Highland Heat (7 page)

Barely having slept the previous night, the men were all tired, and after sharing a bemused whiskey in the drawing room, they dispersed to their rooms.

Fraser entered after Duncan, closed the door behind himself, and blew out a breath, collapsing against it. His expression relaxed for the first time all night as Duncan lowered himself onto one of the beds with a sigh.

“Good God. What do ye make of it, Mackenzie?”

“I've no idea,” Duncan said truthfully. His head was swirling with it all—the odd order for the seven of them to return to London, the strange lodgings…Grace.

He had a feeling his life was about to change irrevocably.

Fraser pushed off from the door. “They must want something from us.”

“A secret mission?”

“Mayhap. The major
is
a war hero.”

Duncan nodded. “Did it ever occur to you that they're all from the upper classes? All of them—the major, Stirling, McLeod, and Lieutenants Ross and Innes—have a link to the aristocracy.”

“Aye,” Fraser breathed, “you're right. The major is a baronet. Stirling and Ross are knights. McLeod is the son of the Earl of Sutton. Lieutenant Innes…?” His voice dropped off in question.

“His uncle is the Marquess of Lochleid.”

“Damn. Never knew the 92nd was so plump with the upper orders.”

“I never thought about it,” Duncan admitted, “until I began to question why they were put together for this mission.”

“So,” Fraser said slowly, “they're all aristocrats.”

“All but us.”

“Aye, but the major chose us. Wellington chose the officers.”

Duncan nodded.

“What can it mean?”

“God only knows.”

“And Wellington,” Fraser said.

“
And
the War Office.”

Fraser chuckled. Bailey had said that they'd been summoned to the War Office, where they'd be given their orders. “I suppose we'll be finding out tomorrow.”

“Suppose so.” Duncan took off his coat, then his boots and hose before lying back on the bed. It was so soft, his body seemed to melt into the mattress. “Hell. I'm no' sure if I'll be able to sleep.”

“Anticipating tomorrow?”

“That and this damn bed. I'm no' used to sleepin' like the King o' England. Mayhap I ought to sleep on the floor.”

Fraser laughed.

And that was the last thing Duncan remembered, because he fell into a sleep so deep, the next thing he knew was that he was opening his eyes to a bright, sunny morning.

Grace awoke to sunlight streaming in through her bedroom windows and a soft knock on her door.

She yawned. In a way, it was lovely to be home and in her own familiar, comfortable bed. In another way, it felt like she had opened the door wide open into a brand-new, exciting world, but had retreated once more and the door had been slammed shut behind her.

“My lady?”

It was Mary, come to see to her morning routine. Usually Grace was wide-awake by the time her maid came to her room, reading or working on her correspondence to friends and relatives. “Come in.”

Mary opened the door but then stopped short on the threshold, her narrow face twisted in an expression of alarm. “Oh, dear, my lady. Is it too early? I can return—”

“No, no, of course not.” She rose to a seated position. “What time is it?”

“Ten o'clock.” Mary bustled in and opened the wardrobe door, then quickly withdrew an armful of clean undergarments.

“Goodness.” Grace hadn't slept so late since she'd come down with a fever last year.

“Will this dress do, my lady?” Mary held out a white muslin day dress.

“Will there be any visitors today?”

“No visits have been scheduled, but the earl would like to see you before he leaves.”

Grace nodded. Her father hadn't been home when she arrived last night. His parliamentary duties had consumed him for the past several months—thanks to Bonaparte. Hopefully Parliament would recess soon and the pressures that weighed heavily on his shoulders would lessen. “Then that dress will be fine. Did my father want to see me before luncheon?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Very well. We should hurry, then. I don't want to keep him.”

This was similar to the conversation she had with Mary a thousand other mornings, and Grace knew without a doubt that she'd been thrust back into the regular pattern of her days. She didn't know why that made her heart pang with a touch of sadness. She'd been content with her life before the brief visit to the Continent.

An image of Duncan Mackenzie flashed through her mind, and she hesitated, closing her eyes and pushing it away. She was not one to dwell on what could not be. She was not one to feel self-pity. She was a woman who embraced her lot in life, and who was thankful for everything she had. A high position in society that demanded respect. The opportunity to use her position for good. A father who loved her—even if he had a difficult time expressing that love sometimes. A sister who was a friend and confidante, who understood her down to her marrow.

