by Amy Jarecki
His head broke through, a desperate breath filling his lungs. Arching his back, he shifted his grip under Nicholas’s arms to ensure the man could breathe as well.
The shore appeared to be miles away as a wave lapped over Reid’s head and drew him under. But he kicked his legs and clutched tight his comrade’s chest, his arm holding fast just above the spike. The freezing water sapped his strength, but he clenched his teeth and refused to stop. Swimming on his back with Nicholas secured against his chest, Reid pumped his legs, propelling them toward the shore.
Behind, his ship was gone, sunk into the North Sea’s merciless depths without a trace. The galleon had heaved to as if the men on deck laughed at the poor Highland sops who fought to reach the shore before the sea swallowed them as well.
With his next breath Reid looked to the coast as his teeth chattered uncontrollably. It was nearer now, and hope infused his muscles with renewed power. But when the next thundering wave broke over their heads, the taunting sea gave Reid no choice but to clutch his arms tightly around Nicholas and pray to God they’d bob to the surface before the air in his lungs expired.
The next thunderous wave swept them up and spit them out onto the sandy beach like a pair of dead mackerel. Salt water blew through Reid’s nose while he staggered onto the shore. Coughing and sputtering, he dragged Nicholas in his wake.
“Good God,” Dunn hollered, running up beside him to lend a hand. Once clear of the surf, they rested Nicholas on the sand.
Sucking in gasps of air, Reid dropped to his knees and placed his hand on his comrade’s forehead. “We’ll have ye set to rights in no time, mate.”
Dunn caught his eye, thinned his lips, and gave a shake of his head.
The stake protruding from the man’s chest was akin to a bayonet.
“Please,” muttered Nicholas, his voice weak. “Swear you will care for my daughter.”
Reid’s gut clenched. “Daughter?” Shite.
“She’s alone—her mother gone.”
“Are there any other heirs?”
“None.”
“Christ.” The last thing Reid needed was a ward.
Nicholas gasped and clutched Reid’s cravat. “Swear it.”
He had no choice. “I give you my word. The lass will be cared for.”
As if a great weight had been lifted from his chest, Nicholas Kennet released his last breath with an eerie sigh that faded into the rush of the surf.
“He’s dead,” said Dunn, now surrounded by men drenched and shivering.
Reid moved his hand to the man’s nose and felt not a thing. Suppressing his ire, he closed Nicholas’s eyelids. Such a pity. And for naught. He glanced to the galleon, looming in the deep water. Through the shroud of early dusk, the wind again filled the sail as the naval ship resumed its course and got under way. “Is the crew accounted for?”
“Aye,” said Graham MacKenzie, lieutenant and navigator. “Davy has a gash on his arm, but no other casualties.”
“Thank God for that.” Reid stood and looked to the town of Hartlepool. “Quickly. The tower of a church stands yonder. We’ll take the body there for a proper burial.”
The MacRae chieftain gave a somber nod. “Then you’d best find something to occupy his daughter. You’re far too important to the cause to waste your time playacting at guardian.”
Reid ground his back molars. Dunn was right. He needed to think of some way to see to the heiress’s maintenance without becoming involved. And fast.
The brass knocker on the Coxhoe House door hung from a lion’s mouth. Reid had used it once before, but during that visit he hadn’t been introduced to Kennet’s daughter. They’d been in too much of a hurry to sail across the Channel for their meeting with the exiled king.
Exhausted and sore from sleeping in a copse of trees to elude capture, he clenched his fist before knocking. With the missive from King James still secured in his doublet, the last thing he needed at the moment was to take on the role of guardian of a spoiled heiress. But it couldn’t be helped.
“Go on. Have it over with,” said Dunn from behind, as if speaking Reid’s conscience.
Fixing a somber frown in place, he gave the knocker three good raps. “Do you recall the butler’s name?” Reid whispered.
“Gerald.”
The door slowly opened with an interminable screech. The gaunt butler regarded them, eyes peering over a pair of round spectacles. “M’lord?” He drew his graying eyebrows together as he craned his neck and looked beyond the men. “This is a surprise.”
“Good morrow, sir.” Reid took in a deep breath. “I bring grave news.”
The butler drew a hand over his heart as his face blanched. “Do not tell me Mr. Kennet…”
“He perished off the coast of Hartlepool. One of Her Majesty’s galleons attempted to fire a cannonball over our bow.”
“But the bastards sank His Lordship’s sea galley,” finished Dunn.
“Dear God.” Gerald stumbled backward and ushered them into the entry. “Forgive me. I need a moment to compose my person.”
“Of course.” Reid and Dunn stood aside while the old man closed the door and hung his head, clearly distraught.
