, but, after that, I would look forward to skating.”

  “Me as well,” Nash agreed.

  A lock of his dark hair had curled onto his forehead and Ailie wanted to reach up and brush it aside, a wifely gesture to be sure and one that had her looking at her hands holding her glass. She must not give in to such thoughts based on a few kisses. They must find a place to be alone so he didn’t feel the need to cut short their time. She remembered with particular fondness their first kiss even though it had been in the snow-covered woods.

  They were almost finished drinking their wine when Lamont summoned them to dinner.

  Robbie arrived a bit later and took the seat next to Muriel.

  Dinner began with oysters and Madeira handed about in tall glasses on a tray.

  “The Madeira is for Muriel,” said Emily. “It’s her favorite.”

  Then came the fish course, baked salmon in cream sauce, which was followed by roast chicken and a ragout with vegetables. And more wine. Dessert was a pudding, for which Ailie had no appetite.

  “I thought we might have coffee and tea in the parlor as a group tonight if it pleases you,” offered Will. “And there will be games of chess for those interested. But before you go, since we all went our separate ways today, Emily has suggested for the morrow, we might ice skate on the pond. What say you?”

  “So that’s why you told us to bring skates,” said Mary.

  “’Tis a grand idea,” said Tara. “When I was younger, my family in Baltimore always skated on the pond near our house.”

  “I’ve not skated for an age,” said Kit, “and I really want to do some sketches of the rest of you demonstrating your skill on the ice.”

  Martin inclined his head toward his wife. “I insist you join me on the ice. Christmas in the country with snow wouldn’t be Christmas without ice skating.”

  “Do you skate, Muriel?” asked Robbie.

  “Definitely not. But I will watch the rest of you and keep Kit company when she takes up her sketching.”

  Nash turned to Ailie. “I look forward to sharing the ice with you.”

  “Are you a very good skater?”

  He winked at her. “That’s one of the things I can do better than Robbie.”

  She thought of their kisses in the woods. If they had been alone, she might have told him she was sure he was better at kissing than Robbie.

  Robbie was anxious to know where Kinloch lodged. Catching him there might save them a tavern brawl. He had thought to go to Arbroath town the next day and see if he could find the man’s lodgings. But upon reflection, the better course just now would be for both he and Nash to participate in the ice skating. Since everyone was attending, his absence would be noted, concluding he was either ill or being unsociable.

  Having decided to participate, when he and Nash retired to their chamber after a game of chess, Robbie made his intention known. “I think we should both attend tomorrow’s ice skating.”

  “Probably wise. Even Muriel means to attend.”

  “The day after, assuming it’s not snowing again, I will go to Arbroath while you and the others can engage in whatever William has planned. Hopefully, I can find Kinloch and follow him to wherever he is staying. It may mean I’ll be late and you’ll have to cover for me. Say I went to see William’s ships or some such excuse.”

  “I doubt if any will suspect you have gone to town,” said Nash. “Upon your return, you can always say you were in the orangery where you became fascinated watching pineapples grow.”

  Robbie sailed his boot through the air nearly colliding with Nash’s head.

  22 December

  Ailie shot up in bed, the dream still clear in her mind, vivid images of scenes she had experienced deep in the night.

  What had begun with gruff men sitting around tables quaffing ale had changed to men running toward a ship docked at the harbor as shots were fired. She could still hear the loud crack of the pistol as it belched fire and smoke.

  Breathing heavily, she dropped her legs over the side of the bed and brought her palm to her chest, trying to calm her racing heart. Once, she had experienced a cannon being tested and it had been very loud. But she had never lived through the chaos of men firing pistols and muskets at each other. The war with Napoleon had raged for years, yet she had never witnessed a battle. How horrible it must have been for Will, who had endured many before he was captured.

  The light coming through her window told Ailie the sun was just rising, which meant it was late. Goodness and Mercy would be waiting for her. Undoing her plait, she ran her fingers through her long thick hair, thinking the dream must have been the result of too much wine last night. First she’d had claret with Nash, then the Madeira with the oysters and then more wine at dinner. The coffee served in the parlor with their games of chess had helped her stay alert. By the time she found her bed, many thoughts swirled in her head, not the least of which was her exchange with Nash.

  “Do you really believe the man from Dundee is in the right?”

  His question seemed to come out of nowhere. Just a minute before they’d been sitting by the fire, calmly discussing the new ideas for greenhouses he’d read about that morning.

  “The laird from Dundee,” Nash repeated, as if to jog her memory. “The one who gave the speech and has been charged with sedition. Do you believe he is in the right?”

  “Why, of course! Did I not say that? He speaks for his fellow Scots demanding only fairness. I read his speech, reprinted in the weekly, and what I read urged reform, not rebellion. He did criticize the government for the massacre at Manchester, but I thought the criticism fair.”

