Highland Rebel

by Judith James

  “Ahem, yes… what you said. It was uncalled for, though perhaps not unwarranted. That doesn’t change the fact that London can be far more dangerous than you seem to think.”

  “You see? This is why I abhor the thought of a husband,” she said, turning away. “You assume I’m an idiot child, without the understanding or ability to take care of myself.”

  “Let me finish, Catherine. You might at least allow that I know more about the place than you do. What kind of arrogant fool would you think me, if I f lounced and huffed and then ignored you were you to warn me of the dangers in your Highlands?”

  “I did not f lounce and huff!” It was early summer and the sun was dappling the water, sparkling and dancing amongst a million tiny waves. She turned her face into it, enjoying the feel of it against her skin. Her heart was beating a quick and steady tattoo and it wasn’t from anger. She’d been surprised to see him, but she’d felt a thrill of pleasure, too. Somehow, meeting like this, away from court, neither of them in their customary roles, they’d slipped back into the easy camaraderie she’d begun to think she’d imagined. In one instant, weeks of estrangement were gone as if they’d never been, and he was her Jamie again, annoyed perhaps, but no longer an elegant stranger.

  “So… tell me then. I’m listening.”

  “I know you can defend yourself, love, but in the Highlands, in a battle, you know who your enemies are and you can see them coming. That’s not so here. The streets aren’t filled with warriors and soldiers. They’re filled with cowards and thieves, rats and sneaks, those who haven’t the skill or the strength to win an honest fight. You might pass for a man. You might hold your own one on one. You might even send some men running when they see how you handle a sword, but those aren’t the men who’ll kill you. It will be the grubby child who picks your pocket and leads you into an alley where his elders lie in wait, or the beggar so frail he can barely stand who rises up to club you from behind. People go missing and die in this city every day and night, Catherine, because they walk alone, or dress too fine, or wander just a little ways off of the path. Many of them are found in the morning, right there,” he said, nodding in the direction of the river.

  She looked down and her eyes caught something with an awkward shape, bobbing along towards them. Making a face, she pulled up her legs and turned to face him. “I do appreciate your lecture, Sinclair. You’ve taught me a great deal, your observations are generally sound, and I’ll be sure to pay attention to everything you’ve said, but I can’t live the way you expect me to. I need to do. I need to see. I…” Her voice trailed off.

  “So I’m back to Sinclair now, am I? I can always tell when I’ve earned your disfavor. What say I come with you, then? At least until I’ve shown you more of the city and taught you some useful tricks?”

  Her eyes sparked with excitement and her face lit with a huge grin. “What tricks? Oh, Jamie, I wish you would!”

  “I’ll show you. But not today. I’ve business to complete, yet. But if you’ll ease my mind by going home, I promise I’ll show you tomorrow.”

  She held out her hand as a man would. “It’s a deal.”

  He took her hand and shook it, surprised at the strength of her grip. He realized it was the first time he’d touched her in weeks. He rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. Letting go reluctantly, he walked her to a hackney and deposited her inside.

  “Be careful what you wish for, Will,” he called, as the carriage rolled away.

  He shook his head as he watched her leave. She was doing it to him again. Ten minutes alone with her and his good intentions had crumbled, just as they had when first they’d met. The wench had taken him completely by surprise. He’d been on his way to visit Alice Beaton. She’d been back in London for well over a month. She’d been good to him… good for him, at a time when he was filled with youthful hurt and rage. He wasn’t inclined to renew their liaison, but he owed her the courtesy of a visit.

  He’d stopped at Lloyd’s on his way, to deliver a communiqué to John Churchill. It was the perfect place to meet, filled with sea captains and travelers just arriving or about to depart. It was assumed the coffee houses were rife with spies, and one more would hardly be noticed. Whig, Tory, Protestant, or Catholic, amongst the sort of men who noticed such things, no one knew which side he was on. Hell, he didn’t know himself! He’d yet to decide, but with luck, any who watched would assume he did business for them.

