One

Jamie Sinclair pushed back his visor and surveyed the field. The air was crisp, sharp with the acrid smell of smoke and the bitter taste of winter. A cold sleet was falling, and icy drops of water slithered down his back. His jaw tightened with annoyance as wet strands of hair plastered against his neck. The leaden sky hung low, heavy with cloud, and a tattered curtain of smoke-tinged fog rolled across the valley, obscuring the horizon, parting now and then to reveal a grisly scene. The once bucolic setting of rolling hills, hedgerows, and square tilled fields was afire with burning buildings, and littered with the sad and twisted corpses of broken horses and men. It was peaceful in a peculiar way. Silent… still… and oddly serene.

The strident cries of bickering carrion birds jerked him from his reverie. He hadn’t slept in over two days. Fighting a wave of dizzying fatigue, he shifted in his saddle, trying to ease the strain in his shoulders and trying his best to recall why he was there. He’d shifted allegiance and religion so many times he sometimes forgot which side he was on. What with these mad Stuart kings—Protestant one day, Catholic the next—a fellow needed to be quick. Fortunately, he was: quick witted, quick with a sword, and more importantly, quick to recognize which way the wind was blowing. Possessed of a cynic’s keen perception and willingness to shift with the political tide, he switched masters, mistresses, and religions whenever the need arose. Military prowess and ruthless charm had helped secure him a place in the court of Charles II, and they would do the same in the court of his brother, King James. He was Catholic now, and James II was his master. It mattered little to him so long as it relieved his boredom, served his best interests—and he got paid.

His decided lack of commitment in religious matters was of great concern to Father Francis, the little Spanish priest who traveled with them and imagined himself in charge of Jamie’s soul. Never one to miss an opportunity to instruct, he sidled over to Jamie’s side and motioned toward the battlefield below. “A great victory, my lord.”

Jamie eyed the man with distaste, noting his jeweled rings and blooded mount, wondering why so many of those who made it their profession to decry the accumulation and enjoyment of worldly pleasures seemed to enjoy them so much.

“What? You mean our glorious smiting of yon farmers and sheepherders? Why do you bother me, priest? Shouldn’t you be off somewhere tending to the wounded, or saying prayers for the dead?”

“I tend to the living as well. Those men were heretics and traitors. Sinners who turned their back on God’s word.”

“As opposed to us, Father? Godly men the lot of us. Get away from me. I’ve work to do.”

“Have you no faith then, my lord? Are you hypocrite as well as sinner?”

“I have faith that if there is a god, he’s a reasonable fellow, and not some bloody-minded fanatic who would approve of this,” Jamie said, annoyed with the priest’s prattling.

“Your lack of faith is the devil’s work, my lord. You must strive to correct it.”

“Is it, Father? Some might argue the reverse. Some might say the fervor you so admire is a devilish thing, encouraging intolerance and divisiveness and discouraging critical thought. Some might even say it’s the root of much evil in the world. What do you think?” he asked with a wicked grin.

The priest blanched, crossed himself, and edged away.

“No? You don’t agree?” Jamie called after him. “Run, Father! Run back and minister to Gervaise and his holy butchers and leave me in peace.”

He watched with amusement as the priest hurried away, then narrowed his eyes, his gaze caught by a flash of steel and a commotion down the hill toward the river to the south. It appeared Gervaise and his men were all atwitter about something. He sighed and wheeled his mount. He supposed he’d better investigate.

The king, intent on restoring Catholic rule, and lacking the charm, wit, and political acumen of his older brother Charles, relied on intimidation and military might to guard his throne and bully his recalcitrant subjects into obedience. He’d built himself a standing army, a cause of great concern to many so soon after Cromwell’s, and he wasn’t above the judicious use of foreign mercenaries. Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, and French, some were highly skilled professionals, but most were murderers and thugs.

Sent to act as nanny over just such a ragtag coalition of butchers, commissioned to hunt down Covenanters, a species of Scots Presbyterian rebel His Majesty particularly abhorred, Jamie was not to interfere with the killing and debauchery—effective tools, after all—for cowing those who would oppose their rightful rulers. His orders were to help where needed, ensure no grievous insult was given to their more important allies, and oversee the distribution of spoils, making sure His Majesty’s rights were always respected.

