The Highland Commander

by Amy Jarecki

  The nice thing about being six foot two inches tall was that few people bothered him, unless they wanted to see if they could take on a man of his size. Definitely not smart.

  Once he’d placed his half-empty tankard on the bar, he faced the jackass. “You will apologize to me now.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The man pinched Aiden’s velvet doublet and rubbed it between his fingers. “A bloody sheep reiver dressed in gentlemen’s garb.”

  Aiden watched the tar’s fingers. “Remove your hand from my person, sir, else I’ll have no recourse but to remove it for you.”

  The noise in the alehouse ebbed to a hum. Aiden swept his gaze across the faces gaping at him as if he were the aggressor. They looked like wolves ready to side with the Sassenach in an all-out brawl.

  That would be right. Show up at Whitehall with two blackened eyes.

  He waggled his eyebrows and grinned at the lot of them. “After this pig-nosed codpiece removes his hand from my doublet, I’ll buy the house a round,” Aiden bellowed loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “You’ll bloody what?” MacPherson whispered from behind.

  A cheer boomed clear to the rafters.

  The insulting maggot with his grip on Aiden’s doublet looked up with bloodshot eyes. “Why I ought to—”

  Aiden caught the man’s fist midair, bent the bastard’s wrist down until the cur dropped to his knees. “You want to throw another punch,” he growled, baring his teeth, “or forget you ever called me yellow and enjoy a brandy?”

  The man’s face turned scarlet as his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Brandy,” he agreed in a strained croak.

  “That’s what I thought.” Aiden yanked him up and gave him a shove. “Barman, you heard me, ale for all.”

  MacPherson leaned in, moving his lips toward Aiden’s ear. “What, throwing your coin around on a mob of turncoats? I would have asked the blackguard to step outside if it were me.”

  Aiden pretended to wipe his mouth, holding his fingers up to muffle his words. “Good thing it wasn’t you, ’cause three-quarters of the buggers in this establishment would have followed.” He picked up his tankard, downed the rest of his ale, then motioned for the barman. “Three drams of brandy here as well. Let us drink to our success, shall we? After all, we sent James back to France with his tail between his legs.” Blast it, the words burned like bile in his mouth. Not a single cheer had been heard aboard the Royal Mary when the true king’s ship changed course and headed back across the Channel.

  The yellow-bellied cad licked his lips and squinted. “Why would you offer me a brandy?”

  “To show there are no hard feelings, mate.” Aiden thwacked the man on the shoulder, sinking his fingers into fleshy meat to test the man’s strength. The tar would have been an easy mark—as long as fifty other sailors didn’t join him in the brawl.

  He glanced back over his shoulder.

  Correction. If I buried my fist in this maggot’s face, there’d be a hundred lining up to do the same to me.

  Fortunately, the barman poured the shots in quick order. Aiden plucked up his glass. “To your health.”

  “Health,” the man said.

  “Agreed,” said MacPherson, throwing back his tot. With a snort the third lieutenant looked to the stairway and elbowed Aiden in the ribs. “Have a look at that.”

  Leaning on the banister, the woman from the window waved. Given a closer look, except for breasts the size of cannonballs, there wasn’t much enticing about her. She had crooked teeth and three black “beauty” patches covering only God knew what. Thankfully, she ogled MacPherson, though Aiden couldn’t fathom what she saw in the swine, other than his velvet doublet and lace cravat. Officers’ clothing oozed wealth unobtainable by most folk. He toasted his friend. “Looks like you’ve been given an invitation.”

  After setting his glass on the bar, MacPherson started off. “I’ve business to attend to.”

  Aiden chuckled. “Just don’t show up in a fortnight with the pox.”

  The young Scot shuddered. “You ken how to wring the fun out of everything.”

  Aiden poured another tankard of ale for himself, then pushed the pitcher to his new English friend. “Here. Looks like I’ve been passed over for more entertaining fare.”

  “You heading out alone?” The man was a dog. Buy him a couple of drinks and he’d become a fast friend.

  “Reckon I’ll hire a coach to take me to Whitehall.”

  Where I aim to find a pretty widow.

  The tar gave Aiden a once-over. “What business have you at the palace?”