  It was a dangerous game he played. A watchful, waiting, deadly game. One false move, one wrong step, and his rotting head would be looking down at Catherine from atop Tower Bridge. The last thing he needed was any distractions. The last thing he wanted was her to be involved. But what was a man to do? The chit insisted on putting herself in danger. She insisted on doing whatever she bloody well pleased.

  He’d been shocked to find her there. He’d known it was her the minute he’d entered. His eyes had been drawn immediately. His body quivered like that of a starving dog at the sight of her, and he’d felt himself stir at the sound of her voice. Even without perfume, he’d recognized her scent and… Bloody hell! The woman had a power over him that grew by the day. With those full lips and cat’s eyes and soft creamy skin, how could the fools not have known she was a woman?

  Well… she was stubborn and independent, and she’d have her adventures with or without him, she’d made that clear. Short of keeping her under lock and key, it seemed there was no way to prevent it. He might be a bought husband, he might sell his sword, and he might have a different set of values and scruples than more virtuous men, but the chit was his, and he took care of his own. If the only way to do that was to go with her, than so be it.

  ***

  True to his word, the next day Jamie took Catherine to a part of London she’d never seen. Filled with shacks and dirty hovels, stinking of fish and guts, the pungent odor of unwashed clothes, and every kind of human waste, it was, in its own way, as vibrant, opinionated, and exciting as anywhere in the city. It existed in hidden enclaves amongst shabby canyons of tall narrow buildings and crabbed and twisting streets. It was often right next to more prosperous neighborhoods, just a sidestep, an alley, and a world away, but always to the east.

  Dressed in scabrous rags, disguised with blackened teeth, pockmarked faces, and filthy hair, they passed unnoticed and unhindered, emerging into a busy street of shopkeepers and market stalls. Catherine was amazed how Jamie managed to twist and bend, hunching his back and shoulders to disguise his height. Some folk avoided them, looking away, crossing the street or stepping aside when they passed, while others knocked them away or would have stepped on them if they hadn’t scrambled out of their path.

  “Do you see, mouse? Now we’re truly invisible. If you need to go somewhere dangerous, this is the way to travel, and if you find yourself in need of a haven, back from whence we came is just the place to hide. We’re not worth the effort to rob or murder, and no one wants to ravage a plaguey looking lad or a lass with a case of the pox. Always watch for gangs of rakehells though, out on a ramble. Their cruelty and courage grow with the drink and their numbers, and some think beating or setting fire to a beggar, or throwing one in the river, is fine sport.

  “Remember that in these clothes, all men are your betters. Bow, scrape, doff your cap and avert your eyes, and if you hear a carriage coming jump out of the way or they’ll run you down. For all that, this is the best and safest disguise for traveling the city at night, and if you get hungry, you can always do this.”

  Catherine watched in horrified delight as he approached a well-dressed passerby, tugging at the man’s coat and holding out his hand to beg a coin in a singsong whining cant. The man tried his best to brush past him but he trailed after him, ducking his kicks and blows and refusing to let loose of his coat. He returned in triumph a moment later, proudly holding a coin between thumb and forefinger. “He proved to be a generous soul. I’ve earned us sixpence, my love. You’ve yet to realize what a lucky girl you are. You’ll never want fo
r bread whilst married to Jamie Sinclair. You mustn’t try it yourself, of course. You don’t know the language and it takes years of practice, though I suppose you might pretend to be a mute.”

  She shook her head in amazement, privately acknowledging she was a lucky girl. “I can’t imagine I’d ever want to try it. Wherever did you learn these things, Jamie?”

  “Ah, well now, therein lies the secrets of a misspent youth. But I think there’s been enough lessons for today, don’t you?” He threw the coin in the air and caught it, making it dance across his knuckles and disappear, before pulling it from her ear. “Would you care to join me for a bite and a pint at the tavern, Master William?” he asked, putting an arm around her shoulders.

  He seemed to be doing that a lot lately, and she quite enjoyed it. “I should be delighted!”

