Chapter Nine

Nathaniel kept his practiced, cold expression. Any sign of surprise would be taken as weakness by his father’s peers. Charles was dead. Damnation.

He looked to Cat. While battered, muddied, and half drowned, she had spoken with regal strength. But with the shocking news, she’d lost her edge of queenly condensation. She stood alone, eyes cast down. The desire to wrap her up and carry her to a warm, clean room was overwhelming.

As if feeling the need in the air, Holling’s longtime housekeeper, Jane Pitney, strode around the corner behind the men. Short and rounded, with her graying hair hoisted up in a tight bun, he knew her gentle looks were deceiving, for her heart had withstood the tempers of his father all these years.

“Excuse me, my lords, but I will see to Lady Campbell,” she said, her voice firm, yet low. She’d obviously overheard the necessity for her interruption. Having perfected her abilities to bend nobles to her will decades ago, Jane walked through the parting men.

“Mistress Pitney,” Nathaniel said, returning her nod of greeting. “This is Lady Catriona Campbell of the Highland Roses School in Killin, Scotland. She is a friend of Her Grace Catherine, Duchess of Braganza,” he said, using Queen Catherine’s non-royal name. “Lady Campbell,” he said to Cat, “this is Mistress Pitney. She will see to your needs.” He bent to pick her up, but Cat set her hand on his chest.

“I will walk slowly without injuring my foot further,” she said. She leaned closer to him. “While ye deal with the mob of old goats.”

Her words slid against the tight anger he held in check, loosening the knot and beating back the impatience that could make him lose his temper. Her truthful observation was a balm against his annoyance at this pack of parliamentary wolves.

“I have had Benedict bring refreshments for you and the gentlemen,” Jane said. “It waits in the library.”

“Thank you, Mistress Pitney,” he said with stiff dignity and looked at Cat. “You are in excellent hands.” He kept his frown, the usual mask he wore at Hollings. Anything else would be perceived as weakness. She looked between him and Jane and started off, favoring her right leg.

After she and Jane walked back in the direction he’d come, he turned to the gathered group. “Gentlemen.” Without a glance at any of them, he strode through their parted midst, one arm set at his back, toward his father’s library. It was his library now, although it still held the old man’s tenacious scent of spice and lemon oil, which Nathaniel had come to think of as the odor of tyranny.

The walls were lined with cherrywood shelves, holding a vast collection of books, even after his sister, Evelyn, had taken a third of them up to her school in the Highlands. Thick woven rugs muted his clipped steps, and he hoped the mud from them wouldn’t be too much for Benedict to remove in the morning.

He walked directly to the padded leather chair behind the desk where a crystal decanter of fine, amber-colored brandy stood with an empty glass. A silver tray of cold, sliced ham, cheese, thin biscuits, and a currant-speckled scone sat next to it. Two similar trays sat near six arranged chairs set before the desk.

The group of men filed in, taking seats after their leader, Lord Stanton, found one of his choosing. Stanton can be your biggest enemy or your most helpful ally. His father’s words floated back to him easily in the room, as if his ghost resided within the walls. Silence was broken only by Nathaniel pouring himself a brandy, the sound of the liquid in the crystal reminding him of his father’s talks. The man always started with a fresh brandy. He looked at Stanton. “Where do we stand with King James on the throne?” he asked.

And as his thoughts moved to Cat and his past military experience, did his oaths to Charles carry to James? But this wasn’t the forum to seek answers to questions that had become quite personal during his journey home.

Lord Stanton’s bulbous nose was always red, and he withdrew a handkerchief to squeeze the end, tucking it back in the pocket sewn into his jacket. “He is more Catholic than Charles, which was why many were trying to remove him from the line of succession.”

“I blame his second wife from Italy,” the man sitting next to Stanton said. Lord Wickley, Earl of Sedgewick, was tall and angular and wore a wig longer and whiter than most.

Nathaniel leaned back in his plump chair as if he weren’t covered in mud, nearly starving, and determined to go above to make sure Cat was getting what he’d promised. “I have heard Mary of Modena took refuge in her religion after she lost her four-year-old daughter several years ago.”