  “My da keeps apartments there.”

  “Dear God, don’t tell me you’re a bleeding duke or something.”

  “Nay, my da’s the duke.”

  The sailor swilled his ale. “What the hell are you doing in an establishment like this?”

  “I needed a wee drink to quell my thirst.” Aiden guzzled the rest of his.

  The man snorted. “You could have ended up dead.”

  “I doubt that.” He picked up his tricorn hat and shoved it atop his head. “Though I’d best be off. I prefer whisky to brandy, and I ken where I can find the best spirit in London.”

  The sun hung low in the western sky when Aiden pushed out into the street. He opened his pocket watch—half past six. Plenty of time to make his way to Whitehall and have a good meal in the Banqueting House. He smacked his lips at the thought of a juicy cut of beef. He didn’t care if he ever looked at another serving of pickled herring again in his life.

  A clerk with his arms full of papers nearly walked over him. The entire yard was a flurry of activity, with warships being loaded and merchant ships unloaded. If anything, the activity along the wharf had picked up, as if everyone was in a hurry to end the day.

  “Sir, you cannot leave us here without transport.” A woman’s voice carried from across the road. A Scottish woman’s voice at that. Though exasperation filled her tone, the voice sounded enticingly sultry.

  Tingles spread over Aiden’s shoulders as if there was something familiar about that voice. He peered through the crisscrossing traffic of horses, ox-drawn carts, and wagons pushed by laborers. A young lady and her maidservant stood beside a coach missing one wheel. And the coachman had unharnessed the horse. “Beg your pardon, my lady, but I’ve naught but to take this wheel to the smithy and have it repaired. I’m sorry, I will not be able to take you into London until the morrow.”

  “The morrow? What are we to do until then?” The woman grasped her companion’s arm, glancing up and down the avenue, clearly unaccustomed to being amid so much enterprise. “This is unheard of. You are leaving us stranded in a most unscrupulous part of town.”

  Clenching his fists, Aiden huffed. The last thing he needed was to become embroiled in the plight of a damsel and her serving maid. His nostrils flared. Damn it all, he only had two bloody weeks’ leave. But by the saints, his breeding could not allow a woman to be treated with such disdain.

  “’Haps you might hail another driver. He’ll help you.” The discourteous coachman climbed aboard the horse. “If I do not have this wheel to the smithy before dark, I’ll be forced to go another day without a fare.”

  The lovely lady drew a hand over her heart. “But—”

  Ballocks.

  Casting aside his agenda, Aiden groaned as he hastened to cross the busy road, dodging horses, wagons, and a pile of manure. If he hailed a coach for the lassie, it ought to set him back only a few minutes at the most. Hopping onto the curb, he tipped his hat. “Can I be of assistance to you ladies?”

  The woman’s enormous azure eyes regarded him, and a rapt O played on her lips as if he were the deliverer of salvation. “Sir, how gracious and kind of you to ask.” She thrust her finger at the immobile carriage. “The coach we hired has lost a wheel and we are stranded in this ghastly place.”

  Aiden stood frozen for a moment and stared. Flushed and flustered, the lass was adorable, yet something about those eyes was familiar. A
woman with such expressive blues could twist a man around her finger simply by batting her eyelashes.

  “Aye, we ken nothing of London,” said the maidservant. “What are we to do?”

  Shifting his gaze to the older woman, Aiden remembered his purpose—and he wasn’t about to be taken in by a wee lassie’s bonny eyes, especially one accompanied by such a dour matron. “Please allow me to hail another coach for you. Where are you headed?”

  “Whitehall,” said the lady, blinking rapidly. Damnation, those eyes were distracting.

  “Ah… I am off to the palace as well.” Aiden stepped into the street and flagged a driver with his handkerchief. “May I ask what you ladies are doing alongside a naval dockyard?”

  The woman watched the approaching carriage as it cut off riders and wagons while veering to the curb. “Our passenger ship moored up the way. There were drivers waiting, and after I agreed to payment the crew loaded my effects.”

  The maidservant wrung her hands. “We hardly traveled a quarter mile when we were nearly thrown from the coach.”