Those thoughts strengthened her, and she rose and, with Mary's help, dressed and fixed her hair before going downstairs to meet with her father.

She found him in his study with a pile of papers spread out before him. As she entered, he glanced up, removed his spectacles, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, then combed his hand through his thinning blond hair.

Grace and Claire had both inherited their father's fair hair and blue eyes. Except for their bone structure and Claire's diminutive height, neither resembled their mother, who'd been a dark-haired beauty. Grace had—much to her chagrin—inherited the lanky height of their father.

Grace and Claire's mother had died when Grace was fifteen, and since then, her father had turned to Grace to run the household. Grace had taken up those reins willingly, knowing her flighty fourteen-year-old sister wasn't up to the task at the time, and her father, as much as he tried to hide it, was near to collapsing with grief over the loss of his wife.

“Sit down, daughter.” There was no gushing hug from him—there never had been. He hid his affection for her—which Grace knew was great indeed—under a stern veneer.

“Yes, Papa.” She took the seat across the desk from him.

“I hear your sister has chosen to remain with her husband?”

“Yes. They were given a house in Westminster for the time being.”

“With other soldiers?”

“Yes.”

The earl ground his teeth. “I dislike the idea of my daughter among a group of rough army men.”

“Don't worry, Papa. The men were handpicked by the Duke of Wellington himself.” Except for the two sergeants, Duncan included, but she didn't bother with that little detail.

Her father made a disapproving noise.

“In any case,” Grace continued, “the major would never allow anything bad to happen to her.”

The earl gave her a disbelieving look, and his lips twisted. “Is that so?”

Grace winced and looked away. Her father's skepticism came from a place of deep concern—the earl had been witness to Claire's unhappiness over the past year, and like Grace, he blamed the major. “Claire is happier than I've seen her for a long time,” she hedged.

“I don't trust him,” the earl snapped. “She's tenderhearted. He has never understood that.”

Grace nodded, then said something that surprised even her. “I think we must give him one more chance. Claire wants so badly for her marriage to work.”

The only emotion her father showed was in the slightest arch of his brows. “Very well.” The topic dismissed, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Did you witness the battle?”

“No, Papa. We arrived the morning after.” Her mouth went dry at the memory of casting her eyes on the battlefield that first time. She'd have nightmares about that scene for the rest of her life. “Claire found the major unconscious on the battlefield.”

“Did she?” Her father pursed his lips. “Injuries?”

“He suffered a bad blow to his head, but he is recovering quickly.”

“I must say, I was surprised to hear he had returned with the two of you.”

Grace nodded. “I think everyone is surprised.”

“Do you know why he was ordered back to London?”

“I've no idea. Nor does the major himself. I believe he and his men are going to receive their orders today.”

“I see.” Her father paused, the edges of his mouth tight, his eyes serious. It was the earl's usual expression. Watching Claire's misery last year had caused him terrible grief, but it was so subtle that someone with an untrained eye would never have seen it—thinner lips, tighter shoulders, anger that flashed across his face lightning fast whenever the major was mentioned. It was in subtle clues like these that Grace had learned to understand her father over the course of so many years.

“I trust you are recovered from your travels?” he asked her.

“Yes, of course.”

He studied her for a moment, then nodded in agreement.

“I am glad you've recovered,” her father said, “because Parliament will be recessing in four weeks' time. I need you to contact the servants at Norsey House and let them know we will be arriving in late July or early August and to have the house ready. I'll need you to supervise the closing of this house for the remainder of summer—please work with Mrs. Fitch to ensure that all proceeds smoothly with our transition to the country.”

Mrs. Fitch was their very competent housekeeper, and Grace had worked alongside her for years. She nodded, storing all this information inside her head. “Of course, Papa. Do we know the exact date we'll be leaving?”

“Not yet. And keep me apprised of the situation with Claire and the Scot. I trust you—more than I trust him—to keep her safe.”

“I won't let anything happen to her,” Grace vowed.

Her father cleared his throat. “Yes, well.” He leaned forward and began sifting through the documents on his desk. “I would like to have a dinner party on the twentieth of July.” He handed her a sheet of paper with a dozen or so names scrawled upon it in his heavy hand. “Here is the list of invitees. I'll count on you to arrange everything. Cook served a fine pineapple ice last summer—please ensure she has the proper ingredients to serve it that evening.”

“Yes, Papa.”