Stanton nodded. “James is popish and determined to rule like his brother, who let Catholics go about practicing their corrupt religion. Although, unlike Charles, James says he will reestablish parliament after his coronation this spring. His nephew, the Duke of Monmouth, has sent word that he opposes the coronation, but so far, it has been a peaceful succession. If James ends up getting a male heir on that young queen of his, peace may be out of the question, for they will no doubt raise the heir as a Catholic.” He said the last word as if it were a blasphemy. “Even a female heir raised under the Pope’s influence is a threat.”

Lord Wickley sat in a high-backed chair that reflected his stiff personality. “I was against James sitting on the throne years ago when it came out that he had taken the Eucharist with a priest, converting to Catholicism while in France. But when we pushed to have Charles take him out of the line of succession, he dissolved parliament, and sent James off to Edinburgh with a reprimand.”

“Has King James revoked the rights of the Anglican Church thus far?” Nathaniel asked, his gaze moving to study each of the men sitting as witness in the room. He knew them all, his father’s noble contemporaries.

“No,” Stanton said, withdrawing his handkerchief to swipe his nose again. “Therefore, we are tentatively backing his right to the crown.”

Nathaniel took a sip of the brandy, letting the fire slide down to his stomach. The political chess game that these men played irritated him. The battle was slow and full of lies and hidden desires for personal gains. Was it his time in the Highlands that pressed him to cleave the truth out of these men with a sword?

“What is it you want from me?” he asked and took a bite of the ham layered with cheese. Jane would have taken the same up to Cat. Was she already enjoying her warm bath? Hopefully she was ensconced in the rose room that had been his mother’s. It was by far the prettiest bedchamber on the estate.

Wickley looked to Stanton, who gave him a nod to proceed. “We need to know where the house of Worthington stands. With the new king or with an independent parliament?”

Nathaniel set his fisted hands on the desk, something he’d seen his father do a thousand times before. “I will not tie a noose around my neck just because my father trusted the lot of you,” he said, his voice even. “I will decide as King James moves forward, weigh his actions, not your predictions of how he will act.”

“Your father would have sided with parliament,” Stanton said, thumping his cane on the floor by his heavy feet.

“I have no desire to become Benjamin Worthington, Lord Stanton,” he answered and picked up his brandy. He swirled the potent liquor slowly in the crystal glass. He took a drink and set the glass back on his cherry-wood desk before staring out at the old man. “I will always push for a parliament and less power to a single monarch, but I will not be persuaded to commit treason.”

A flustered murmur rose and fell through the group of four other men seated in a cluster behind Stanton and Wickley. “Treason or revolution,” Stanton said. “Attempting to save this country from a Catholic war on our people could be labeled as either.” He leaned forward, weight on his cane. “There have been discussions with William of Orange.”

“King James’s son-in-law?” Nathaniel knew of the man who had married James’s eldest daughter, Mary, by his first wife. The couple were both staunch Protestants and living in Europe at present.

Wickley nodded. “He may be persuaded to rule with his wife.”

“And she would depose her own father?” Nathaniel asked, crossing his arms.

“She has had little to do with James since her marriage, which he tried to stop. Yet Charles was making a good effort at looking like he supported the Anglican Church at the time and proclaimed that it should take place,” the Earl of Pembroke, Lord Kellington, called forward. “It appeased the people at the time, thinking that James would be passed over in the succession, thus putting a devout Protestant on the throne. If James was to abdicate, the crown would pass to Mary and her husband, William.”

“We were barred from court when James first arrived,” Lord Kellington said, his bushy eyebrows pinching low under his wig. “James said the court was closed in grieving for his brother. He has only now allowed some of us back in the doors of Whitehall. And with limited access to him and the queen. Our daughters attend her,” he said, nodding toward Wickley and Stanton.

Stanton coughed into his fist and cleared his throat. “If the woman you brought was truly invited by the Duchess of Braganza, you will be allowed access as her escort, since you brought her here from that rough country.” The old man’s eyes narrowed. “If one is to believe anything of the story she told.”

Nathaniel held the man’s gaze. “And you would have me do what?” he asked. “Slip a poison into James’s drink, leave an adder in his queen’s bed so that she cannot bring us a Catholic heir?”

None of the men even twitched in response, which of course meant that they wouldn’t mind if any of that was to occur, though they would behead him for involvement afterward.