Accountant and minder for a rabble of killers, criminals, and petty thieves. The whole business was distasteful. He’d much preferred Charles and his spaniels to the new king and his pets, but beggars can’t be choosers, and he was a beggar—his ever-loving sire had seen to that.

He picked his way carefully down the hill toward the riverbank, skirting past squabbling groups of soldiers, camp followers, and ravens fighting over ragged mounds of corpses. The Scots had fought valiantly. There’d been Highlanders in the mix, he was certain of it. They’d stood out, fierce mountain men roaring their battle cries and wielding wicked claymores. Strange, that. They’d appeared from nowhere, rode screaming into battle, fought like demons, and just as suddenly melted away. Why would they come to the aid of Protestant rebels? He shook his head to clear it. It made no sense. If they had come to help, why did they leave before the battle was over? They’d stayed long enough to give even Gervaise’s hardened mercenaries a fright, and then they’d disappeared like smoke into the misty hills and mountains of the Highlands and the north country, leaving the desperate Covenanters behind.

Gervaise was a butcher and a pig, but an efficient and reliable one. His men had shown the remainder no mercy. Once their savagery was loosed, they’d taken no prisoners. Jamie knew from past experience they’d be regretting it now. Simple brutes, easily entertained and just as easily bored, they’d be missing some hapless victim to torture and torment this eve. He dared to hope he might finally have a solid night’s sleep, uninterrupted by the screams and pleadings of Gervaise’s unfortunate captives.

Hearing the clash of steel on steel, he urged his horse forward, pushing his way through a gathering crowd. A fight between the men? No… it appeared a good night’s sleep was too much to expect. They’d found a victim. A young lad, by the look of it. Surrounded, the youth wheeled his horse in a tight circle, sword drawn, fighting to keep the jeering mob at bay. Jamie remembered him from the battle—one of the Highlanders, if he wasn’t mistaken. They’d engaged in a quick skirmish before the melee had torn them apart. He’d been surprised by his opponent’s agility and slight stature.

He felt a twinge of pity. The lad could hardly be more than a boy. They were playing with him like a cat with a mouse. When they tired of it, they’d strip him of his armor, strip him of his dignity, and then, very slowly, strip him of his skin. It was a harsh world, and youth and courage wouldn’t save him. There was nothing Jamie could do to help. He spat and looked away. His orders were clear. He was not to interfere. His Majesty couldn’t trust all who swore him allegiance, but he trusted those he was paying good coin. He needed these men.

He nudged his horse and moved away, noting with approval that Gervaise had already set the men to work making camp, though they seemed to have abandoned their duties for the moment. Placed next to the river, the camp had been well fortified, surrounded by trenches, artillery, and sentries to guard the perimeter. These men were savages, yes, vicious and venal, but they knew their business.

He could see his man Sullivan on the far bank, setting up a square-walled tent. He was an island of sanity in a sea of chaos, mud, and blood. Jamie had laughed out loud when he’d first set eyes on him. With hunched shoulders, head too big for his slight body, and a long neck that thrust forward when he walked, he’d reminded Jamie of a turkey, until he’d seen the sad, sweet face and felt ashamed to be comparing him to such an ungainly beast. A perverse impulse born of boredom, curiosity, and something he’d refused to examine had prompted him to pluck the man and his mother from a pitiful stream of Irish prisoners headed for transportation or hanging. It had proven a sound investment. Though his mother had never aspired to be anything more than an opinionated bully and an indifferent cook, Kieran O’Sullivan had become squire, butler, and friend.

Jamie closed his eyes a moment, fighting to stay awake. The sooner he was quit of this place the better. He’d return to London soon and make his report, and the last six months of fighting, filth, and blood would all be worthwhile. The king would reward him as he’d promised, binding him close, helping him find a Catholic wife, helping him find an heiress. God knew his late father hadn’t, and without one, without funds, he would always be the cur of one man or another.