  Over the course of the next few weeks, they dressed as apprentices and churchmen, laborers and farmers, and tradesmen and servants, slipping in and out of the homes of acquaintances and strangers. Jamie taught Catherine the benefits and drawbacks of each disguise. Anything she wanted to try, anyone she wanted to be, it seemed he could make her, but he drew the line when she asked him to make her an orange girl. “You might as well ask me to be your pimp, love. They’re the playthings of all the young blades and the theatre crowd. There’ll be swords drawn and blood spilled and then a great deal of embarrassment and explaining to do, should I have to put some young sprig in his place.”

  Catherine was completely enthralled. She’d always felt an outsider and she’d never had a close friend, but now she was part of an exclusive club that consisted of only the two of them. They had secrets, went places, and did things no one else could possibly imagine, travelers and comrades in a fascinating alien world. She’d never imagined marriage could be so exciting, bring such freedom, or be so much fun. It also brought confusion. Though the closest of companions when on an adventure, at night she watched, teeth on edge, as the beauties of the court, Lady Beaton, Mrs. Russell, and several others, draped themselves around him fawning and f lirting while he smiled back and treated her like a little sister rather than a wife.

  She looked around for him now and saw him leading a willowy blonde out onto the f loor for one of Mr. Playford’s country dances, The Happy Bride. When it came to the part where the lovers exchanged a kiss that lasted four bars long, her hands clenched in tight fists and her fingernails dug deep in her palms. She turned away in disgust, only to see the king making his way in her direction. It was time to leave. An extremely elegant gentleman solicited his attention, pulling him to one side, and she took the opportunity to escape, hiding in the crowd surrounding the dancers and making her way down a corridor, through a side door, and out to a small garden. It was a chilly night, and she repented her decision immediately, but Whitehall, with its twisting corridors, hidden passages, and secret doors, was one maze she’d never learned to navigate.

  She was hungry, cold, and tired, and her feet were sore. Damn these stupid pointy shoes! What kind of sadistic monster had set women to tottering about on tiny platforms whilst surrounded by yards of cumbersome material, trapped in a torturous device that gripped them cruelly round the midriff and wouldn’t let them breathe?

  Twenty minutes later, cursing and muttering under her breath, she tried yet another passage, climbed up more stairs, and stepped out onto… a large gallery overlooking the ballroom. “Holy mother of God! I’m trapped in the second circle of hell!” She heard a laugh behind her and turned around. Jamie was lounging on a settee that was recessed in the wall. Sitting slightly to one side, ankles crossed and his arm slung over the back, he had a commanding view of the ballroom below.

  “Well… it’s said to be home to Cleopatra and Helen of Troy, so you find yourself in good company.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” she said, somehow not surprised to find him there.

  “Come, my dear, sit,” He patted the space beside him, moving slightly to give her more room.

  She sank down beside him, leaning into him as she made herself comfortable, relieved to be off her feet, and grateful for his warmth. Once she was settled, she stretched her legs, pointing her toes and moving her feet in little circles.

  “Ouch! No wonder you’ve been skipping about like a hop toad in those ridiculous things. I wager you miss your boots, love.”

  “I do, Sinclair, most dreadfully.”

  “Oh dear! What have I done to annoy you now?” he asked, catching the attention of a footman who was passing with a tray of drinks and motioning him over.

  “Why, nothing at all. Pray tell me, husband, what are you up to tonight?” she asked, reaching for some wine. “Countesses or cards?”

  “Ah! I see. Neither, I think. I’ve promised to be discrete. Here, let me.” He reached for an ankle and drew it into his lap, removing her shoe.

  She could feel him stir under the arch of her foot, and when she started breathing again, her heart was hammering in her ears. She took a sip of her drink and closed her eyes so she didn’t have to see him. His fingers encircled her ankle, stroking and caressing, while his thumbs worked the sole of her foot, kneading and squeezing from heel to toe.

  “Scandalous!” someone hissed, but she didn’t open her eyes, didn’t care at all.

  “And what of you, love? What have you been up to, besides saving yourself from the clutches of our lecherous king?”

  “So you’ve noticed.” She opened her eyes, but she didn’t move her foot.