“I would never condone such acts,” Stanton finally intoned, so no one could say he supported the treasonous ideas. “See if he is holding private mass. Perhaps the Duchess of Braganza will tell her…friend, Lady Campbell, if James truly plans to reconvene parliament or continue as Charles did, spending the country’s money on mistresses and ridiculous celebrations.”

“James showed great discipline and battle strategy in both the French and Spanish armies for his brother. I doubt he will be frivolous at court,” Nathaniel said, his gaze slowly taking in each of the men. Had any of them become angered enough about the dismissal of parliament to poison Charles?

Stanton looked nonplussed, his gray eyebrow rising with a wry look. “We shall see.”

Nathaniel folded his hands before him on the desk. “I will take Lady Campbell to Whitehall as requested, to attend the Duchess, and will determine whether King James truly intends to reconvene parliament.” Lady Campbell, not Cat, not the fiery siren that called to him in and out of his dreams. Sitting in his father’s study, tension mixing with the essence of lemon oil and tobacco, it was easier for Nathaniel to withstand her siren’s song. Until he could figure out if King James wanted to let the populace know that the Scottish Presbyterians had organized to fight Catholicism and the English government, he shouldn’t tell Cat about his past. So, despite the heat building between them, for her honor, and the duty he owed his sisters to marry strategically, he must stay away from Cat Campbell.

…

They were bloody too late to save Charles. From the date that the pompous rooster said he’d died, the king had already passed before they left Finlarig. The whole trip was for naught, although she would still see Queen Catherine, or Duchess whomever, or whatever she was now called. Cat represented the Highland Roses, and she certainly wanted to offer their benefactress help and condolences.

Washed, oiled with the essence of roses, and wrapped in a clean robe, Cat reclined in the grand bed against no less than five plump pillows. Drapes of mauve velvet hung about the large bed, tied back to four posters of mahogany wood. If she didn’t know where she was, she’d believe herself already in a royal palace. “Frig, he’s rich,” she murmured, picking up some ham and cheese that she’d piled onto a thin biscuit. Luckily the man had never seen the small cottage that she had built in the woods after her father died. The whole dwelling could fit inside this bedroom.

Were all the rooms at Hollings like this one? Rich satins and silks covered the chairs and bed and flanked two full windows set into the outside wall. A screen, painted with a vine of roses, sat in a corner to hide a boxed chamber pot. She frowned at the expensive trappings.

The housekeeper, Mistress Jane, had led her to the room. She’d said that it had been Nathaniel’s mother’s room. Cat closed her eyes, thinking of the woman whom Nathaniel had said cried all the time. Were the walls heavy with her tears like the ones she had sensed in their old house in Killin after news came that her father had died on the battlefield? A vision of her own mother rose behind her eyelids, her face slack with pain, tears flooding her eyes to wash down her cheeks. Despite the fire lit in the beautifully tiled hearth, Cat shivered. This was not a room for her.

She opened her eyes to look at the door to the hall. Was there another room where she could sleep? Surely there were a hundred rooms in this English fortress of silk and marble. Jane had left her alone with the food and bath over an hour ago. Night was full on from the darkness outside. Cat had luxuriated in the warm bath until the water had grown cold, then washed her long hair with the rose soap. If a physician didn’t arrive soon, she’d find another bed and sleep with her ankle wrapped and propped. There was another door to the left of the bed. Where did it lead?

Rap. Rap.

As if summoned by her thoughts, the door opened, and Jane walked in, her skirts rustling in the silence. With a glance at Cat in the bed, she beckoned behind her. A man with spectacles on the bridge of his nose followed her inside.

“Doctor Witherspoon to examine Lady Campbell,” she announced. Was she always so formal?

“Let us see what you have done, milady,” he said, his smile open but condescending.

“I injured my ankle falling from my horse,” Cat said. “There may be a fracture in the tibia or talus bones, but it could also be that the ligaments of the ankle are sprained.”

The physician’s heavy brows rose. “You are educated in healing?”

She straightened, shoving one of the silk pillows behind her back to further prop herself up. “I am a midwife and healer in my village in Breadalbane parish. From the pain, bruising, and swelling, in this area…” She pointed to the front and side of her ankle. “It is still difficult to tell, though after four days now, I believe it is just sprained.”

He nodded, his pudgy fingers pressing along the area.