He urged his horse into the river and started across, looking forward to Sullivan’s cooking, a pint of ale, and blessed sleep, but the sound of the crowd behind him was growing steadily louder, and halfway across he pulled up his mount and wheeled around. A large group of men were hooting and yelling, taunting the boy amidst howls of laughter, their voices shrill with excitement and something else. Wondering what was so fascinating they’d left off stripping and looting the dead, Jamie ignored his horse’s impatient fretting and stayed to watch.

Their hapless captive was bound by his wrists, with another rope pulled taut around his neck. They were dragging him to the river—intent, it seemed, on drowning or strangling him. The boy was struggling for his life, but his movements only drew the thick hemp tighter, choking off his breath. He couldn’t know it was a kinder fate than many that might await him. His struggles knocked his helmet from his head, and Jamie watched, stunned, as chestnut hair tumbled loose to flow past his shoulders. There was more hooting as they pulled off his breastplate. Good Christ! It was a woman! What in God’s name?

Taunting and leering, they pulled her into the fast-moving river and started dragging her across.

“Have a care, boys!” Gervaise shouted from the far bank. “I promise you it’s a better ride if they’re still alive. The fun won’t start until we’ve tidied up here, though, so those that’s got jobs to do best get to them. The rest can escort the… lady… into camp.”

A group of men detached themselves, grumbling under their breath, while the rest hauled the girl across the river, pulling her up by the rope around her neck when she stumbled and fell, and manhandling her gleefully in the direction of the mess tent. Jamie followed, with Sullivan, who’d rushed from the tent at his master’s approach, close behind.

* * *

Coughing and retching, raging with thirst and wheezing for breath, the girl tried to swallow some water as they pulled her across the river, but the rope was too tight, and all she managed were a few drops. She’d been relieved of her weapon and armor, and as they climbed the bank and approached the center of camp, the men spun her about, pushing her from one to the other and tearing at her clothes. Dizzy and wet, she dropped to the ground and scrambled to an overturned wagon, pressing her back into it and hugging her knees, teeth chattering, lips blue with cold.

She struggled to gather her wits and catch her breath. The battle had exhausted her. She was bruised, battered, and very afraid. She prayed her uncle’s men had escaped. She prayed for strength and tried to conserve what little she had left. She knew what happened to women in war. She had no illusions. What she did have was her father’s dagger, thrust in her boot. When they tired of playing with her, when they moved in to take the spoils, she’d have one chance. If they wanted her they’d have to kill her, and she’d take one or more of them with her.

Jamie beckoned Sullivan, dismounted, and handed him the reins. He’d played many roles in his ill-spent youth: adventurer, gambler, courtier, and spy. Now he played the arrogant, cold-blooded aristocrat. There was nothing like disdain and a hint of menace to put a certain kind of man in his place, the kind a fellow needed to keep at his feet, lest they leap for his throat. He’d yet to assert his authority with this lot, choosing to mind his own business and let Gervaise and his men mind theirs, but he flexed it now.

She watched his approach, turning to look to her right, though she’d barely enough strength to lift her head. Fine-featured and graceful, he was tall and lean. His dark hair was tied in a queue, and he was dressed as a cavalier. He looked as if he’d just stepped from a drawing room or a dance floor, not a battlefield. As he approached, he shook out the lace from his wrists, motioning the men back with a curt wave of his fingers. Despite his languid manner, his eyes were sharp, his face was harsh, and other men moved aside when he passed. He stopped a few feet away from her, planting his sword tip in the ground, resting his hands on the pommel as if it were a walking stick. Looking down his aristocratic nose, he regarded her coldly.

She blinked, perplexed. Who was he? A dark angel? One of Lucifer’s minions come to collect the dead? He was as incongruous as a flower on a dunghill. He should have looked ridiculous, but he didn’t. He looked dangerous and cruel.

* * *

Amused by her incredulous perusal, Jamie suppressed a grin, cocked his head, and examined her carefully in turn. She was wet and bedraggled, there were rope burns on her neck and wrists, and her face was battered and covered with blood. She was shivering, whether from fear or cold he couldn’t tell. Despite years of hard work to suppress them, his quixotic tendencies had the rude habit of surfacing at the oddest and most inconvenient times. There was no denying the wench was a damsel in distress. He felt a twinge of annoyance. Damned foolish chit! The last thing he needed right now was complications.

