To her consternation, he hurried to her side and took her hand. “Are ye ill, Lady Charlotte? I hoped mayhap my company might not be as odious now I’ve washed away the stench o’ the jail, and Daniel has shaved off the wee cooties.”
His touch jolted her again, and made her knees tremble. She had a lunatic urge to reach up and trace a fingertip along his newly shaved chin, and run her hand over his shorn head, but the only thing she managed to say was, “We’ll have to get you a bonnet, lest you catch cold.”
RESTLESS NIGHTS
Braden retrieved the tray of food Lady Charlotte had told him would be left outside the door of his chamber. She’d departed rather hastily several hours ago, mayhap in search of the bonnet she wanted him to wear. A bonnet! Hopefully it meant something different now than it did when he was alive.
Fool, you’re still alive.
The food looked and smelled delicious. Cold roast chicken with white fluffy stuff and several kinds of root vegetables, served on a fine pewter plate. He wasn’t sure how to use the silver tools, so he picked up one of the chicken legs and bit into it. He scooped up a dollop of the white mush on the end of his finger and licked. Too bland for his taste. He’d have preferred a serving of kale and a bowl of oats. The two silver containers with wee holes in the top intrigued him until he tipped one upside down and suddenly had salt on his chicken. He brushed it off with the linen napkin.
He ought to be relishing the feast. He hadn’t eaten decent food for some time. But a worry gnawed at him, stealing away his appetite.
Who was Lady Charlotte and why was she doing this for him? It was evident she didn’t want his presence generally known. One minute she was aloof, cold and decisive; the next she trembled, stammered and blushed.
He pushed aside the half eaten meal. Mayhap if he got hungry during the night he’d finish it off. He sniffed the glass of amber liquid that had things floating in it, but the smell of aniseed put him off. However, he drained the tankard of ale which went down smoothly, and the sliver of rich creamy cheese was tasty.
A long nightshirt had been laid out on the bed, but indoors he preferred to sleep naked. He stripped off his new garments and folded them neatly, chuckling at the thought of his mother’s surprised delight. His experience in the hell-hole had given him a new appreciation for clothes, and the shirt and leggings Charlotte had provided were of better quality than anything he’d ever worn. Trews, she’d called them. They were a mite uncomfortable in the groin but that was probably because of the shearing.
He padded his way to the garderobe, frowning at the hairless body that stared back from the highly polished mirror. Daniel’s ministrations had been thorough, if embarrassing, but Braden had to admit he felt better. And the hair would grow back, hopefully faster in some places than in others.
He took care of his needs then pulled back the linens on the bed and eased between the sheets. It was like lying inside a silken purse. A man might enjoy some serious lovemaking in such a bed—with a refined woman like Charlotte. She certainly aroused him. Crivvens! What she did to him was more than arousing. He was so smitten he turned into a babbling yokel whenever he spoke to her. Cooties indeed! His Da would have boxed his ears!
He blew out the candle, then clasped his hands behind his head. Far off sounds of the castle came to him, voices, horses, pots, pans, footsteps. He thought of the men still languishing below in the hell-hole. He was a fool if he believed Charlotte would be interested in a lost soul who couldn’t explain what he was doing at Inbhir Nis three centuries after he’d been born.
George Robertson had commended him to his chief at Dunalastair. When Lady Charlotte sent him on his way, he’d seek out the place. Perhaps there was a chance to learn more of what had become of Margaret’s betrothal to Robert Stewart. If she’d married a regicide it was likely she’d been executed with him. His gut clenched at the prospect of his fun-loving tomboy sister dying a gruesome death.
Mayhap the Ogilvies were cursed.
~~~
Charlotte teetered in front of the door of Braden Ogilvie’s chamber. She was a wreck, kept awake by erotic dreams of lying naked with the blonde Highlander inside a giant cocoon. She became overheated and had to tear off her nightgown and sleep unclothed for the first time in her life.