Her father continued, “The Duke of Dunsberg has been pestering me to have a house party at Norsey House this year, and I have conceded. I should like it to start after the twelfth of August, so that one of our entertainments may be grouse hunting. Here's a list of the people we shall invite.” He handed her another sheet of stationery. “I'll leave the other entertainments and details in your capable hands.”

She nodded and took the second sheet of names from him.

The earl looked up at her, a rare softness in his expression. “Your presence was missed this past week. I can always depend on you to manage the household smoothly and efficiently. I'm glad to have you home, daughter.”

And thus, Lady Grace Carrington was thrust back into her life.

Duncan sat back in the upholstered chair, cradling his whiskey in his palms. It had been a hell of a day, and he'd wanted to remain clearheaded this evening while the men had talked.

Earlier today, a man named Adams had offered the seven men from the 92nd a new life free from the army forever. The soldiers had returned to the townhouse and spent the evening in this drawing room, discussing, arguing, deciding their futures.

But now it was one o'clock in the morning, and it was finally over. The decision had been made, and Duncan could get as drunk as he liked.

Captain McLeod—or just McLeod now, Duncan supposed—sat across from him, sprawled out on a velvet-covered settee. The rest of the men had gone to bed, all of them exhausted after the day's events.

Duncan swallowed the last of the whiskey. As he stood to refill his glass, McLeod flung his arm toward him, holding out his own glass. “Get me another, will ye, Mackenzie?”

“Aye, sir.”

McLeod snorted. “Did ye no' hear? I'm no' a
sir
to you anymore.”

“ 'Course you are, sir.”

With a belabored sigh, McLeod sat up. “I'm no' your captain.”

He was right. Tomorrow, they'd be discharged from the army. Then they'd pledge their loyalty to the monarchy and officially form the Highland Knights. From now on, their sole duty would be to work at home in the interests and protection of the Crown.

Duncan unstoppered the whiskey bottle and began to pour. “Aye, but you're still my better. I havena forgotten that.”

He turned back to McLeod, a full glass in each hand, to find the man glowering at him. “You're saying that because my da is the Earl of Sutton and I am his heir?”

“Aye, of course.” Duncan kept his voice mild, not understanding why McLeod seemed so perturbed about this.

“Bloody hell,” McLeod spat. “Ye'll be needin' to forget that fact, Mackenzie.”

“Why?” Duncan handed him his glass.

“I hate being affiliated with that man and that title. I wish I could scrub it off my skin like the layer of dirt it is.”

Duncan sank back into his chair, eyeing McLeod warily.

McLeod huffed out a breath, then he seemed to deflate a bit. “Listen, now that we're no longer in the army, we're equals. That's all there is to it. The only loyalties I have are to the monarchy, my sister, and my brothers.”

Duncan was confused, and it must have shown on his face, because McLeod continued, “My sister is younger than me and, through no fault of her own, has led a difficult life. She and I”—his face darkened as surely as a thundercloud—“we dinna feel much love toward our father.” McLeod took a deep swallow of whiskey.

Duncan nodded. “And your brothers?”

McLeod grinned. “Aye—that'll be you, Mackenzie. And Fraser, Ross, Innes, Stirling, and the major. All of ye. We are the brotherhood of the Highland Knights. And we will be part of that brotherhood from now till we meet our ends. That's the commitment we made this night.”

Duncan nodded slowly. “Aye,” he agreed, realizing that while his six sisters were still part of his family, he now had six brothers as well.

“So that's why you'll no' be callin' me sir,” McLeod said. “We're equals, Mackenzie. I dinna want you to forget it.”

Duncan closed his eyes and tilted his head on the chair back until he was gazing at the ceiling. It wasn't so easy to just eschew a man's position and title and consider him an equal. Duncan would need to adjust his thinking.

“Anyhow, you ken you're no longer just a sheep farmer, aye?” McLeod said.

Aye, it was true.

“You'll be welcomed in ballrooms of the royals as much as you'll be skulking in the alleys in this line of work.”

Duncan lowered his chin, raising a skeptical brow. “Do ye think so?”

“Oh, aye. 'Tis the rich and powerful who can be the most dangerous to the monarchy. And our responsibility is to find them and root them out.”

Duncan swallowed the rest of his whiskey. Images of the Highland moors flickered across his mind, followed by images of marching with his fellow soldiers.

He was neither a farmer nor a soldier now.

He was a Highland Knight.