The men were crowding in, grumbling and sullen, fearing he meant to rob them of their toy. He hefted his sword, testing its weight, and turned to face them, silencing their protests with a dismissive gesture. One of them left on the run, looking for Gervaise, no doubt.

Returning his attention to the woman, Jamie took off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. “Sullivan!”

“Sir!”

“Fetch food, a blanket, and water.”

“Right away, sir.”

He got down on one knee and reached out to brush away a mat of tangled hair, trying to get a closer look. She shuddered and flinched, and he felt a stir of pity. “Easy, lass,” he said softly in French. “I’m not going to harm you.” Taking her by the chin with gloved fingers, he turned her face sideways, noting the livid bruise across her jaw. “Tsk, tsk.” He turned her jaw the other way and a tired sigh escaped him. “What a pity. These brutes have only one way of dealing with a woman, I’m afraid. What’s your name, child?”

She stared at him, blank-faced, then pulled her head away. He felt a moment’s disappointment. He’d been hoping she spoke French. It would have been a sign of education, quality and breeding, something to assist him with the plan fast forming in his mind. She was likely some luckless camp follower, who’d stolen horse and sword in a desperate bid to escape.

Well, heiress or whore, it hadn’t done her any good, and she was in far more trouble than she knew. Wondering if she was in shock, he tried speaking in English. “What’s your name, girl?” He gave her head a shake. “Your name!”

“Catherine… Drummond,” she said through gritted teeth, then spat full in his face.

The watching men broke into gales of laughter, hooting and jeering. “That’s a gentleman right there! See how smooth he is with the ladies?”

“She fancies you, she does, my lord!”

Damned ungrateful chit! He should leave her to her own devices. Casually, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the spittle away, then grabbed her by the hair and pulled her close. He looked quizzically into fierce, cat-like eyes, then leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Catherine… Cat… hellcat… that wasn’t wise. Here you’re nothing but a wet and shivering little mouse, and little mice should stay very quiet, and keep very still.”

He rose to his feet, gripping her by the front of her tattered shirt and hauling her up with him. She blinked and tried to focus as the leering men, the camp, and the dark lord who held her began to spin in dizzy circles around her, and then she slumped unconscious in his arms.

“There! You see, Sullivan? I’ve made another conquest. They swoon in my arms,” he said to his man, who’d returned with a blanket and canteen.

“Indeed, milord. I’ve often marked upon it. I take it I’m to tidy up?”

“Just so. You may deliver her to Father Francis.” He grunted as he passed his burden over to his servant, then straightened his sleeves. “And have a care. She’s somewhat hefty for such a delicate flower.”

The disgruntled mumblings and protests of the men grew heated as Sullivan made to leave with his bundle, rising to a crescendo with the arrival of Captain Gervaise.

“Here now!” the captain shouted, shoving through the crowd to plant himself in front of Jamie. “It’s not your place to be giving orders, Sinclair. Put the wench back!” A belligerent man at the best of times, he had a pugnacious face, with lips that twisted in a perpetual sneer and a chin that thrust forward, always ready for argument or battle. He reminded Jamie of nothing so much as an ugly bulldog.

“I represent your employer, Gervaise. The sovereign lord of these lands. Show a little respect!” he snapped.

Gervaise took a step back and spat on the ground. “Even so, Sinclair. What’s his is his, and what’s ours is ours. We’ve a right to any spoils we find on the field and well you know it! You’ll not expect me to believe our employer has any interest in a rebel whore. He’s busy enough with the ones at court. The men have fought hard and well and deserve their entertainment.” He turned to his men and waved his hand toward the bundle Sullivan held in his arms. “Shall we dice for her, boys?”

The men responded with a raucous cheer, their eyes lit with excitement.

“Quiet! Listen to me carefully, Gervaise. She’s a noblewoman, not some camp follower. She may be useful as a hostage, she’s certainly worth a ransom, and she’s not for the likes of you and your men.”

