Highland Rebel

by Judith James

  “If you will excuse me, milord.”

  “Don’t scamper off in a snit. You’re worse than a wife with her courses! I shall be in funds tonight. Enough to settle the household accounts at least, and pay you and the staff.”

  “You’ll play cards then, milord,” Sullivan said with marked disapproval.

  “Yes, I will, and then I’ll play with the lovely Lady Beaton.”

  “And what if you lose, milord? There was never a bad situation that couldn’t be made worse.”

  “Damn it, man, I won’t lose!” Jamie growled, finally losing his patience. “And if I wanted Granny O’Sullivan’s advice I’d have kept her here in London. What do you suggest I do? My ever-loving sire left me properties without the funds to manage them, and my king has turned his back on me, stripped me of my commission, and forbidden me the court. Would you have me join Gervaise and his men and traipse about Europe killing and maiming? Because I promise you, the thought grows more appealing by the day!”

  “You might beg an audience with the king, milord. If you present yourself humbly and explain the circumstances he—”

  “Enough, Sullivan! You go too far! I’ll not be lectured on humility by a stiff-necked Irish rebel who’d have hanged with his poor old mother rather than bend the knee! You’ve no talent for it yourself, so don’t be thinking to teach it to others, and try to remember you’re my servant, not my schoolmaster!”

  “I most humbly beg your pardon, milord,” Sullivan replied with a sniff and an exaggerated bow. “It’s still a great pity you’re not free to marry the heiress he chose.”

  “As opposed to my Scottish wife, Kieran? She was a waspish little ragamuffin, wasn’t she? But I confess I found myself somewhat taken with her.”

  “I’ve never known you not to be taken with a young lady, and as I recall she was not a little thing but rather more of an Amazon.”

  “Oh, well, perhaps you’re right. At least she would have seemed so to you. In any case, it was deuced uncivil of her to have me bashed on the head and trundled away like some press-ganged sot.”

  “Indeed, milord, a proper lady would have waited meekly for you to abduct her.”

  “One doesn’t abduct one’s own wife, one retrieves her. She is in effect my property now, mine to command.”

  “It might have been useful, milord, had you found fit to share that with her. Better half hanged than ill married, as they say back home.”

  “As always, Sullivan, I’m deeply indebted to you for your wise and pithy comments, but I don’t need you to remind me. Shall I hire an army and go to collect her? Hire a witch to curse her to death and make myself a widower? Perhaps send her a gift of poisoned gloves or sweets? What would you have me do? If you’ve no practical suggestions, might I suggest you find some suitable task with which to occupy yourself so I’m reminded just why it is I’m supposed to pay you?”

  Waving Sullivan away, Jamie slouched down comfortably, threw back his drink, and tossed the glass in the fireplace. Something else for Sullivan to wring his hands over as he tried to prevent his errant charge from going to hell. He was too late though. If any place was hell it had to be the endless succession of dreary days in the choked air, filth, and tedium that was London. Jamie had been to heaven once or twice, though, for a f leeting second, in the warm and willing embrace of one of his whores. A pox on Sullivan and his miser’s ways! They deserved their chocolate if only for that.

  He’d always had a soft spot for serving maids and strumpets. They’d been his only source of comfort and affection as a child. It was the cook who’d told him stories, the washerwoman who bandaged his knee, and the maidservants who hugged him when he’d felt frightened and alone. As he grew, some offered comfort in other ways. At fourteen, when he’d been caught in the stables with a maid who warmed his father’s bed, he’d suffered a vicious whipping without f linching or making a sound. He’d stared straight ahead, his eyes black with hatred and contempt, but when his father turned the whip upon the girl, he’d torn it from his hands, thrashing him until he begged for mercy on the ground. The man had never raised a whip or fist to him again. It was years in the past, but the memories remained as clear as if they’d happened yesterday.

