Highland Tides (8 page)

Charlotte shot him a worried glance, but John Reade was evidently interested. “That’s true. He composed a poem for Queen Joan that’s considered one of the finest medieval love poems ever written. And he was a keen sportsman. He enjoyed wrestling, archery, hammer throwing and jousting.”

It was curious a man of the eighteenth century knew more about his monarch than he did, and what was this
medi evil
? However, since their guest hadn’t been informed of Braden’s claim to be from the fifteenth century, he didn’t remark on it. He hoped talk would turn now to the assassination, but instead the rebellion became the topic of conversation.

Braden was grateful for Charlotte’s tuition. The Duke hinted John Reade had been responsible for the capture of a Jacobite ship bringing gold to finance the rebel army, but their guest waved off the suggestion with a modest smile. “My men and I did take some small part.”

The Duke scoffed. “Don’t be modest, John. Your actions cost the Jacobites dearly and probably led to their defeat at Culloden.”

Augusta pouted, fluttering her eyelashes at Reade. “I’m bored with this talk of Culloden. We never speak of anything else.”

While Braden appreciated war wasn’t a topic of interest to women, there was a question burning at the back of his mind. “I hope ye dinna mind me asking,” he said. “Ye are a Robertson, and most of the clan fought for the Jacobites yet ye fought on the government side.”

Reade narrowed his eyes and dug a finger into the cloth wound around his neck. Braden had learned they were called stocks. He got a feeling from the man’s reddening face it wasn’t the first time he’d been asked the same question.
 

“A man has to follow his conscience,” John replied. “I’m a Protestant and didn’t want a Papist king ruling my country. Charles Stuart is a dissolute young man who wouldn’t have made a good king.”

Charlotte eyed Braden with a look of warning, but he seized the opportunity. “I suppose the regicides who did away with James Stewart thought he wasna a good king at the time.”

John Reade loosened his neckcloth further. Braden wondered why men wore such a thing that seemed to make their faces rounder and redder than was natural. “You evidently have a keen interest in the history of that time.”

Charlotte cleared her throat. “He does, my lord John. He’s particularly interested in an ancestor who might have been involved.”

He arched a brow. “Indeed. What’s the fellow’s name?”

Braden swallowed hard. “’Tis a woman. Margaret Ogilvie.”

John hesitated, then a bright smile lit his face as he leaned forward. “Margaret! Are ye kin to those Ogilvies?”

Mayhap he is a Scot.

Braden’s heart was beating too fast. “Aye,” he rasped.