Gerald slowly drew a hand down his face, and after a few deep breaths and gasps, he addressed them. “The pair of you look like you’ve been through the wars.”
Reid glanced to his doublet, shirt, and kilt; matted by salt water, peppered with sand and dirt, he looked a fright. But nothing could be done about that now. “We were forced to swim for our lives. After reaching the shore, we took Mr. Kennet’s body to Saint Hildas for burial, then slept in a copse of trees.”
Gerald glanced eastward. “Do you think they’re after you?”
Reid shrugged. “They’ve nothing on us. The galleon even continued on her voyage. They may have been trying to implicate me for some misdeed, though I have far more grounds upon which to seek damages than they have to accuse me of a traitorous plot.” He didn’t utter the word Jacobite—strange walls had a way of hearing things they shouldn’t, especially in England.
“I reckon they kent it as well,” said Dunn.
The butler nodded, his face drawn.
MacRae gave Reid a nudge.
Dash it, Reid knew his task was not yet finished, not by half. “Forgive me, I ken you must be sorely smote by this news, however ’tis my duty to inform you that Nicholas Kennet’s dying wish was for me to see to his daughter’s maintenance.”
“Aye,” agreed Dunn. “The earl vowed a sacred oath.”
“You, my lord?” Gerald scratched his chin, the furrow between his brows growing deeper. “I might have thought Mr. Kennet would have appointed someone a bit older.”
Swiping a bit of sand off his sleeve, Reid gave the man a scowl. Regardless of his age, the oath he’d sworn was an inconvenience, but duty was duty. “Och, if only the Earl Marischal of Scotland had been there, rather than me.”
The butler cringed. “Are you not up to the task, my lord?”
Reid guffawed and grasped his salt-encrusted lapels. Hell, he was one of the wealthiest, hardiest men in Scotland, and an elderly butler was questioning him? “Of course I’m up to the task. I’m the Earl of Seaforth, for God’s sake. I gave my word, and once given, I am honor bound. Now bring the wee lassie to me. I must notify her of this unfortunate turn of events forthwith.”
“Straightaway, my lord.” Gerald started off, but stopped before he reached the stairs. “Perhaps it would be best if she heard the news from me first. After all, I have known Miss Audrey since the day she came into the world.”
Reid arched his eyebrows at Dunn. It certainly would make his lot easier if he didn’t have to tell a child she was now an orphan. “If you think that’s best, then I shall allow it.”
Bowing, the butler gestured to a pair of double doors. “Thank you, my lord. If you gentlemen would kindly make yourselves comfortable in the parlor, I shall have refreshment brought to you straightaway.”
“Very well, but
I should like to speak to Miss Audrey as soon as she is able to receive me.” Since the butler had referred to the lass in the familiar, Reid figured it was best if he started doing so at once. After all, a guardian should be on a first-name basis with his ward.
Dismissing Gerald with a bow of his head, he led Dunn into the parlor. Decorated with Parisian plasterwork, the hearth was the centerpiece, surrounded by an ornate relief depicting vines and leaves, and intermixed were rose-painted porcelain plates. The gilded chairs’ seats, arms, and backs were embroidered with countryside scenes. Reid chose the largest, with a high back, near the fire. Dunn took a seat on the other side, crossing his feet at the ankles.
Weariness caught up with Reid as he brushed the sand off his doublet. He needed a meal, a bath, and a bed, in that order.
“Have you given any thought as to what you’ll do with the lass?”
Reid’s gut twisted into a knot. He didn’t have many options, and he most certainly didn’t need a child disrupting order at Brahan Castle—especially when he was away more often than not. “Boarding school, of course.”
“Brilliant. I should have thought of that.”
It wasn’t brilliant, though that was where most heiresses went for finishing in this day and age.
The tension clamping Reid’s shoulders had almost eased when a high-pitched scream resounded above stairs. The sound wasn’t that of a young child, but that of a feral animal in deathly agony. Not only did the knots in his shoulders stab him with relentless fury, a lump of lead sank to his toes. If only he were on the trail back to Brahan Castle. If only he were anywhere but in the Kennet parlor. Upset females were in no way his forte. As a matter of fact, he’d made a practice of heading the other way when a female grew distraught.
Dear God, what have I got myself into?
About the Author
Amy Jarecki is a descendant of an ancient Lowland clan and she adores Scotland. Though she now resides in southwest Utah, she received her MBA from Heriot-Watt University in Edinburgh. Winning multiple writing awards, she found her niche in the genre of Scottish historical romance. Amy writes steamy edge-of-your-seat action adventures with rugged men and fascinating women who weave their paths through the brutal eras of centuries past. She loves hearing from her readers and can be contacted through her website at AmyJarecki.com.
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