Simone had been unable to work her usual magic with Charlotte’s curly hair and she was uncomfortably aware wayward strands had broken free of the arrangement atop her head.
She was relieved to see the Steward had paid attention to her instructions and arranged for the escritoire to be left outside the door. She had to have something between her and Braden when she interviewed him this morning, if only a small desk.
Simone, already out of sorts over the hair issue, carried the ink, quills and paper, prattling on with complaints against Augusta. “I am ze lady’s maid, milady. I feex ze coiffure, I do ze maquillages, I ‘elp with ze bain, I prepare ze parfums, but I am not a masseuse of ze feet. I—”
Charlotte inhaled deeply, her head pounding. Thank goodness something had caused the maid to pause.
“Monsieur Braden ‘as not eaten ‘is breakfast.”
Charlotte glanced down. Sure enough the tray of oats, bread, cheese and coffee hadn’t been touched. Panic seized her. Had he fled? Died? Gone back to his own time?
She came close to screaming at her own idiocy. He was likely still abed. That presented a whole new problem. Decorum dictated she send Simone in first, but why give the whining French girl the chance to see Braden in his nightshirt?
She cleared her throat and rapped hard on the door. “Bring in the ink, then return for the tray,” she said.
Her heart thudded in her ears when there was no reply from within. The choice was simple; leave or enter. If she entered and he was gone, she didn’t want Simone to witness her disappointment. “Leave the writing paraphernalia on the escritoire. Find a servant to help us carry it into the chamber.”
Simone pouted. “I can carry—”
Charlotte’s glare evidently dissuaded her from further protests. She flounced off after leaving the materials on the desktop.
Charlotte carefully eased open the door. Her shoulders relaxed when she heard the sounds of light snoring. Her Braden hadn’t disappeared into thin air.
My Braden?
Then she stiffened. She should leave, quit the chamber, but her feet seemed to have a mind of their own. She tiptoed towards the bed.
He lay on his belly, his face hidden in the pillow, one hand underneath it, the other relaxed at his side. The sheet clung to his backside, covering the lower part of his body, but the outline of his long legs was clearly discernible, one bent, the other straight. She gazed at his bare back, seized by a lunatic desire to feel the texture of his skin, the firm muscles of his arms, the ridges of his spine. What would it be like to…
Her heart careened around her ribcage when he stirred and turned over. He kicked at the sheet and she held her breath, afraid it might break free like the sail of a storm-tossed galleon, but it held firm, still covering his male parts, just.
She’d assumed men, like women, had hair down there, but apparently not. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her snort of laughter. It was evident from the way the sheet tented at his groin that male and female anatomies were decidedly different.
He lay like a babe, both arms raised beside his head. He’d no hair on his chest either, contrary to what Augusta the expert had told her on the topic of men.
Intent on her examination she failed to notice when he opened his eyes. How long he’d studied her she didn’t know, but there was no mistaking the lust in his gaze. She looked away, appalled lest he see the same desire in her. “I—”
Something had gone wrong with the workings of her throat, hence she was profoundly relieved to hear Simone’s high pitched voice and the sounds of footmen preparing to enter with the desk.
By the time she looked back to the bed, Braden had vanished, along with the sheet. For a big man he was agile. The notion did
nothing to calm her racing heart. He must have taken refuge in the garderobe, aware her reputation would be sullied were he discovered alone with her in the chamber—naked.
Despite his rough edges, he was a gentleman.
She gave brisk instructions to the servants as to the placement of the escritoire, fervently hoping they wouldn’t pay attention to the fierce blush she was certain reddened her face. It was unlikely the sharp-eyed Simone hadn’t noticed.
As the footmen exited, she cleared her throat. “Our guest must have risen early and gone for a walk,” she mumbled, realizing the moment she said it how unlikely it was Braden would wander around the castle.
Simone frowned. “But ‘is clothing—”
Charlotte took the maid’s arm and hustled her out of the chamber. “We’ll return shortly, after you’ve done a better job with my hair.”