Their guest raised his wineglass. “We must be distantly related, young man. Margaret was my four or five times removed great-grandmother.”

~~~

Charlotte gasped. “A direct ancestor,” she exclaimed, rejoicing at the amazement evident on Braden’s face.

Augusta yawned ostentatiously. “The next course is taking too long to arrive,” she complained.

No one paid her any attention. Charlotte hoped her wig looked more elegant than her sister’s tottering beehive.

Braden had been understandably taken aback at John Reade’s revelation, but he recovered quickly. “I take it then she didna wed Robert Stewart.”

John took a gulp of his wine, obviously enjoying this unexpected turn of events. “Nay, laddie. She married Rheade Robertson, who became chief after the capture of the regicides. I changed my name in his honor.”

Charlotte noticed his Scots brogue had become more pronounced. She had a feeling they wouldn’t be able to stop him recounting the whole story if they tried. “Can you tell us the tale?” she prompted.

Braden drummed his fingers on the table, looking impatient. “I ken Rheade and Logan captured the Stewarts and Tannoch lost an arm in the pursuit of Robert Graham, but I didna ken my sis—Margaret—married Rheade.”

Charlotte crossed her fingers under the tablecloth. If Braden blurted out the truth it would ruin everything.

The truth?

Aye, she believed him now. Either he’d completely lost his wits, which she knew wasn’t true, or the interplay of shock, excitement, and delight on his face spoke of his genuine relief his sister hadn’t suffered a horrendous death.

Here was a story indeed.
 

Step aside, Pilgrim Peter.

Augusta clapped her hands in glee when the venison was served.

“Venison,” Braden exclaimed, inhaling the aroma of the meat as it was served on his plate. “’Tis many a year since—”

He stopped abruptly when the Duke coughed loudly. “I beg yer pardon. Please continue. I must hear the rest of the story.”

 
As John recounted the history of his ancestors Charlotte lamented not being able to take notes. She’d have to remember the details he provided. Margaret had travelled to Blair to wed Robert Stewart, unaware of the murder. She’d met and fallen in love with Rheade Robertson, but the vindictive and heartbroken Queen Joan had confined Margaret to a nunnery because of her association with Robert Stewart. Then there was the long hunt for Robert Graham.

“But how did they track him down?” she asked, unable to keep silent.

“Weel,” the nobleman replied, “legend has it Rheade Robertson had a vision Graham was hiding up at Loch Bhac, which turned out to be true. Queen Joan was convinced to pardon Margaret for Rheade’s sake.”

“I know this part,” her uncle suddenly interjected, his eyes wide. “They named a burn up there after Graham, and the rock where he was sheltering is known today as Graham’s Rock.”

Braden frowned. “Why would folk name a stream and a rock for a traitor?”

John shrugged, bringing on a hiccup. “I dinna ken, but the legend isna true.”

Braden stopped chewing. “None of it’s true?”

The veteran soldier smiled like a child gloating when he alone is privy to a secret. “Margaret confided to her children she was the one who had the vision.”

He seemed hesitant to continue.

“The vision?” Charlotte asked.

John’s eyes darted around the table. “I ken this sounds far-fetched, but she claimed her brother told her where Graham was hiding.”

A lead ball lodged in Charlotte’s belly. “Her brother? How did he know?”

John Reade’s face reddened considerably. “He had died months before, drowned in a tidal bore. Claimed to have visited the future. Margaret never broadcast he’d appeared to her, fearing she’d be deemed mad.”

Braden’s face was whiter than the table linen. “She wasna mad,” he rasped. “But if she was shut up in a nunnery, how did she get the message to Rheade?”

The soldier tapped his chin. “Seems to me there was a servant who’d travelled with her from Oban. Some deemed him a simpleton, but he carried the information.”

Braden’s eyes filled with unshed tears. “Joss,” he whispered.

“Aye,” the soldier exclaimed, banging a fist on the table, “and now I recall, the brother’s name was Braden. Same as yours!”

“The whole thing sounds ridiculous,” Augusta declared. “What are they serving for the sweet?”

“Aye,” John Reade agreed with a smile. “It would make for an even better novel than the
Picaresque Adventures of Pilgrim Peter
, by that fellow Tobias.” He turned to the Duke. “Have ye read it, John?”

Her uncle chuckled. “Aye, drivel if you ask me.”

This was too close to the bone. The room tilted as Charlotte came to her feet, gripping the edge of the table. “Excuse—” was all she recalled saying before she fainted.

Braden rose quickly from his chair and scooped Charlotte before she collapsed to the floor.

“Oh, my,” Augusta exclaimed, fanning her face with the elaborate creation painted with scenes from the coronation of King George.
 
She’d explained the artwork in excruciating detail. “My sister never swoons.”

“Take her through to the solar,” the Duke ordered, pointing the way. “Mayhap you should use the fan on her instead of yourself,” he chided Augusta. "Find Simone."

Braden didn’t wait for the empty-headed woman to comply. “I’ll take care of her,” he growled, anxious to get Charlotte out of earshot. "We have things to discuss—alone."

To his relief the Duke nodded.

He didn't know where Charlotte's apartment was located, so he strode off to his own chamber, cradling her to his chest. He didn't bother to retrieve the wig when it fell to the floor. The French maid would find it. She was the only other person who knew where his chamber was and it was unlikely she would disturb them.

He kicked open the door, carried her to his bed and lay her atop it. “Charlotte,” he rasped, leaning over her. “Come back to me.”

She was pale, her breathing labored. He wondered what had caused her to swoon. She wasn’t the delicate type. Mayhap the wig had done her in, though he suspected John Reade’s revelations had overwhelmed her.

The tale had nigh on stopped his heart. He understood now why he’d been sent to the future. To save his sister’s life. He had to go back. But how?

Charlotte moaned something unintelligible. He smoothed a curl off her forehead. “What did ye say, my love?”

She raved about a
pilgrimage
. He gazed at her, stunned by the realization he would rather stay in the eighteenth century with this remarkable woman than travel back to his own time. Perhaps meeting her was the reason he’d been propelled three hundred years into the future. He had a deep sense she was his destiny.

But he couldn’t ignore his duty to Margaret even though leaving might mean he’d never see Charlotte again.

She opened her eyes and stared at him, then touched his face. He wasn’t sure what he saw in her gaze. Desolation, need, love?

“I must go back,” he rasped.

She nodded as tears welled and trickled into the pillow. “Kiss me,” she breathed.

He cupped her face in his hands and brushed his mouth over hers. She gripped his wrists and shyly nibbled his lower lip. He sifted his fingers into her hair, licked her salty tears, then deepened the kiss, coaxing with his tongue. She opened with a moaning whimper that sent more blood rushing to his already engorged shaft. Their tongues mated. She tasted clean and pure and warm. “I’ve never wanted a woman as much as I want ye,” he growled when the need for breath forced their lips apart.

She smiled seductively. “Not in three hundred years?”

“Nay, nor in three hundred more, Charlotte Tremayne.”

She blinked as tears welled again. “Take me with you,” she whispered.

He slid his arms beneath her and pressed her to his chest. “I canna. I dinna ken how to get back. ’Twill be dangerous. Drowning wasna pleasant I can assure ye.”

He wanted to ease the heartbreak of parting. His century wasn’t a fit place for a woman like Charlotte.

“Then take me now, Braden Ogilvie,” she murmured.
 

It was what he wanted, more than his next breath, but he walked away, pacing the chamber. “Nay, Charlotte. I willna shame ye. If I never return—”

She rose from the bed, took his hand and held it to her breast. “If you don’t come back, at least I’ll have the memory of lying with the man I love. I’ll never want another as much as I want you.”

His heart stopped. “Ye love me?”

“From the moment you emerged from the cells.”

He searched his memory. “But I was filthy. I looked like a barbarian.”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss him again. “Aye, and I wanted you for my own. I know it now.”

“And I loved ye as soon as I set eyes on yon wig,” he quipped.

She giggled, intensifying his need.

A ludicrous idea filled his brain. “We must wed afore I leave, then if there’s a bairn—”

She frowned.

“But yer uncle will never give permission, and—”

She put a forefinger to his lips. “I believe my uncle is already of the opinion we must wed because I spent time alone with you in your chamber, and now he’s heard John Reade’s story and knows you’re of a noble family—”

If death had taught him anything it was that life was for living. He bent the knee before her and took hold of her hands. “Will ye wed with me, Lady Charlotte Tremayne?”

She kissed his knuckles. “Aye, Sir Braden Ogilvie. I will.”