  He’d been sent to school immediately after that. It was nearly as savage as his home, but he’d grown up tough and resilient and he’d thrived. Unlike most of his friends who devoted themselves to the pleasures of drink and fucking, he’d been captivated by his studies and the world of ideas. Enthralled with the philosophy of John Locke, he joined in impassioned discussions in taverns and in coffee houses, excitedly arguing that a man should use evidence and his own reason to search for truth, rather than accept the pronouncements of family, church, and state. It bordered on sedition, smacked of heresy, and was heady stuff to a cynical, angry youth who had to defy his father’s judgment or accept himself as something misbegotten and of little worth. His friends mouthed the words, but he’d lived them and used them to cut himself free.

  Hated by his sire and abandoned by his dam, he’d left to try his fortunes in the court of the restored King Charles II, where men like Sedly, Buckingham, Rochester, and Charles himself, set a glorious example of sin and dissipation no callow youth could ever hope to match. He’d done his best, though, trying to make a mark in a court and an age where treachery and adultery were the fashion, and cynicism, cruelty, and barbed wit were the qualities most admired. He played at intrigue, cards, and mistresses, and when his father disowned him, he made himself useful to both the king and his younger brother, the Duke of York, playing at soldier, diplomat, and spy.

  He acquitted himself well, made a name for himself in mercenary engagements, and showed he could be trusted with delicate matters concerning England’s dealings with the Netherlands, France, and Spain. He’d proven himself useful in matters of internal security as well, and five years ago, after a plot to assassinate the royal brothers on their way home from the races ended before it began, Charles named him Earl of Carrick and rewarded him with an Irish estate that had once belonged to Sullivan.

  Though the principal conspirators were minor figures, Charles used the incident to dispose of several of his enemies in the Whig party, including its leaders, Lord Russell and Algernon Sidney. Even John Locke, with his questionable views, was dragged into the net, though he heeded a friendly warning and escaped to Holland. Of those arrested, only Charles’s bastard son, Monmouth, the congenital conspirer, had been allowed to wriggle free.

  The whole business had left a foul taste in Jamie’s mouth and led to a growing disenchantment with Charles, the Stuarts, and kings and politics in general, but it hadn’t stopped him from accepting the reward. Charles was tight-fisted with everyone but his family and his mistresses, and it was the only tangible reward from him Jamie was likely to get. It didn’t help that Kieran O’Sullivan was one of the few truly principled men he’d met. He’d made him his steward, leaving him to manage and care for the people and property that had once been his.

  When Jamie’s older half-brother died suddenly, followed by his father less than a year later, he’d become Earl of Carlyle, too. He couldn’t help but smile at the thought that his father’s worst nightmare had come to pass. The demon seed, the bastard son his wife had foisted upon him as she cuckolded him over and over, had inherited it all.

  He’d thought he didn’t need the Irish properties anymore, and he’d entered into an arrangement with Sullivan, keeping half the income and leasing him and his future heirs the lands in perpetuity for one pound. He’d slept a far sight better at night, and when he’d learned his vindictive father had left him mortgaged properties, crushing debts, and no funds, he hadn’t worried overmuch. He was young and strong and the future looked bright. He began a small breeding operation with Sullivan’s Irish mares and a champion stud he’d acquired from Charles, and when the man died almost two years ago, he’d continued to serve the Stuart cause.

  He’d taken pains to maintain good relations with both Charles’s Catho
lic brother and his Protestant bastard son, but he knew the Duke of Monmouth was rash and ambitious, and he’d stood well to the side when, three months after his uncle James ascended the throne, Monmouth raised an army and declared himself king. James wasn’t the sentimental sort. Nephew or no, the duke’s handsome head had rolled, coming to a stop as a decoration atop Tower Bridge. Though it took several swings of the axe to accomplish the task, the duke was more fortunate than his followers, many of whom had their guts ripped out and their bodies quartered before their heads joined him there.

  Jamie had chosen correctly. A quick conversion to Catholicism and his star was on the rise again. He’d made himself as useful to the new king as he’d been to his brother. He served and charmed and maintained a presence at court, and the king, anxious to build and strengthen his Catholic support, had sponsored a match that would provide him with the funds he needed to secure his position and his lands. He’d been so close.

  And then the mouse had come along and he’d made a terrible mistake. By marrying the girl, he’d ruined himself. After his bride had disposed of him so precipitously, he’d returned to London to find Father Francis and Gervaise had been stirring up trouble with the king. Father Francis had trumpeted to all and sundry that he’d mocked the king’s gift of an heiress by marrying a battlefield whore as a drunken prank, in a ceremony that had been witnessed, consummated, and was valid in the eyes of the church. Gervaise had accused him of abandoning his post to chase after her.

