Highland Rebel Read online

  She knew that at court, romantic love between husband and wife was considered unseemly and ridiculous. She knew they were mocked in satires and scurrilous verse. She knew his former lovers were shocked and hated her, and she knew, despite their snide remarks and comments, that they envied her, too. She also knew it provided her husband two of the pleasures he enjoyed most: theatrics and thumbing his nose at the court. He obviously found it immensely entertaining, and she decided she might as well relax and enjoy it, too.

  He filled her with excitement and he made her laugh, but though he petted, squeezed, and fondled, he hadn’t kissed her again since her first day at court. He thought her untouched and had taken pains to keep her so, and she knew it was why he restrained himself even now. How could she tell him she wasn’t the innocent he assumed? At first, in the cave, she hadn’t told him because she felt it was none of his business. She was nothing to him but a problem to be dealt with and a fragment of a dream. When she’d first arrived in London, she’d feared his mockery, and now she feared his anger and mistrust.

  She should have told him before they signed a contract, but it had happened so fast, the threshold between it being none of his business, to her being a lying jade, had passed in the blink of an eye. She’d been trying to find a way to tell him ever since, but she could never seem to find the right time. How did one start such a conversation? When the time came to seek an annulment he’d have to know. She resolved to tell him when the opportunity presented and not to worry until then. He’d be angry and hate her or he wouldn’t, but she’d enjoy him now, while he was in a good mood, because Jamie Sinclair in a good mood was something magical, a joy no woman would ever forget, and once this adventure was over, she’d never have as much fun again.

  Mid-February they were invited to see a play at the Royal Cockpit theatre in Whitehall, by the well-respected female playwright, Aphra Behn. During the scene changes, Jamie took Catherine to tour the boxes and dressing rooms, pointing out persons of interest as they went. He stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders, his long fingers stroking the sensitive hollow between shoulder and neck, and his breath caressed her ear as he spoke. “Over there, with the magnificent breasts, is Lady Wyndham. Her beauty is only exceeded by her lack of wit. She was one of Charles’s minor mistresses and is dresser to the queen dowager now. The one in the corner is Katherine Sedly. She’s James’s favorite mistress and was maid of honor to the queen. Mary wants her gone and James has pledged to lead a life of virtue, but as you can see, she’s still here. She’s said to be as mad as her mother and as vicious as her father, but even Charles recognized her as a wit. She was to be married to Churchill, the tall gentleman over there.”

  As if hearing him, Churchill raised his head and nodded, and Jamie nodded back. “Very handsome looking gentleman, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, I suppose,” she said, only half attending, distracted by the shivers running up and down her spine.

  “He’s Earl of Marlborough now, but when he was a young ensign, he was Lady Castlemaine’s kept man.”

  “I thought she was King Charles’s mistress.”

  “Yes. She was the favorite for several years, but Charles was never faithful and he didn’t begrudge her her fun. He told Churchill he forgave him as he only did it for his bread. She paid him five thousand pounds for clothes and he invested it in an annuity from whence comes the great fortune he has today. He’s always been good with money, him. It was a great surprise when he refused Sedly and married Sarah Jennings. She was practically penniless. His family was in shock.”

  “You mean he married her for love?”

  “Apparently so, or some other such foolishness.”

  “Well, you married me thinking I was likely a camp follower and a traitor to your king. What does that make you?”

  “A lucky man,” he said with a grin. He nuzzled her ear and bit it gently, making her squeak.

  “Jamie!”

  “What?” he murmured, hot against the back of her neck as his hands caressed her throat.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m just playing my part,” he said innocently, removing his hands from her neck and sliding them down to her waist, brushing the sensitive outer curve of her breasts on the way.

  She gasped and her nipples tightened, clearly visible through the sheer silk of her dress. “You’re enjoying this!” she hissed. He pulled her tight against him and she could feel his erection prodding her from behind.