  “That he’s marked you as his prey? Yes. I’ve noticed. He’s searching the room for you now. Look there. He sees us at last.” Of course, he’d noticed. The man followed her every move with hungry eyes. His blatant ogling made Jamie’s blood boil. He’d noticed Catherine’s distaste as well, and thought to intervene, but she grew annoyed when he became protective and she’d seemed to handle it well enough on her own. Still, neither Stuart brother had ever caviled at poaching another man’s wife, and if he thought to take his—

  “It doesn’t make you jealous?”

  He shifted her foot, placing it firmly against his swollen cock. Christ! Looking up he caught the startled look in her eyes and answered with a slow smile. She was too much the innocent to be certain he did it on purpose, and far too green to return his massage with one of her own. “You’re not the type of woman a man need get jealous over.”

  “I see,” she said stiff ly, pulling her foot away.

  “Careful, love!” he said with a wince. “I didn’t mean it that way. How can you not be aware of the effect you have on men? Unless it’s true what they say, and your wooly Highland cousins have a preference for sheep. I assure you any normal man would—Ouch! Damn it, Catherine! That’s enough!” He blocked her foot a moment before it reconnected with his crotch, wrestling with her a second or two longer, before she ceased her struggles and let it drop. “I was referring, to your quaint sense of loyalty and honor. It’s been my experience such noble sentiments tend to preclude a taste for adultery.”

  “I’m glad you find it so entertaining.”

  “I find everything about you entertaining, hellcat. You are, in fact, by far the most entertaining woman I’ve ever met.”

  “But not the most interesting. Who is she? The woman you always dance with?”

  “Don’t be so sure about that, love. The one I always dance with is Alice, Lady Beaton.”

  “And she’s your mistress?”

  “She’s a good friend. She has been for some time.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m not altogether sure you do.”

  Their conjugal tête-à-tête was drawing more than a few curious looks from passersby, some disapproving, some amused, and one that blazed with fury.

  “I’m afraid I’m about to be reminded of one of my more ill-advised indiscretions. My apologies, love.”

  A bejeweled goddess was heading their way, surrounded by fawning courtiers, a footman struggling with several small spaniels on leashes, and two page boys, one carrying a muff
and fan, and the other a diamond-encrusted patch box.

  “Good evening, Sinclair,” she said, her voice dripping ice. “I’m surprised to see you. I’d thought the duke of Buckingham was the only cheat and whoremonger welcomed at court.” She turned to Catherine. “And this must be your Scottish camp follower.”

  “Lady Ware,” he said, neglecting to rise, “might I present Catherine Drummond, Lady Sinclair, Countess of Carrick and Carlyle, and Countess of Moray in her own right. And I really must object, Caroline. I’ve never been caught cheating, and you’re far too finely dressed to be publicly accounted a whore.”

  Their rapt audience was startled into shocked gasps and titters and Lady Ware’s eyes sparked with hatred. “Enough! We are… intimate friends after all, aren’t we, Jamie?” She looked directly at Catherine, favoring her with a cold smile.

  “Were we, my dear? I confess I can scarce remember.”

  “Best you do remember to watch your back, my lord. The streets can be deadly at night.”

  “I always remember that, Caro.”

  Catherine watched her stately retreat, mesmerized, an icy, diamond-hard beauty surrounded by a constellation of hangers on and admirers. “Another mistress, Jamie? What in God’s name did you ever see in her?” she asked, only half-joking.

  “What strange questions you ask for a wife. Are you a spy? Are you a cheat? Is that one of your mistresses?”

  “Is she?”

  “She was. Very brief ly. Not one of my wiser choices. As I recall, I’d had a good deal to drink and it wasn’t long after you had me bashed over the head and addled my brain.”

  “You called her Caro. Is she—?”

  “Yes. My supposed victim and accuser.”

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  “No, she’s not. She’s ugly as sin.”

  “What did you see in her then?”

  “She’s rich. She offered to pay my debts, was adequate in bed, and not overly tedious if one had drunk enough wine.”

  Catherine yawned and leaned back against him. “That’s not a nice thing to say. You’re a very bad man.”