  He’d defended himself strenuously, arguing that the girl was well bred one of His Majesties loyal subjects whose family was useful to the king. He maintained he’d been protecting her the only way he could, but his protest had fallen on deaf ears, and without her presence to show them, his cause was lost. Despite his best efforts, hard work, and years of loyal service to the Stuart cause, his erstwhile patron was inclined to believe the worst. The king turned his back, withdrew his favor, and Jamie was no longer welcome at court. He was suspect now—at best a disreputable lout who’d behaved irresponsibly, failing in his commission and insulting his king, at worst a rebel sympathizer, and either way, a fool.

  He might have groveled and begged, pleading his case and reminding the king of his past service. He knew it was expected, and given his usefulness he might have been forgiven, but he was far too proud. And so he sat, abandoned and disgraced, exiled from the glittering court that had been his livelihood and promised him a future. There’d be no quick and easy annulment, no rich heiress, and no further commissions or postings from His Majesty James II.

  Well, that was almost a year ago. With a useless wife and an unforgiving monarch, rich mistresses and cards were among the few sources of reliable income he had left, unless he wished to return to selling his sword on the continent, a thought that grew more appealing by the day. He still had hopes for his stable, though. His old drinking partner, Buckingham, had sent two of his mares to be covered, and where Buckingham went, others would follow. He allowed his mistresses to give him gifts and settle some of his debts, a time-honored tradition amongst the young gallants of London, and he invested every penny he could in his horses.

  Jamie shifted in his seat and looked out the window. The afternoon was almost gone. The dark would be descending on him soon. He rose and poured himself another drink. The fire had gone out and a dank chill permeated the room. He considered calling Sullivan, but decided against it, not wanting another lecture about chocolate and whores and the price of coal. Besides, he was rather enjoying feeling sorry for himself while sitting in the dark. The last time he’d done so was in that blasted cave in the north of Scotland, with his prickly ragamuffin wife.

  He ran his fingers lightly over his nose, tracing the bridge and feeling the slight indent with a wry chuckle. Better half hanged than an ill wife. It was she who’d brought him to this pass. Catherine… Cat… hellcat… She’d been a ferocious armful, his little mouse, with her feline eyes, her knife and sword, and her sharp little teeth. He dreamt of her sometimes. Dreamt she was tight beside him, silky smooth and as sweet and delicious as the hot whiskey and honey drink she’d fed him. It was hard to remain annoyed with her when he had dreams like that.

  He grinned and tossed back his drink. The jade had been quicker than he was, he’d give her that. Clever girl, she’d beaten him fair and square, tossing him out on his arse before he could plan her abduction… before he could even stand! He lifted his glass in a silent toast. Long life and good health to you wherever you are, Cat Drummond. There’s never been a man or a woman to cozen Jamie Sinclair as neat and as thorough as you did. Ah, well. She’d proved entertaining and his admiration was genuine. It was too damned bad that the things that afforded him amusement were always so bad for his health.

  Eleven

  Jamie had an assignation with the lovely Lady Beaton at her theatre box before going to play cards. A good comedy should cheer him up, and Lady Beaton was his favorite type of woman: mature, no nonsense, sure of herself and what she wanted. She was a lady who’d survived a difficult marriage and was intent on enjoying the fruits of her widowhood. She had no interest in remarrying and looked only for congenial company and physical satisfaction. Pleasingly plump, of cheerful temperament, with a bawdy sense of humor and a genuine talent for friendship, she was the closest thing to a friend Jamie had besides Sullivan. Unfortunately, her box was empty, though her footman was waiting with a letter. Her elderly mother, it seemed, had taken ill, and she had rushed to her countryseat to be with her.

  He looked about the theatre. The pit was full. Lords and ladies, orange girls and apprentices, shopkeepers and laborers, crowded elbow to elbow to see Dryden’s latest oeuvre. He was debating enjoying the box and staying to watch the play—it wouldn’t hurt to be seen there, still of interest and still in London—when a rustle of skirts and a possessive hand on his arm caused him to turn his head.