The French girl scowled, pouting all the way back to Charlotte’s chamber.
She’d avoided disaster, but it wouldn’t take much to alienate the maid. She would have to tread lightly.
~~~
Braden emerged from the garderobe. He’d taken care of his ablutions, but the pleasant morning erection he’d awoken with had quickly become an insistent need when he’d seen the lust in Charlotte’s eyes. It refused to abate.
She was an enigma. Her normally perfect, if rather severe, hair was dishevelled today, as if she’d spent the night tossing and turning. But the wayward curls and the fierce blush made her even more appealing. He was becoming accustomed to the revealing style of dress women apparently wore. It wouldn’t take much to—
He growled, shrugging into his shirt and pulling on the trews.
The situation piled lunacy atop incredulity. He was sure now he wasn’t dead. If his arousal wasn’t proof enough, then the irritating itch where he’d been shaved was—and he doubted there was an inch of his body Daniel’s razor had missed. The snug trews wouldn’t help.
But he was a man of the fifteenth century, which Charlotte probably wouldn’t believe. And they had nothing in common. Except lust.
He eyed the little table. She’d mentioned interviewing him, whatever that meant. There were quills and ink. Evidently she intended to write down whatever he said, like the Duke’s lackey. But for what purpose?
He hadn’t known any women able to read and write. It appeared Charlotte expected more out of life than marriage and motherhood, though she’d look splendid growing fat and round with his bairn.
However, such senseless visions weren’t helping the arousal problem.
He ran his fingertips over the sheaf of papers. Smooth, much finer than in his day, but then Oban was a port and most of the paper from there was made of old sails and ropes.
His heart lifted when he removed the cloth covering the tray next to the paper and discovered a bowl of oats. He scooped it up gleefully and went in search of the leftover chicken.
THE WIG
Charlotte washed her face, donned a fine silk gown and had Simone reapply her rouge and eyebrow kohl. There was nothing to be done with the impossible hair, therefore she opted for the elaborate powdered wig she normally wore on formal occasions.
She peered at her reflection in the hand mirror. “It’s not too much?”
“Non,” the maid replied, but the smirk on her face said otherwise.
The powdered wig with its pouf at the front wasn’t suitable and tended to get heavy after a while, but she had to appear dignified when she interviewed Braden.
She smoothed the creases from her skirt and set off for his chamber, confident he’d had time to dress.
She tapped on his door and entered, astonished to see him sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed, his back poker straight, knees touching the bed. How had he folded those incredibly long legs?
He stared at her as if he’d seen a ghost, a spoon halfway to his lips. Anyone would think he’d never set eyes on a woman in a wig. She hoped the lead weight was still properly in place. The beginnings of a headache throbbed at her temples.
She swished over to the desk, agitated when it dawned on her she’d forgotten to order a chair. Suddenly Braden was at her elbow, the stool from the garderobe in hand. “Ye might need this,” he said, his eyes filled with amusement.
“Thank you,” she murmured, perching on the uncomfortable stool. She rearranged the ink, quills and paper to her satisfaction, aware he was still standing at the other side of the desk, watching her. She picked out a quill and plucked up the courage to look at him. “Shall we get started?”
“Where would ye like me to sit?” he asked.
He was toying with her, his deep voice echoing in her soul. “On the bed is fine,” she replied, immediately wishing she hadn’t mentioned the word bed. “It will do for now, until we can get another chair brought in. I’ll make a note.”
She dipped the quill in the ink and scrawled the word chair in handwriting she barely recognised. He must judge her an idiot if she needed to write down such a trivial thing in order to remember it.
He sat on the edge of the bed, an amused smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, his eyes fixed on her wig. The caged contraption was getting heavier by the minute. Thank goodness she’d left off the ornamental birds. She watched him tuck his legs beneath him, fascinated by the effortless way he moved.
She opened her mouth but he interrupted. “Why are ye doing this, Lady Charlotte?”
Her brain, still trying to fathom how he managed to bend his legs at such an incredible angle, turned to mush. “Doing what?”