“Aye, right there,” she said at the shooting pain.

“And you have put snow upon it and kept it immobile on your journey?” he asked, turning to a black satchel he’d set on the small table next to the bed.

“As best I could. The swelling has receded.”

He nodded. “I will bind the ankle and leave my recipe for bone tea to be drunk twice a day for a fortnight, just in case.”

“Comfrey, nettle, rose hips, feverwart?” she asked.

“Yes,” Doctor Witherspoon said with a smile. “And you are quite educated in herbs. Breadalbane is lucky to have you.” The doctor wrapped a narrow strip of linen around her ankle and foot to give it support. “There. You can remove the binding when washing, but you should avoid putting pressure on the foot until it stops hurting.” He pointed to her neck where the slash from the thief’s knife had nearly healed. “What happened there?”

Her fingertip slid along the line. “A sharp blade was held against my throat—”

“Good Lord,” he said. “On your journey here?”

“Aye.” She glanced to Jane and then back to the doctor. “When bandits set upon us. I sent my injured maid back in the carriage after Nathaniel and I dispatched the bastards.”

Dr. Witherspoon’s eyes bulged wide, and Jane pressed her hands together before her. Cat’s gaze moved back and forth between them. “I have been using a bit of salve on it, and it seems to be healing well. Nearly gone now.” She smiled, her lips closed tight.

Dr. Witherspoon sniffed, pulling a white handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his nose and shook his head. “It certainly is. What an adventure.” He cleared his throat and tucked the handkerchief away. “Drink your tea, and your ankle will heal quickly. Perhaps one day, we can discuss your medical experiences.” He chuckled. “I have some stories of my own to share with someone who doesn’t swoon or look on in distaste.”

“Aye,” she said, sitting up even higher with his praise. “If ye travel to Whitehall, I will look for ye.”

His brows rose, and he glanced at Jane, his smile falling. “Whitehall? ’Tis a dark place at present.” He gathered his supplies into his leather bag. “Best of luck, Lady Campbell.” He nodded to her and quit the room.

Jane shut the door behind him and came back to the bed. “You are fed, bathed, and wrapped. Now you sleep. In the morn, we will begin your lessons and fittings.”

“Nathaniel gave ye Lady Evelyn’s letter?”

“You, not yeeee,” Jane said and waited.

Cat frowned, her words coming slow. “Did Nathaniel give yooooo Lady Evelyn’s letter?”

“Yes,” Jane said, “and Lord Stanton informed me that the Duchess had sent word to the Highland Roses School when he arrived from London three days ago. I was not sure who would arrive but readied the staff for all potential requests. Also…it is not Nathaniel. You will refer to milord as Lord Worthington or Viscount Worthington.”

Cat met her critical gaze. “Bloody hell. This is going to be enjoyable.” Sarcasm was another of her talents.

“And keep your curses to pish, pshaw, by gad, and if you must, God’s teeth.”

Cat scrunched her nose. “No damnation, blast, bloody hell, bastard, frig, or fok here in England, eh?” Cat would have missed the slight tick upward in the pinch of Jane’s lips if she hadn’t been watching her so closely. Was there a grin hiding behind her stiff demeanor?

“Rest well, Lady Campbell,” Jane said, turning toward the door.

“Youuuu…” she pulled out the word with emphasis, “may call me Cat.” Jane paused but then left without a word, shutting the door softly.

Cat held her breath, listening, but there was no sound of a key in the door hole. Did one sleep with the door unlocked at Hollings? With her ankle still tender, running and kicking would not protect her. She must rely on her throwing arm and blades, which she’d hidden under one of the ridiculously plump pillows.

“Och,” she whispered, eyeing the other closed door. She’d forgotten to ask Jane if she could sleep elsewhere. This room, with all its silk and gold damask, along with knowing how unhappy Nathaniel’s mother had been in it, made her long to seek a simpler bed.

She huffed. Would Nathaniel come by? He had a pack of jackals to deal with below, and then he’d likely eat, bathe, and fall into his grand bed somewhere within this labyrinth of rooms. He’d done his duty in getting her down to England with little harm done and her maidenhead intact.

