The Judge
Highland Heroes
Book Three
by Maeve Greyson
© Copyright 2020 by Maeve Greyson
Text by Maeve Greyson
Cover by Wicked Smart Designs
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 7968
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Produced in the United States of America
First Edition April 2020
Kindle Edition
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All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Additional Dragonblade books by Author Maeve Greyson
Highland Heroes Series
The Guardian
The Warrior
The Judge
The Dreamer
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Maeve Greyson
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Excerpt from The Dreamer
About the Author
Chapter One
Edinburgh, Scotland
Spring 1698
“Those men are here again. At the service door.” An irritated huff seasoned the announcement. “And it’s not even midday yet. Shameful, I tell ye. Utterly shameful.”
Alasdair Cameron didn’t bother to look up from the document on his desk. His prim housekeeper, Mrs. Aggie, made it clear with her tone that she expected him to call down a shower of hellfire and damnation on the two unexpected, yet familiar, guests at the rear entrance to the kitchen.
A pert stomp of a heel and a growling ahem stressed her desire for immediate action.
Hungry for a bit of levity to brighten the dreary morning, he couldn’t resist teasing her a wee bit. He looked her in the eyes and winked. “I dinna suppose ye’d be good enough to see them to the study?”
“I would not!” The door banged shut as cold and final as the sealing of a tomb.
“I thought not.” He pushed up from his chair and stretched before scrubbing both hands across his face. He hadn’t realized Ian had returned to Edinburgh so soon. When he got hold of his younger brother, he’d be kicking his arse for him. How dare the wee rascal visit Château Delatate before letting his only brother know he’d survived his latest mercenary campaign.
Damn, Ian. Ever since the lad had discovered Lettie, one of Madam Georgianna’s harlots, who possessed a disturbing resemblance to his dead wife, the heartsick fool spent all his coin and quite a bit of Alasdair’s at the elite establishment renowned for satisfying a gentleman’s every whim. Whenever Ian passed out drunk and ran out of money, Madam Georgianna sent for Alasdair to come and collect him. Said she pitied Ian. What with losing his wife and unborn child the way he had at the massacre at Glencoe, she couldn’t bear to treat him ill.
The brothers considered it an act of kindness on Madam Georgianna’s part. Any of the establishment’s other clients discovered penniless and pickled in one of the boudoirs, found themselves charged fourfold the usual rate while they sobered up. After all, ’twas a brothel, not an inn.
Alasdair strode down the long narrow hallway leading to the manor’s kitchen. This house was a far cry from a drafty stone keep hidden in the unbridled wilderness of the Highlands. Part of him hated the tamed air of the place, but the part of him growing accustomed to the conveniences and comforts of higher class living in Edinburgh liked it just fine.
He shoved through the swinging door of the kitchen and came up short as every servant froze, faced him, then stood as though holding their breath so as not to miss a single word that fell from his lips. He wasn’t particularly fond of that either. Hell, he was just a man. No better or worse than the lot of them. Fate had just been kinder, and he’d prospered. Well…in some ways he had. He pushed away the long-ago memories threatening to surface. Now was not the time to ruminate over regrets and past mistakes.
He headed toward the duo standing just inside the service entrance. Twins. Identical mountains of blonde-haired brawn except for the color of their eyes. It was the only way Alasdair could tell apart Château Delatate’s armed keepers of the peace, as Madam Georgianna had fondly dubbed them. Alasdair pulled his wallet from the inside pocket of his waistcoat as he addressed the closest giant. “How long this time, Einrich?”
He flashed a brilliant smile, his perfect teeth gleaming. “Master Ian arrived early,” he said in a heavy German accent. He turned to his brother. “Delatate’s erster kunde for today. Ja, Adalbert?”
“Ja,” Adalbert said as he stepped forward with a flawless smile of his own. “Said for you to come at once. Said very important.”
After several fetchings of Ian, Alasdair had learned more German than he had ever thought to encounter in Scotland. Erster kunde meant Ian was Delatate’s first client or customer of the day, and ja was German for yes. But from the way the Friedrich brothers acted, his brother was not drunk, pass
ed out, nor out of funds—yet. It appeared Ian had sent the pair.
Mrs. Aggie interrupted with another shrill clearing of her throat. “Edinburgh’s finest solicitor should nay be seen traipsing into a common brothel this early in the day.”
“So, ye’d have no issue if I waited ’til after midday, aye?” He did so love nettling poor Mrs. Aggie. She acted more mother than housekeeper and, on most days, he didn’t mind. Her meddling grew a bit thorny at times, but for the most part, her caring ways brought a nice bit of comfort to the house.