  “Indeed.” Lady Bright-Eyes scraped her lovely white teeth over her bottom lip—a gesture far too alluring to ignore. “The wheel fell off.”

  Pulling his rig to the curb, the hailed coachman leaned down from his perch. “Where to, gov?”

  “Whitehall.” Aiden gestured to the luggage. “Please load the ladies’ effects.”

  “Straightaway, my lord.” The man’s demeanor immediately became more respectful with the mention of Whitehall.

  Aiden returned his attention to the ladies and his brow furrowed with a sigh of resignation. There was no reason not to be friendly. After all, there were presently no merry widows in sight. “You must be out of sorts.”

  The young lady hid her face in her palms. “Can nothing go right? I cannot believe my miserable luck.”

  He opened the door to the coach and offered his hand. “Ladies, if you wouldn’t mind sharing with me, I trust we should arrive in one piece as long as no other disasters befall us.”

  When the lady placed her fingers in his palm, a crackle of energy zinged across his skin. Taking in a sharp breath, he met her gaze—nearer now. Dear God, those eyes were blue as the summer sky.

  She gasped and blinked. “Thank you… sir, is it?”

  Aiden bowed his head. “Lord Aiden Murray, ah”—hell, he had to use the title sometime—“naval commander, at your service, m’lady.”

  Something flashed across her face—as if she recognized his name. Her lips parted. He’d seen lips like hers before—a bow-shaped mouth, rosy, feminine, incredibly inviting. In fact, he’d never forget seeing such kissably shaped lips.

  Before he could comment, the maidservant grasped his hand. “Imagine this, we sail all the way to London and ’tis a Scotsman who stops to help us. I thank you for coming to our aid, m’lord.”

  He again bowed. “It is my pleasure.”

  Situating herself inside, the lassie grinned. Why in God’s name did she have to look so bonny?

  Dammit, Aiden, share the coach, arrive at Whitehall, and leave them to their affairs. A wee lassie and her maidservant? Not for a fortnight’s leave. You need to find a widow… or a courtesan… or anyone but a winsome Scottish lassie with enormous blue eyes who has a guardian dragon following in her shadow.

  After climbing inside, he sat opposite the two women. That needling prickled the back of his neck again. Was it because he missed home, or did this Scottish lass truly remind him of someone he knew? But who? “I beg your pardon, miss, but have we met?”

  She leaned forward, her brow furrowed with a contemplative expression. “Ah… I rather doubt it, unless you’ve been to the Seaside Hospital for the Welfare of Women in Stonehaven.”

  “Stonehaven?” His stomach flipped upside down. “My ship docked in her harbor on Hogmanay.”

  Gasping, the lass drew her fingers over her mouth. Her gaze shifted to the window just as they rolled past a clear view of Aiden’s ship. “The Royal Mary?” she asked.

  His stomach continued to jump. Was it the same woman? “Pray tell, what is your name?”

  The maidservant cleared her throat. “My lady is Lady Magdalen Keith, and I am Miss Agnes Dixon.”

  His tongue went completely dry. In all his life he’d met only one woman named Magdalen—a woman whose memory had occupied his every thought for the past three months.

  He clenched his fists against the ridiculous gooseflesh rising across his skin.

  What about the Earl Marischal and his vested interest?

  Aiden rolled his eyes to the black ceiling. He had his own agenda, dammit. And it had to be with someone unattached.

  Find a bloody widow and stay out of trouble.

  Could this be she?

  Could there be more than one Magdalen from Stonehaven?

  Dear God, he hoped not.

  No, you dolt, you’d best hope it isn’t she.

  “I am ever so pleased to make your acquaintance.” He chewed the corner of his mouth as his gaze met hers. Those vivid blue eyes assessed him as if with anticipation, but there was a great deal of worry behind them as well.

  Should he mention the masque?

  Certainly it would be the right thing to do.

  After all, the maidservant needn’t know they’d strolled atop the wall-walk, or that he’d taken the liberty of placing his hands on the lassie’s waist. Ah yes, he could still feel the narrow arc of her form beneath his fingers… and then he’d kissed the softest, most delectable lips in all of Christendom.