“And how do you know all that?”

“Open your eyes, you fool! You saw her weapon, and look at the horse she was riding. No common strumpet would ride a beast like that.”

“Unless she stole it and was trying to escape. I say no well-bred slut would be traipsing about a battlefield waving a sword! Give her back, Sinclair!”

“Look at her. She’s nigh frozen and half drowned! You said yourself she’s of more use alive than dead. Let the priest tend to her. She’s not going anywhere.” Jamie looked over his shoulder and barked an order. “Sullivan! Stop lolling about and do as I told you!”

“At once, milord.” Sullivan started forward again, but at a nod from Gervaise, two men stepped out, swords drawn, blocking his path.

“Think it through carefully, Gervaise,” Jamie said dangerously, drawing his own. “Do you really want to make me your enemy?” Jesus Christ! He was making a mess of it! He’d always minded his own business and let Gervaise and his men mind theirs, but now he’d backed the man into a corner in front of his men. Gervaise might be a cur, but he was a useful one. The king would have Jamie’s hide if the man grew disgruntled and sold his services elsewhere. Curse the wench!

Having taken authority and bravado as far as they’d go, Jamie decided it was time to try charm and guile. “Oh, do sit down with her, Sullivan. I swear you look as taxed and sullen as an overburdened donkey!”

There were a few guffaws and the tension started to ease.

“Put away your swords, fools!” Gervaise snapped, somewhat mollified. He turned back to Jamie. “Now it’s best you listen, Sinclair. It would be very sad if you were to suffer an accident so near the end of your commission. Ponder that before you seek to pit yourself and your… man… against me and mine.”

“I seek only to protect His Majesty’s interests, Gervaise. The girl’s name is Catherine Drummond. I know this name,” he lied. “The family’s an important one, and it’s for the king to decide her fate.”

“I don’t care if she’s the Virgin Mary, Sinclair! We both know you’re claiming her for yourself!”

“And what if I am? I’ve fought alongside you these past six months. You’d have been dead a week past if not for me. I’ve taken no spoils, made no claims… well, now I do.”

“Fair enough. You’re a devil on the field and you’ve been a reasonable man until now. I’m a reasonable man too, but we both know she’s a rebel whore and meant for hanging. You can have her first, but when you’re finished, you’ll pass her along. I’ll see my men have some use of her before it’s done.”

“Don’t be an idiot, man! She’s worth money, I tell you.”

“If there’s a ransom, her people will pay it, whether we touch her or not. If there’s not,” Gervaise shrugged, “then we’d best enjoy her before the hangman does his work. I’ll tell the lads to be extra careful not to kill her before we know if her blood be red or blue.”

Struck by a sudden inspiration, Jamie returned Gervaise’s smirk with a cold smile of his own. He turned to his man. “Sullivan!”

“Sir?”

“Drop the girl and fetch the priest.”

Used to his master’s sudden whims, Sullivan lowered his bundle carefully to the ground, and ran off to find Father Francis.

Sensing victory, the crowd pressed forward. “Fetch the dice!” someone shouted. “She’ll be ours now.”

They were stopped by a blur of blue steel.

“Back off, gentlemen, if you please, and give the future Lady Sinclair room to breath.”

“Here now! What nonsense is this?” the captain demanded.

“I say her blood is blue, Gervaise,” Jamie said dangerously. “I say she’s no rebel. I say she’s an heiress, who’s fallen, quite literally, in my lap. Why should I settle for ransom when I can have her money and her lands? I say… she’s going to be my wife.”

He laughed at the looks of stunned surprise all around him, feeling that curious rush of excitement and elation that gripped him before any risky endeavor, whether at court, at the card tables, or in the field. What would his acquaintances say if they knew he was about to marry a camp follower? They’d be horrified. Well… his mother had been a whore, his father a vicious drunk, and he sold his services to the highest bidder. The chit would be in good company; but he wagered there was none who’d dare molest—much less hang—his wife, and he should be able to come up with a plan to extricate himself once the danger was past.