“Ye know verra well that is not what I meant!” She puffed up like an angry hen, her white starched apron nearly popping free of its pins at her rounded shoulders. She shook a finger at the twins. “Ye canna go with them. Ye’ve always fetched Master Ian in the dead of night before. Ye’ve appearances to think of.”
“We bring him in the back way,” Adalbert offered. “Just like always.”
Einrich nodded and gave Mrs. Aggie a kindly smile. “No one see. Das verspreche ich.”
“What did ye just call me?” The sputtering woman stomped closer to Einrich with fists trembling as though readying for a fight.
Einrich held up both hands and shook his head faster. “Nein. Nein.” He frowned down at the furious housekeeper for a moment, then brightened with a smile meant to charm. “I said I promise no one see him.”
Time to take control before Einrich got hurt. Alasdair edged his way around Mrs. Aggie. “We’ll exit the gardens by the back gate, and go through the alleyway, aye?”
“I’ll be having a stern word with Master Ian. I promise ye that.” She clasped her hands and twitched with a haughty sniff. “Shame on him for risking such disrespect to his brother’s name.”
Deciding it best not to comment, Alasdair gave the housekeeper a kindly nod, then herded the Friedrich brothers out the door ahead of him. Mrs. Aggie had no idea of Alasdair and Ian’s past, and her ignorance was for the best. Life could be a cruel taskmaster and force a man to do many a regrettable thing at times.
“What is so important, Einrich? Why did Master Ian send for me?” Alasdair took the lead as they wound their way through the private gardens at the rear of the manor. In all the months since Ian had discovered Château Delatate, this was the first time he had sent for Alasdair. Always before, he’d been too drunk.
Einrich just shook his head and increased the length of his stride.
They rounded the final hedgerow and exited the gardens. A private, cobblestoned alleyway separated the exclusive gentleman’s club from Alasdair’s property. Little had he known when he’d purchased the land that it abutted the morally questionable establishment. It mattered not, though. It made fetching Ian easier.
Château Delatate maintained a respectable facade while catering to the baser needs of Edinburgh’s elite. According to Ian, the upper-class brothel also serviced several visitors from London’s royal court on a regular basis.
The pair ushered Alasdair toward the steps leading up to the first floor’s back entrance rather than the servant entrance at the cellar level. Einrich held the door open and stepped back. “Master Ian waits in Madam Georgianna’s parlor.”
So, Ian had fully endeared himself to the indomitable French businesswoman? Madam Georgianna’s most experienced harlot and longtime business partner, Fanny McGraw, had succumbed to Ian’s charms on his first visit to the establishment. It had taken his brother a little longer to soften Madam Georgianna. Alasdair snorted out a laugh. Ian had always possessed the rare gift of making women yearn to take care of him.
He paused in the hallway, waiting for Adalbert and Einrich to direct him. Heaven forbid a man open the wrong door in Château Delatate. Some things could not be unseen.
“Here, Master Alasdair.” Adalbert opened the first door on the right and gave a polite nod.
Alasdair strode into the room, old warrior instincts tensing him as the door clicked shut behind him.
Ian turned from the window, allowing the sumptuous, floor-length cascade of burgundy velvet to fall back in place in front of the glass. “Took ye long enough.”
“What have ye done, Ian? It must be dire since ye’re not drunk on yer arse, and the Friedrich brothers demanded no coin for yer stay.”
“I only arrived this morning, but soon as I saw what I saw, I had to send for ye.” Ian hooked his thumbs into his belt. “I’ve not even seen Lettie yet. That’s how important the matter.”
Alasdair studied his brother, searching for guile in the gray eyes that Mam had always sworn matched his own. None existed. Ian spoke the truth. His unkempt, curly mop of hair had partially escaped its ties, and his kilt, waistcoat, and jacket appeared a bit dusty from his travels. Grime smudged his knuckles and smeared down one side of his leg. Madam Georgianna’s ladies always bathed with their clients before seeing to any other requests. Lettie had not yet bathed Ian.
Uneasiness tingling across his nape, Alasdair braced himself. “Out with it, man. What did ye see?”
Ian gave him a blood-chilling look, then moved to the gilded cabinet beside the fancy, tile-inlaid hearth. He uncorked a crystal decanter of golden liquid and filled a pair of glasses with the whisky. He proffered one and nodded for Alasdair to take a drink.
The burning swallow almost cut off his air as Ian uttered the only word powerful enough to bring him to his knees.
“Isobel.”