A small flush bloomed up into her cheeks as she thought about her request in the tent nights ago. Was there someone else here in England that captured his mind tonight now that he wasn’t burdened with her sleeping next to him? He said he didn’t love anyone, but was there a lady that he lusted after? Now that Cat knew how strong the ache of desire could be, she should have asked him if he wanted to bed anyone as one of her questions in Cards Up.

Cat fished her hand under the far pillow and drew out her hair spike, the one that all the Highland Rose students received when entering classes at the school. It was a twisted piece of steel with a sharp point on one end and a knot of steel to resemble a rose on the other end, which the non-artistic blacksmith in Killin had made. All the Roses wore the spike in their hair to be plucked and used as a weapon if needed. She held it, feeling its familiar weight. With a full inhale, Cat slid out from the silk cover and soft sheets. Grabbing her satchel, she hobbled to the side door and turned the knob.

Grumbling at the darkness that met her, she retreated to the hearth to light a candle inside a glass globe and carried it with her. The room was a dressing chamber with two clothes presses, several chests, a wash basin, mirror, and another door opposite. She continued on, opening the next door, and smiled when she saw an unadorned bed. It must be for a servant, although it was larger than the one she used at the Highland Roses School. She stepped inside, closing the dressing room door.

“Simple and comfortable,” she said, dropping her bag on the side table. Patting the coverlet, she was thankful the bed wasn’t full of dust. Likely Jane kept the rooms fresh just in case royalty stopped by for tea.

Rap, rap, rap. The faint tapping sound, out in the hallway, sent Cat to the door that opened into the hall, turning the knob silently. Her breath caught as she glanced down where candlelight illuminated Nathaniel knocking on the door to his mother’s bedchamber. Planting her palm on her chest, she could feel the deep thud of her heart.

“I am here,” she whispered, making him whip toward her.

“Cat?” He looked back at the door he’d been knocking upon. “Why are you not…?”

She beckoned him with one hand. “Finished with the pack of bloodthirsty old goats?” she asked as he came near.

He looked over her head into the room. “I asked Jane to put you in the rose room.”

“’Twas your mother’s room, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

She pulled gently on his arm to get him to step into the simpler room and closed the door. No need for anyone to come upon them and cast more rumors.

“It is too fancy for me,” she said and indicated the simple furnishing and covers on the bed. “I prefer this room, and it was vacant.”

“Nonsense,” he said, frowning.

She flung her hand toward the wall. “The blasted pillows over there must hold the feathers of ten geese each.”

“You deserve luxury, especially after the last two weeks.” He reached to pick her up, but she stepped back.

“I do not want to be in her room,” she said. When he looked like he was going to argue again, she huffed. “Ye said your mother cried all the time. My mother did, too, practically soaked her bedchamber with her tears and sorrow. I will not stay in a room like that. I moved out of a house that held sorrow so heavy that it is right now bringing the thatched roof down.”

“The vacant cottage in Killin past the smithy?” he asked, and she nodded. He glanced around the room and then back at her. “Is that why you moved to a cottage in the woods?”

She sat on the edge of the less luxurious bed, propping herself with her hands. “After my father was killed, I worked for six months to build the cabin in the woods and took Izzy and my mother out there to live, hoping it would remind her less about losing him.”

Shadows from the candlelight seemed to draw the creases in Nathaniel’s face darker, and he moved to the cold hearth, setting his lamp down on the brick. He fixed kindling around a small stack of coal already set, added some wool, and took off the glass globe from his candle to light it. Within a minute, the kindling caught, and he blew it gently to catch on the black rocks of coal. The fire gave the room a cheery glow.

“My mother used her tears to sway people,” he said. “I suppose she had real sorrow at times, but her tears were, by far, a weapon she wielded to bend people to her will. Everyone except my father, who hated her for her weeping.”

“Oh.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “Sounds like…they did not get on then?”

“No, they did not.” He turned back toward her to lean against the hearth. “Did the change of house help your mother?”

Cat looked down at her intertwined fingers. “Nay. She…loved my father, despite his very unlovable ways, his drinking, his temper…” She exhaled long. “And his running off to battle for his cause.”

“As a covenanter?”

“Aye, though it was more about fighting than religion to my da. He loved two things,” she said with a wry smile. “Whisky and picking a fight. Some say I take after him. The fighting part anyway.” She looked to him expectantly.

“I have no comment with regards to that statement.”