  “Jamie dear, you’ve been abandoned! How very sad! Has the widow found herself a new toy and left you standing all alone?”

  His lips twisted in annoyance. It wouldn’t have mattered to him if she had. Their relationship was not exclusive. They both enjoyed other lovers. The thing that set Mary Beaton apart was that they were also good friends. “Good evening, Caro. Are you out taking your husband for a walk?”

  Lady Caroline Ware had been a merchant’s wife before catching the eye of Lord Ware. He’d made her a widow and then made her his wife, and soon after, she’d made him a cuckold. They had a brood of six children, though it was widely rumored none of them were his. Lord Ware doted on his commanding wife, and if she wished to accessorize with lovers, he chose to indulge her. It kept her happy and was cheaper than keeping her in jewels, and he consoled himself with numerous diversions of his own.

  Temperamental and controlling, she was the kind of woman Jamie tried to avoid, but he’d made the mistake of sharing a brief sexual encounter with her and she’d been determined to bring him to heel ever since. Certain of her charms, ruthless in her pursuits, and vicious when crossed, Jamie’s lack of interest was a challenge and an affront, and having trapped and cornered him, she was determined not to let him go. She clung to his arm, whispering comments he couldn’t hear above the catcalls, whistles, and running commentary from the unruly crowd. After the theatre, she followed as he joined a crowd of well-heeled rogues and reprobates heading to a gathering hosted by the Duke of Buckingham.

  Best friend and cousin of kings, a congenital devotee of the game of thrones, Buckingham—or Bucks, as his friends called him—may well have been mad, or at least so highly bred one was hard-pressed to tell the difference. His father had been a favorite of Charles I, and some said much of the family’s inf luence came from the intimate services his jaded and calculating sire had provided for the smitten James I. An accomplished musician and singer, a sparkling wit and unsurpassed mimic, he was a natural entertainer who could be counted on to charm or provoke.

  When his illicit connection with the Countess of Shrewsbury led to a duel in whi
ch her husband, the earl, was fatally wounded, Bucks had outraged the court by installing the widow in his house alongside his wife. Even so, rumor had it that living with both wife and mistress hadn’t stopped him from enjoying a dalliance with one of the foremost male actors of the day. Whatever his faults—and they were many—he was good-humored, good-natured, and far too powerful for any king to arbitrarily spite or smite. He did what he would and favored whom he pleased. Jamie amused him—his discernment in matters of horsef lesh and women impressed him, and he’d taken him into his circle years ago. It was one of the reasons Jamie was still accepted on the fringes of the court and not banished to the country or the continent.

  When the party retired to the rooftop banquet room to indulge in music, wit, and wine, Jamie settled in the salon for a night of playing cards. Pouting, Lady Caroline followed him. Coming to stand behind him, she rested her hands on his shoulders and bent over to whisper in his ear.

  “Surely there are other games you’d rather play tonight, my lord?” she teased, trailing her fingers along the nape of his neck and rumpling his hair.

  He pulled away in annoyance. “Enough, Caro! Can’t you see I’m occupied? Go find yourself a pretty boy somewhere and leave me in peace.”

  “I don’t want a pretty boy. I want a big, bad man.”

  Her tongue f licked and darted in his ear and he stif led the urge to swat her as if she were a bothersome f ly. She took the seat next to him and he sighed and picked up his cards. The cloying smell of countless burning candles, unwashed bodies, and sweet perfume was almost overpowering. He closed his eyes. The hum of muted conversation whirled around him, punctuated by the sound of clinking glasses, harsh laughter, and the roll and rattle of dice. He didn’t feel comfortable in the room or in his skin.

  He imagined for a moment the wild fragrance of the highlands and the faraway shriek of the eagle he’d watched from his perch on the mountain and wished himself far away, but the feel of Caroline’s foot rubbing his crotch brought him back to the room. Reaching under the table, he gripped her ankle and shoved it away. The woman was vulgar and obvious and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Despite her ample bosom and obvious charms he had no interest in her at all. She had claws. She wanted acolytes. She bored him.