Gervaise cocked his head to one side and regarded him carefully, wondering if he might be telling the truth. “A Scottish heiress, is she? And you’d steal her then? Right out from under your master’s nose? You’ve a set of balls on you, Sinclair, I’ll give you that.”

“Carpe diem, Gervaise. My father called me bastard and cut me from the teat. If I want a wife and lands, I must see to them myself. You’ll not credit it, gentlemen,” he said, raising his voice and playing to the crowd, “but handsome fellow that I am, none of the wenches will have me back home.”

The men broke into genuine laughter, without the dangerous edge that had greeted his earlier sally.

“I’ve nothing against a fellow trying to improve his lot, Sinclair, but lord or no, no man plays me for a fool. You will marry her. This very day, with all here to bear witness, or we’ll be taking her back to use as we please and you’d best not interfere.”

Father Francis joined them, huffing to catch his breath, mopping his brow, and sweating profusely despite the damp chill. He looked with annoyance at the woman lying unconscious on the ground, lifting his robe to step carefully around her before nodding to Gervaise and bowing before Jamie. “You wished to see me, my lord?”

“Yes, Father. I wish you to watch over my fiancé until we’re joined in wedded bliss.”

Father Francis blinked, confused. “I’m sorry, my lord. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Sinclair has found his true love at last, priest. Today. On the battlefield. Imagine that! You will marry them tonight,” Gervaise said acidly.

“Yes, Father. I’m quite overcome,” Jamie called over his shoulder as the men, intent on entertainment, pulled him away for an impromptu celebration. “Put her away somewhere until she’s needed, and let Sullivan tend to her, if you please!”

“Are you mad, man?” the priest shouted after him. “You can’t marry a camp follower! You’ll shame your family and bring ruin to your name!”

“I try my best, Father,” he shouted back to roars of laughter.

* * *

Several hours and few stiff drinks later, Jamie stumbled to his tent. It had been a near thing. Gervaise and he had been circling each other like wary wolves for months now, and one wrong move could have tipped the balance. He could have killed Gervaise and more than a few of his men and they both knew it, but then the rest would have torn him and Sullivan apart, and they both knew that, too.

He rubbed his temples and grimaced, bleary from exhaustion and alcohol. He might also have left her to her fate. What imp of nature had impelled him to risk everything—his and Sullivan’s life, the king’s favor, the heiress who waited back in England with the land and money to restore his fortune and his name—all for an ungrateful, mud-spattered, spitting doxy? Boredom, he decided with a weary sigh. Ah well. Those that do in haste repent at leisure, as Granny O’Sullivan was wont to say.

Sullivan was outside the tent, his customary look of censure etched upon his face.

“Step aside, man. I’ve a mind to steal a few moments’ sleep.”

“There’s no time for that I’m afraid, milord,” Sullivan said through pursed lips. “The priest wishes to see you—”

“Damn the priest!”

“Is this wedding to be a farce then, milord? They’ve taken the girl from him and are holding her in the center of camp. They’ve been drinking,” he added, eyeing Jamie up and down. “Shall I wake you from your nap once they’ve decided what to do with her? Or would you prefer I wait for morning?”

“You are insolent and impertinent, Sullivan!”

“Yes, milord.”

“Very well,” Jamie said with a sigh. “Where’s the priest?”

“I believe that’s him coming now, milord.”

“Good. Well… I’m off to fetch her then. Do what you can to tidy up. Find a bit of food—she’s bound to be hungry—and make damn sure you leave me something to drink!”

“Of course, milord,” Sullivan said with a bow and a click of his heels.

“Ah! Father Francis! Where’s the girl? Misplaced her, have you? Let’s go find her then, shall we?” Jamie gripped the priest by the shoulder and turned him around, pushing him toward the fire burning brightly in the center of camp.

“You can’t be serious, my lord! Surely, you don’t mean to go ahead with it now you’ve had time to think. She’s a Protestant whore, my son! Only think about what you’re doing. It’s not too late to change your mind. It’s my duty to remind you that—”

“Where’s your charity, Father? I’m going to marry the wench and save her soul! I’ll turn her into a good Catholic whore. That should please you. Now hurry along, if you please. We don’t want the festivities starting without us.”