  Nash frowned at his coffee. “London fears the large crowds speaking against the government will lead to a revolution like the one in France.”

  Anger rose in her chest. “If those in the government do not treat the workers more fairly, they will certainly have another rising on their hands—one led by Scots. Only this time, the Scots will not be seeking their freedom but, led by the weavers, they’ll be after fair pay and equal representation.”

  She had watched him closely as he nodded, but it seemed to her he displayed little enthusiasm. His expression spoke only of resignation.

  “Do the gentry in London agree with the government?” she had asked, hardly believing anyone could.

  “The Crown approved of the yeomen’s harsh actions in Manchester and supports Lord Sidmouth’s new legislation. Many in the upper classes do as well. But perhaps not all.”

  “Aye, one of our own, Alexander, the Duke of Hamilton, has given money to the relief being raised for the Manchester victims. Will told me the duke has written to your Sidmouth to warn him that using force like they did in Manchester could lead to insurrection in Scotland.”


  “That is precisely what worries the government,” said Nash with a look of regret. “But still, you would have the man Kinloch go free?”

  “I would. Can you not see, Nash? If Kinloch were thrown into prison, or worse, it would only give the weavers another reason to revolt.”

  The whole discourse had reminded Ailie of the gulf that existed between them. Not just the place of their birth and their faith, but their politics. That being the case, it might be wise for her to remember that he would soon sail back to London and it would be as if he never came. Or would it? He had awakened her to passion and perhaps more. Could she ever forget him?

  Before meeting her dogs and seeing to breakfast, Ailie wrote again in her diary.

  22 December

  A most troubling conversation with Nash Powell last eve has made me see the difficulty of any relationship with an Englishman. Or, perhaps ’tis just a relationship with a member of the gentry who believes the British Crown can do no wrong. But how can anyone believe that with the events in Manchester so fresh in everyone’s mind? The government still pursues the laird from Dundee, George Kinloch, in whom Nash and his brother Robbie appear to have an interest. I must ask them about that.

  Another disturbing dream troubled my sleep last night. This time, I heard pistols being fired and saw men running through the streets of Arbroath. It was so real. What can it mean?

  Chapter 13

  Muriel relaxed onto the bench facing the frozen pond, warmed by the fire William had built for those retreating from the ice. Bundled up in her blue pelisse and hat, her hands warm in her large fox muff, she watched as her charges skated over the ice, laughing at near disasters averted only by quick action at the last moment.

  The two black setters came to sit by the bench, their eyes fixed upon Aileen, turning their heads with their mistress’ every move. Muriel slipped one hand from her muff to pat their dutiful heads. She did so love a faithful dog.

  Muriel patted the front of her coat, feeling beneath it the long strands of pearls she was never without. Into her mind came the memory of another day long ago. It was her first—and only—season and the man skating beside her was the young Earl of Claremont she’d only known a short while. The watchful gaze of her chaperone, a maiden aunt, had never left them as they glided over the ice.

  “With your soft gray eyes, Muriel, you should wear pearls,” he had said, taking her hand. “Marry me and I will see that you have a strand fit for the most beautiful girl in all of London.”

  She had laughed at his flattery, but she thrilled to his decisive candor. At the end of their skating, captivated by his sincerity, his intelligence and his determination to forsake all others for her, she had agreed to marry him. To this day, she was never without the pearls he had given her when they were wed. Their time together had been a joyous celebration of their love, his early death a torture. But she had no regrets, for the memories were sweet ones.

  In the years that had passed, she had devoted herself to helping others find the same love she had known. If the Lord had granted her an eye for a good match, well then, Muriel would use it. She could credit several matches to her efforts.

  Dismissing the memories, she looked toward Aileen, skating over the frozen pond with one of the Powell twins. From this distance, she could not discern which one, but recalling the way Nash Powell had looked at the girl the evening before, Muriel guessed it might be him.

  Sir Martin’s wife, the young woman everyone called “Kit”, glided to a graceful stop in front of Muriel. “May I share your bench?”

  “Please do and take me away from my reminiscing.”

  “We can’t have that, Muriel, not with so much life going on around you.”

  She offered Kit a hand as she stepped from the ice. Once seated, Kit unbuckled her skates and greeted the dogs. Gazing at the skaters circling around the pond, she said, “I want to do a bit of sketching before they tire of the ice.”

  “How are your sketches coming?”

  Kit picked up her sketchbook and pencils she had left on the bench when she took to the ice. “Quite well. I’ve only a few left and then I’ll add some at Christmas and Hogmanay.” She turned to a new page. “I’d like to do one of all of them skating on the pond. It’s so picturesque with the tall evergreens on one side and the sun low in the horizon silhouetting the skaters.”

  “It is lovely here,” Muriel remarked, “but they do lose the light awfully early this far north.”

  “’Tis worse than London,” said Kit, “but the light on the ice just now is truly magical.”