“The bath, the shave, the food, the chamber, the interview,” he replied. “What am I to ye?”
It was a good question. This gentle giant with the unknown past had in one day become much more to her than a source of ideas for her next book. She wanted to know everything about him, his feelings, his likes and dislikes, his wants and needs. However, that was dangerous territory. “I have a deep interest in history,” she lied.
His eyes brightened. “Good,” he exclaimed. “I seem to hae missed a deal of it. Ye can fill in the gaps for me.”
Things had gotten off on the wrong footing. She was supposed to be picking his brain. “Yes, well, certainly. Let’s begin. Where were you born?”
“Oban. The eldest son of Duncan and Jocelin Ogilvie.”
When she’d finished writing she asked. “And in what year?”
“In the year of Our Lord Fourteen Hundred and Twelve.”
She raised an eyebrow and wrote, “Evidently he is sticking to his story.” She hastily added 1412 in brackets next to her notation then did a quick calculation on the paper.
Three hundred and thirty four years!
The wig became heavier, the throbbing more intense. “You’re in remarkably good shape for a man of three hundred and thirty-four,” she quipped, instantly regretting the remark. Now he would know she didn’t believe him, and that she’d noticed his shape.
He picked up a chicken leg from a plate she hadn’t noticed on the bed and bit into the flesh. “Aye,” he rasped, licking the grease from his lips, his eyes fixed on her wig.
He took a sip of the coffee and grimaced. “What is this stuff?” he asked.
“Coffee,” she explained. “Tastes better if it’s hot.”
He eyed her as if he didn’t believe a word of it.
She’d rehearsed the questions she would ask him a thousand times over, now she couldn’t recall a single one. “How did you get to Culloden?” was what came to mind.
He was pensive for a moment or two. “In truth, I dinna believe I was ever at Culloden. I hae no memory of a battle, only of drowning in Corryvreckan and then waking up in the cell below. I was in chains and assumed I’d gone directly to Hades.”
She dipped the quill in the ink, but had no idea what to write. Her heart grieved for his undeserved torment.
He put the bone he’d picked clean back on the plate. “I ken ’tis difficult to believe. I can scarcely credit it myself, but ’tis the truth. At the time I drowned
James Stewart was King o’ Scotland.”
She put the quill down, at a loss to explain the sincerity in his voice and in his gaze. “You aren’t aware James the First was assassinated?”
He unfolded his legs. “I ken it now, because George Robertson told me, and I must find out more.”
She hadn’t been totally untruthful about her interest in history. The sad saga of the Stewart kings was known to every Scot. “I can tell you. He was assassinated in February of Fourteen Thirty-seven by his uncle, Walter Stewart, Earl of Atholl, and the Earl’s grandson, Robert Stewart. The third regicide was Robert Graham.”
Braden’s brow was furrowed and he gripped the bed, his shoulders hunched. “Aye, and I must find out what happened to the woman who was betrothed to Robert Stewart.”
This was puzzling. “Why?”
“Margaret was my sister.”
She picked up the quill and made a note of his claim. It might prove an interesting twist to the story and his obvious anguish over this Margaret tore at her heart.
~~~
Charlotte deemed him a liar, or a lunatic. He sometimes feared madness had seized him, but he had to cling to what he knew to be true, no matter how incredible it seemed. He needed to gain her trust if he wanted her help. “Margaret was a sweet lass, youngest in the family, a tomboy with three older brothers. She didna deserve to be executed as the wife of a traitor. Robert Stewart came to Oban when she was twelve to sign the betrothal documents, but we never heard anything from him after that, as far as I ken.
“George told me Stewart was tortured to death after his capture. I canna bear the thought of the same thing happening to Margaret.”
Charlotte gaped at him, the ridiculous contraption teetering atop her head.
“I dinna ken what that is, Lady Charlotte, but it seems to me yer uncomfortable, so why not remove it?”
Highland Tides Page 4