  “Of course I am. Are you?” He laughed and tugged her hair. “Now hush, love. Here comes Buckingham.” Buckingham sauntered toward them, mischievous and resplendent, and Jamie hugged Catherine against him, crossing an arm across her chest.

  “Ah, dear boy! We’ve missed you at court, some of us more than others. Lady Beaton wonders where you’ve been and if you’re well.”

  Catherine twisted her head, but Jamie ignored her sharp look.

  “Good evening, George. You remember my wife?”

  “I do indeed! The glorious Amazon who rode forth from her snowy fortress to bring you succor and relief. Good evening, madam,” he said with a courtly bow. “Everyone’s talking about how thoroughly you’ve fixed the lad’s attention. We’ve never seen the like before, at least not between husband and wife!”

  “Yes, well, like all good courtiers we strive to entertain,” Jamie broke in. “Forgive me for saying, but you don’t look well. Is there ought amiss?”

  “Ech! Well… been plagued by colic and gripe, dear boy, brought on by a taste for the finer things in life, no doubt. Such a pity the things we most enjoy are inevitably bad for us.”

  “I quite agree,” Jamie said, his gaze shifting to Catherine.

  “In any case I’ll be off to my estate for some fishing in a fortnight. Simple food and good clean air will soon set all to rights. Jimmy and I have never been particularly fond of one another, and the air in London at the moment is bad for my health. Speaking of which, might I have a brief word with you in private?” He gave Catherine an apologetic look.

  Reaching behind him, Jamie filched a scarf from its perch on the back of a nearby chair and draped it over Catherine’s shoulders, then kissed the back of her neck.

  Red-faced, she pulled it tight across her chest.

  “Forgive me, love, this won’t take but a moment.”

  Buckingham, waiting expectantly, barked with laughter. “Good lord, man! You are pleased to see me.”

  Jamie looked back at her, shrugged and grinned, and followed Buckingham into a small alcove. Her face burning, Catherine turned to face the stage.

  “A word to the wise, Sinclair. A certain lady’s returned to court and heartily wishes you ill, whilst our beloved monarch grows more obdurate, suspicious, and vindictive by the day. He won’t listen to reason. You know as well as I he’s embarked on a course that can only lead to trouble. It’s always good to keep a foot in both camps, but be careful whom you play with. If the Ware bitch can take you down she will, and Jimmy boy is not a forgiving man.”

  Jamie smiled and pulled away, squeezing Buckingham’s shoulder. “I’ve not been away from court that long, George. You know I’m always the soul of discretion. Take care of yourself, my lord, and trust that I shall do the same.”

  “Heh, that’s what I’ve always liked about you, Sinclair. One can always trust a man who looks after his own best interest, so long as one knows what that is.”

  “And you can never trust one that loves to meddle,” Jamie replied with a smile.

  He returned to Catherine, taking her possessively by the waist, and Buckingham took his leave.

  “I swear you delight in causing gossip, James Sinclair.”

  “I do. Particularly this way,” he murmured, giving her a squeeze.

  She leaned back into him. “What was that all about?”

  “Intrigue, mischief, and a woman scorned. Is it ever anything else?”

  They were greeted by several others after Buckingham had left. Courtiers who’d bee
n among the first to cut Jamie cold when he’d fallen in disfavor were eager to renew their acquaintance now that his star was on the rise. “Have you ever seen a more grasping group of hypocrites and whores?” he whispered in her ear. “If you’ve seen enough of the royal menagerie, I suggest we return to our seats.”

  Catherine had found the play delightful so far, and the idea of a female playwright fascinated her. She was eager to see the rest, but when she returned to her seat, she found a particularly scurrilous pamphlet waiting for her. It mocked her height, lampooning her in a series of drawings depicting her in unnatural sexual positions with Sir Richard Danby, one of the tiniest men at court.

  “What’s the matter, mouse? Is it the play that aff licts you or the company?”