The delicate glass shattered in his hand. Memories, painful ones, hammered through him. A vicious roaring across his senses drowned out all else.
“Isobel,” he choked out in a whisper. Her name caught in his throat, cleaving his heart in two.
“Take care, man!” Ian hurried forward, pried open Alasdair’s fist, and plucked the shards of glass out of his palm. He tossed them into a porcelain bowl perched on a small pedestal table nearby. “Ye get blood on Madam Georgianna’s fine new rug, and she’ll have yer arse.” He yanked free his neckcloth and wound the linen around Alasdair’s bleeding hand.
He pulled his hand free of his brother’s grasp. “Explain. Now.” He couldn’t form complete sentences through the ripping storm of emotions.
“Isobel is here.” Ian took a step back and gave an apologetic shrug. “Working.”
“My Isobel?” Alasdair clenched his teeth. “Ye’re saying my Isobel has become one of Madam Georgianna’s whores?” He surged forward and grabbed hold of Ian by the throat of his shirt. Rage out-roared reason, possessing him like a thunderous, unrelenting demon. He gave him a hard shake. “Ye lie.”
Ian shook his head as he pried Alasdair’s fingers open and freed himself. “I swear it. Isobel is here. She greeted me in the entry hall. Soon as she saw it was me, she ran upstairs quick as a minute.”
The regret and sympathy flashing in his brother’s eyes burned like salt in a fresh wound. Alasdair strode to the door and yanked it open. He’d find her. By all that was holy, this time, he wouldn’t fail. He’d find her and explain. He’d not miss this second chance.
Madam Georgianna, older but still a flaxen-haired beauty that looked more queen than harlot, appeared in the doorway. “One does not ascend the stairs without the escort of a lady, Monsieur Alasdair.” Her sharp, blue-eyed gaze slid past Alasdair and settled on Ian. “You promised no incidents, Monsieur Ian.”
“Take me to her. Now.” Alasdair had no time for niceties or brothel rules. He’d borne this pain and guilt for ten years. Ten painful years. Now was the time to confess his soul to the only woman possessing the power and the right to forgive him.
The madam gave him a chiding look and blew out a heavy sigh. “It is my understanding that Isobel has fallen ill and finds herself unable to fulfill her duties. She retired upstairs for a brief rest before leaving for the day.”
“Leaving for the day?” Madam Georgianna’s words made no sense. All the whores of Château Delatate resided on site. Alasdair pushed past her and stepped out into the hall.
She snatched hold of his arm and held fast. The woman was stouter than she looked. “Non, Monsi
eur Alasdair.”
He’d not treat the madam ill, but he’d not tolerate any ruses either. Not this time. Too much was at stake. “I will see her. Now.”
“Do not make the mistake of thinking Einrich and Adalbert will not restrain you if I order it, monsieur.” She shifted to stand in front of him, blocking his way to the set of stairs down the hall. “Their employment always takes priority over any possible friendships.” The faintest smile curled her heavily painted lips. “Even though you and Monsieur Ian are two of our favorite people, the brothers will still do as I instruct them.”
He didn’t give a whit if she called the entirety of His Majesty’s regiment. He’d easily best them all. But what she’d said about Isobel leaving for the day nettled him still. She hadn’t given him a proper answer. “What did ye mean when ye said Isobel would leave for the day?”
A woman with plentiful, bouncing curves descended the stairs and ambled toward them. Flaming red hair piled high in loose ringlets and a silk dressing gown flapping in her wake like a pair of wings, Fanny McGraw shook a bejeweled finger in Alasdair’s direction. “She’s locked the door. Said she canna bear to see our Master Ian here. Reminds her too much of yerself. Said she’d be going home soon but was sure to return tomorrow.” Huffing to a stop, she shoved both hands up under her abundant bosoms and adjusted their bulging situation above the neckline of her straining corset. Her crookedly penciled brows drew together as she scowled at Alasdair. “She talked like she thought ye dead. Why is that?”
With a growling roar, he punched the wall, then shot back around and faced Madam Georgianna. “Answer me, damn ye! Since when do ye allow yer whores to live elsewhere?”
Fanny gasped, and Madam Georgianna’s eyes flared. The madam returned her hand to Alasdair’s arm and attempted to steer him back inside her sitting room. “If you would be so kind as to lower your voice and have a seat, Fanny and I will be more than happy to explain Isobel’s situation here at Château Delatate. Since you have helped us on more than one occasion with legal issues, I shall afford you that courtesy. But I do insist you calm yourself, or we will tell you nothing and will do our best to conceal the girl. The choice is yours, Monsieur Alasdair.”
The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3) Page 1