  “You did not, perchance, attend the Hogmanay masquerade given by the Earl Marischal of Scotland?” he asked.

  “Why, yes.” She smiled, but sadly.

  Aiden’s fists relaxed. “I was there as well.”

  “Hmm.” It was not a questioning but a knowing hum.

  “I wore a Spanish bandit’s mask.”

  A pink tongue slipped out and moistened her lips. Lord in heaven, he’d like to kiss them again.

  “I remember,” she said almost in a whisper. “But were you not a lieutenant?”

  “I’ve received an advancement.” He sat straighter, the earlier crackle of energy now more like a bolt of lightning. “May I ask what has brought you to London?”

  Tears welled in Maddie’s eyes when Lord Aiden asked the reason for her visit. Unable to help herself, she covered her gasp with her hand. How on earth could she say it? Her father in good faith had shown his support for James Francis Edward Stuart, and had been rewarded by being arrested for treason. Heaven help her, she knew what happened to noblemen who were actually convicted of treason. And she aimed to do everything in her power to see it didn’t happen to her father.

  But the handsome broad-shouldered man sitting across from her was a naval officer. Regardless of his kindness, the Royal Navy had blocked the port. Had Lord Aiden been in Edinburgh to witness her father’s arrest? Was he a Jacobite, or did he side with the government? He wore a dark-blue gold-trimmed doublet with a fashionably matching kilt.

  Of course he’s a government supporter. He’s an officer in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.

  She shifted her gaze to Agnes. The serving maid shook her head with a frown.

  Whom could Magdalen trust? On the morrow she must hasten to the Tower and request an audience with her father. This man ought to be able to advise her on how to proceed.

  However, she and Agnes had to first make it to Whitehall in one piece.

  Would Lord Aiden drop her at the curb as soon as she told him the true reason for her visit? Surely he must have a suspicion, if he hadn’t already guessed why he’d found her on the wharf.

  How can I word it to draw suspicion away from Da?

  She gulped. “My father received a missive from Prince James in France. Ah… are you aware of James’s attempted visit to Scotland?”

  “I am.” Lord Aiden made no show of surprise. As a matter of fact, aside from his eyes’ growing a wee bit darker, he could have passed for a statue.

 
; Agnes squeezed Maddie’s arm, but she ignored the warning. Allies were few and far between, and she needed every one she could reap, especially in deplorable London. Dear Lord, her father hated it here—said he had more enemies in the royal court than in hell. “Were you involved in the maneuvers to prevent his ship from landing?” she asked, trying to look curious rather than accusing.

  His Lordship’s moss-green eyes narrowed as he tapped a finger to his lips. “Prince James’s ships, you mean—carrying five thousand men,” he corrected. “Regrettably, m’lady, as an officer in the queen’s navy, the Royal Mary was one of the warships ordered to guard the Firth of Forth and prevent James’s armada from dropping anchor.”

  Regrettably?

  Maddie’s heart skipped a beat. These were such dubious times, but the man’s use of regrettably ignited a light of hope.

  Can I trust him?

  He is a Scot.

  But his father, the Duke of Atholl, is a Whig for certain.

  What about the duke’s son?

  Furrowing her brow, Maddie watched the man intently. Then she grazed her teeth over her bottom lip—something she’d done several times since Lord Aiden crossed the busy road to hasten to her rescue.

  Who else could help her? Since the age of seven she’d lived apart from her father. She knew nothing of politics.

  Nothing of London.

  Nothing of this whole sordid mess.

  She drew in a quick breath. “Da was arrested in Edinburgh and taken to the Tower.”

  Agnes tightened her grip. “Magdalen!”

  Maddie huffed. “I’m sure it is no secret.”

  Lord Aiden’s mouth dropped open. “Your father… is he the Earl Marischal of Scotland?”

  “Aye.”

  “Odd.”

  “Why?”

  “He spoke to me at the masque.” The commander held up his palms and shook his head. “Forgive me. My place is not to question. You were saying your father’s welcoming party was intercepted in Edinburgh?”

  Welcoming party?

  Maddie looked to Agnes and arched her eyebrows. Why hadn’t she thought of that? “Aye, and now he is to be tried for treason.”