  “The company. It appears I’m already a great success.” She tossed him the pamphlet. She felt a sudden wave of homesickness. For the most part the Highlanders were blunt and forthright. If they had a thing to say, they said it. If they had a quarrel, they declared it in the open and then they fought. A man knew who his enemies were and could trust in his friends.

  “It’s envy and resentment, Cat. Nothing more. You’re a rich and powerful woman. One who doesn’t cringe or back down and gives as good as she gets. You’re also a Catholic, someone they regard as a foreigner, almost French, and you have the favor of the king. They consider you fair game.”

  “Fair game? I don’t know how you stand it, Jamie. Is this all there is? Intrigue and conspiracy, an endless scramble to be noticed, night after night of vicious gossip and ceaseless rounds of cards? Does no one do anything useful? No wonder all these people do is drink and fuck!”

  “Catherine! I’m shocked!”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Well I would be if it weren’t so diverting. You need to take it all with a grain of salt. Intrigue and gossip are parlor games for the rich and disaffected, a way to pass the time for those who have no purpose. They must make themselves important in some way. A motley collection of aging roués, pox-ridden gallants, and overdressed whores see you as a threat and want to hurt you. Laugh in their faces and pay them no mind. They’ll soon move on to easier sport.”

  “I know. I know. You’re right. I just… sometimes I just miss my home.” A fierce wave of homesickness gripped her heart and she blinked back tears.

  He placed a warm hand on her shoulder and gave a firm squeeze. “Sometimes I miss it too, mouse. I spent but a short time in your wild Highlands but they worked their magic and claimed a piece of my soul. I can only imagine how it must be for you, who grew up there. Still, I recognized you for what you were the moment I saw you.”

  She looked at him, startled. Even she didn’t know who she was. She was still trying to figure it out. Wary, she waited for the jest.

  “You and I are much alike in some ways, love. We can’t accept the world as others serve it to us. We want to choose our own dinner. Always asking questions, always asking why, always wanting to see for ourselves. You love your home and you love your people, but they’re a hidebound, stubborn race. It’s hard to belong when to do so means losing yourself. You’ve the soul of a traveler, Cat, and the heart of an adventurer, and if you learn to accept it, you’ll always be at home.”

  His answer took her aback. Was he right? What about family and duty? It was easy for him to say. What did he know of responsibility? He’d as much as admitted he switched his allegiance as easily as he changed his clothes. Drat the man! She’d been expecting a jest. Why couldn’t he be predictable?

  “That’s easy for you to say, Sinclair. You’re a man. All your life you’ve been free to go where you want and do as you please. I’d like to see you try it dressed in skirts, with every dog and cock either sniffing at your heels or painting you a freak.”

  “You’ve grown mean and bitter, Catherine.”

  “And you’ve grown girlish and sentimental!”

  His bark of laughter caused heads to turn and earned them glowering looks and a chorus of shushes.

  “No one’s as free as you think, love.”

  “But some are freer than others.”

  Jamie leaned closer. “Would you like to be freer than others? I can show you how.”

  His breath tickled her ear and she shrugged her shoulders to dislodge him. “I thought we’d decided against that.”

  “No, love, that’s not what I meant, though I daresay it would do you good.” She stiffened and he chuckled and hugged her tighter. “I can take you adventuring right here in London. I can show you a man’s world, show you things and places no lady’s ever seen… if you’re game for it.”

  The last was spoken as a challenge, and since the early days of childhood, Cat Drummond could not resist a dare.

  Sixteen

  “Why are you dressed so elegantly while I look like one of those prancing fops we saw in Tunbridge Wells?” Catherine asked with displeasure, turning about in a circle, feathers, lace, and ribbons f lapping in the breeze. “I swear this suit boasts more adornments than any dress I’ve ever worn.”