She laughed softly. “Ye sound like a member of parliament already. Ye have been trained well.”

His slight grin faded, replaced by a tight set to his mouth and jaw. “As I grew to manhood, my father made certain I was exposed to all parts of the government, both here and during my time living with Lord Broughton. He was a general with the English army before I apprenticed with him.”

She watched the lines of Nathaniel’s shirt stretch across his broad back as he added some more coal to the growing fire with a pair of iron tongs. She’d seen his naked skin, the scars from the iron ball she’d dug out of his chest, the thick cording of muscles that showed his reserved strength. The tailored trousers fit along his legs and perfect arse as he crouched, then straightened. His white shirt was undone at the neck, showing a vee of tanned skin. Cat wet her suddenly dry lips. Did he feel the fire that still raged between them? Or was it her curse to bear alone?

She caught his gaze slipping down slightly and then back to her eyes. “I have…” he started and then crossed his arms over his chest. “I have gained much experience. How to deal with nobility and overstuffed lords like Stanton. How to…lead a battle.” He dropped his arms, one hand reaching up to rake through his hair. “Cat,” he said, stepping closer to her. “There is much you do not know about me.”

She stood before him, repressed passion trickling along her limbs. “There are things ye do not know about me,” she said. Raising one bare hand, she set her palm on the thick bicep held hidden within his linen shirt. “Like…how many freckles I have under my smock.” The words came out on a whisper, and her cheeks warmed. Bloody hell. She’d never tried to seduce a man before, had never thought she’d want to entice a man. They were usually odorous and thought they knew better than her about everything. Nathaniel was different. First off, he smelled wonderfully clean. A dampness around his collar showed his hair to still be wet from a bath.

“How many freckles…?” his question faded to silence as he stared down at her upturned face. They were so close that she could feel the heat of his body through the thin linen of her smock. The clean fragrance of spice, mixed with his natural scent, turned her insides molten.

“This fire that is still between us is making me go mad,” she said. The intense look on his face changed to frustration. He did suffer, and the revelation blew under the tiny flame of her hope.

His fingers came up to slide along her cheek. “There are things in my past…things I am not at liberty to explain until I speak with the king. And Cat, I cannot wed you,” Nathaniel said. “If you think that us joining would—”

Thump. She smacked a flattened palm against his chest, leaving it there, her fingers outstretched against the taut muscles hidden from her view. “I told ye that I will not wed anyone. Not even a Viscount with a fortress for a home.”

She dragged her hand away, ignoring the flush in her cheeks. “I need to have my wits about me at Whitehall, and whatever has been stewing between us is muddling my brain.” Her hand went to the curls around her head, sliding her fingers among the tight tresses. She looked back into his eyes. “I need clarity and not to be thinking about ye stripping me naked and making me thrash like I did in the tent.” There. She’d laid up a queen of hearts on the table.

His eyes were intense as he stared into hers. She slid her legs back and forth against the ache pulling in her core. “I want ye, English,” she whispered, her voice strained. “I do not expect vows and a ring or a name or a farthing.” She moved closer, her thigh nudging against the hardness that showed her that she wasn’t the only one affected by want. “I just need this ache in me to go away, so I can think straight.” She slid her hand down his chest to the bulge in his breeches. Laying her palm along his shaft, she rubbed up and down while his hands touched her back, sliding down to cup her arse. His biceps strained the sleeves of his shirt as he lifted her to fit intimately against him. Hardness against softness, opposites that molded together perfectly. A thrill twined with a thread of nervousness to climb up through her.

Nathaniel held his face away from hers, cradling her cheek with one palm. He stroked his thumb across her skin, the gentleness almost making her wobble with the waiting. “Cat, you are so beautiful. You could have anyone.” He inhaled as if sucking in her essence.

“I am the same wildcat from the woods. And just like I did then, I bloody hell want this.”

“I should tell you things first,” he murmured, strain in the planes of his face.

“I do not want to talk right now,” she said, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue. “And I am tired of shoulds and proper ways. Let us just be Nathaniel and Cat tonight. We can be lord and lady tomorrow.” She curled her fingers into his shirt to lean closer and lowered her voice, her words coming slowly as she pronounced her words without the heaviness of her Scottish accent. “Nathaniel…I absolutely and completely want you.”