  The dogs ran off just then, circling to where their mistress drew close to the edge of the pond.

  Muriel considered her mood. “I find myself content to be in Arbroath. The company is good, the fires are warming and the orangery like the tropics. I think it will be a Christmas long remembered.”

  “I agree. Martin has said so as well.” Kit took off her right glove and began to draw, glancing between the skaters and her sketchbook. “I do believe my husband is enjoying all the male company. It’s rare when he and his brothers are together in one place anymore. Nick’s often at sea and the twins are hardly ever in London.”

  “Oh? And why is that? Do they sail frequently, too?”

  “They used to, but this last year has kept them in England on some government business or other.”

  “Hmm…” Muriel mused. “Does it have anything to do with ships, I wonder?”

  “I don’t think so. At least Martin has not mentioned that. I hesitate to think they are involved in some dangerous business.”

  “Surely nothing is more dangerous than sailing the Atlantic,” quipped Muriel.

  Kit paused in her sketching. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d been with Martin and me two years ago. In Pentridge, you may recall, there was a rebellion put down by the hussars.”

  “Ah yes, I remember. A nasty business that.”

  “It was, but you are right to say that sailing the Atlantic is also dangerous. Tara and I worry whenever our husbands go to sea without us. And I know Mrs. Powell worries whenever her Simon is on a long voyage. When we can, we sail with them.”

  “But the children…”

  “Yes,” said Kit. “Nowadays, the little ones keep us women at home. But it will not always be so. Too, when the men return and the families get together, we have a marvelous time.”

  As Muriel had come to know them, she believed the Powells a fine family. “Only two more of the brothers to see to the altar,” she muttered.

  Kit laughed. “And those two may present the greatest challenge.”

  Muriel tapped her chin. “I’ve a keen fondness for a challenge. Both the twins are gentlemen and would make admirable husbands. Robbie’s a rogue, of course, but I rather fancy rogues. When they fall in love, they do it so ungracefully, so irreparably. ’Tis quite a thing to see. Nash is the more scholarly of the two, slower to action perhaps, but no less determined to succeed.”

  Kit lifted her eyes from her sketchbook to study the skaters. “I think that is Nash skating with Ailie now.”

  “I do believe you are right. I’ve been watching them. They seem to get on well together. Last evening they were arguing about politics, yet here they are today taking command of the ice together. I must ask Emily what she thinks of such a match, though I’d be sorry to lose the girl’s company in London. She could be the toast of the ton.”

  Kit laughed. “She very well could. Your gracious invitation is still open then?”

  “Indeed it is and I do hope she will accept.”

  Slowly picking himself up off the ice, Robbie reached for his hat that had tumbled from his head in the fall. He rubbed his throbbing hip. Damn ice is hard on a man’s constitution.

  Aboard ship, Robbie stayed out of the rigging. Amazingly, he had no trouble walking on a rolling deck. He was a fairly good shipmaster and an adroit navigator. His talent lay with charts and steering clear of rocks and shoals.

  In London, he favored the
gentlemen’s clubs where his game was brag, at which he succeeded more often than not. Ice-skating, on the other hand, he considered a trial by freezing cold and slippery terrain. That his younger brother, as he liked to think of Nash, was at this very moment adroitly skimming over the ice with the Mistress of the Setters came as a mortifying set down.

  His sister-in-law, Tara, came to a perfectly executed stop in front of him. “Can I help?” In her scarlet pelisse and hat, she was a lovely sight for a wounded man.

  “Ah, the Queen of the Rigging.” He rose to his full height, placing his top hat back on his head. “I might have known ’twould be you who offered a hand. Very gracious. May I propose we skate together to that bench over there at the edge of the pond where sits the countess and Kit?” After meeting Ailie, Robbie had begun to think of Martin’s wife as The Other Redhead.

  Tara laughed. “I’d be happy to escort you.” She took his arm, for which he was most grateful, and they began to skate together. “In Baltimore, I practically grew up on the ice in our cold winters. Deep in the woods there were many ponds like this one. If you hadn’t been seeking to be the fastest man on the ice, Robbie, you would have done just fine.”

  “You recognize me?”

  “Nash does not move nearly so fast. But like the tortoise, he generally gets where he wants to go in the end.”

  “Hmm…” he muttered, for the first time thinking of Ailie as the place Nash intended to go. Unsurprisingly, Robbie’s skating improved mightily in Tara’s company. Glancing at her blue-green eyes, he said, “’Tis hard for some of us hares to slow down, you know.”

  “I do understand since I am married to one. But no matter. You will change with the right woman, just as Nick did.”

  “Slow down, you mean?”

  She laughed. “Hardly. That would be asking too much. But the right woman will make you less reckless. It will be important for you to survive for her, for your children.”

  “Ah,” he murmured, as they arrived at the bench. To the countess and her companion, he asked, “Might I join you?”