  “Because you are a prancing fop,” Jamie explained patiently, “an untutored young pup, trying to make his mark as daring and original. As such, you must look like all the other fops. You must stay in character, my love. What does a young lad new to London want? What does he fear? How experienced is he? You have to ask yourself these questions. Anyone can don an outfit and play make-believe, but it takes study and practice to become. You must look like all the other rustics trying to impress.”

  “I should rather be a gallant young spark,” she sniffed.

  “Excellent! That’s the spirit! So would all the other fops. You can go in costume if you like without practicing the rest. I can keep you safe, but they’ll spot you quick enough for what you are, a lamb in wolf’s clothing, a curiosity and diversion, and you’ll soon become the center of attention, the one observed. But if you mark me well and do just as I show you, you’ll disappear among them, an insignificant pup beneath anyone’s notice, yet privy to their secrets, an invisible traveler in the world of men. It’s up to you, Catherine. Would you rather be the watcher or the watched?

  “The watcher,” she said, springing to her feet and swaggering across the room. “There! You see? I can walk like a man.”

  “You walk like a country bumpkin.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, you do, love,” he said with a smile. “That’s how an apprentice boy would walk, not a young lordling. Now attend me, please, and try to walk like so.”

  “Is this really necessary, Sinclair?”

  “Yes it is, my love. The walk is essential. All the courtiers do it. I would best describe it as an elegant swagger, a graceful strut. Observe if you will.” He stood, head held high, one hand on his hip, one leg leading away from his body, with his right hand extended as if holding a mouchoir or cane, and then began to walk in a gliding, rolling stride, swinging his leg out and back round in a circular motion, exposing the inside of his thigh with each step. The sauntering swagger and f luttering handkerchief reminded her of the first moment she’d seen him on the banks of the River Clyde, and she smiled to think what a strange thing was fate.

  He stopped in front of her. “Now you try.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “But I am, my dear. You must practice and perfect it if you hope to pass. If you lurch about like a Highland laddie, you’ll be seen as a rustic boor no matter how fine your clothes. A courtier will appear a courtier even dressed in rags, so long as he has the walk and can do like so.” He waved the handkerchief in an affected manner, bringing it to his nose. “I should have thought you’d have learned as much at the French court.”

  “I observed it and thought it affected and ridiculous. I never strove to emulate it.”

  “Of course not! You were a young lady, but now you’re a gallant young spark.”

  “Is that all there is to it?”

  “Well, it would help to affect an air of tremendous ennui,” he said w
ith an exaggerated sigh, f luttering the handkerchief again. “You are to be my cousin after all, a step above the average fop.”

  “Ah, is that what you are?”

  He blinked, taken aback, then burst into laughter. “Why no, my dear! I am a practiced rake and libertine. You’ve a sharp tongue on you, Cat Drummond, and a sharper wit. I predict young Reginald Sinclair will be a great success.”

  “I detest the name Reginald.”

  “Very well, I christen thee William. Now watch again.”

  Catherine burst out laughing. “You look like a peacock!”

  “Precisely!” he said, nodding solemnly, “and so must you.”

  They continued like that for the next hour, laughing and playing like children. Catherine couldn’t remember ever having such fun, but there was nothing childish about the thrill that ran through her whenever he smiled, or the way her skin pricked and her heart hammered whenever she felt his touch. Why must he be so charming? She found herself making deliberate mistakes, hoping he’d correct her with a hand to shoulder, elbow, or wrist, but bit by bit her disguise became more natural and her manner more assured. She was somewhat annoyed he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Sinclair, why are you standing there with your head cocked to one side? Am I still doing it wrong?”

  “Good heavens no, my love! You’re a remarkably quick study. You nailed the thing a half hour ago. I was merely admiring your splendid arse!”

  She blushed and made a face at him. “Well, pray don’t when we’re out in company, else no one will take me for a boy.”

  He choked on his drink and put it down, sputtering and laughing. “Good Christ, my love, but you’re a God-awful innocent!”