~~~

Braden whooped his glee, tossed Charlotte on the bed, shucked off his boots and climbed up beside her to rain kisses along her throat.

The notion she’d lost her wits flitted into her brain.
 

A lifelong Protestant, she was willingly giving herself to a Catholic. But Braden had no knowledge of the Reformation and the religious strife it had brought.

She was an independent woman, a clandestine novelist, the creator of a famous picaresque hero, but those things seemed insignificant now. Pilgrim Peter would never warm her heart the way Braden Ogilvie did, or spark the desire that swamped her whenever she looked at him.
 

He was honor bound to attempt a journey to his own time, and might never find his way back, but she would hold him in her heart forever. A life filled with regret of not having loved him and been loved in return wasn’t for her.

She wanted him, shaved head, big hands, big feet and—

Her body heated. “I’ve never seen a man without his clothes on,” she confessed.

He sucked her neck, sending a shiver of delight into her nipples. “Would ye like to see me naked?” he teased.

His warm breath on her skin set her afire. “Aye,” she whispered in a voice she barely recognized.

He stood by the bed, his expression serious as he wagged his finger at her. “But ’tis only fair if I take off my clothes, ye have to do the same.”

She nodded like an imbecile, unable to speak, afflicted with an insane urge to stretch like a cat.

He smiled and wiggled his eyebrows, then peeled off his doublet and yanked his shirt over his head. “Ye can touch me,” he whispered.

Before her parents’ untimely deaths, they’d taken their daughters to Italy. At the age of fourteen Charlotte had set eyes on Michelangelo’s
David
, and turned away immediately, hot with embarrassment. Augusta had made some rude remark and been scolded by their mother who’d then embarked on a long dissertation about the Italian sculptor.