Highland Tides by Anna Markland Page B

of my own, I have no experience bringing up young women.”
    Charlotte had long believed her handsome uncle would make a wonderful father. “One day you’ll marry, Uncle, and—”
    His glower silenced her. “We are not discussing my future. It’s yours that’s at stake here, miss. You’ve spent time in this man’s chamber with only servants present.”
    For the first time it struck Charlotte that she’d allowed the persona of Charles Tobias to influence her better judgement. She wasn’t a man, only masquerading as one with her nom de plume . “Actually,” she whimpered, “there were no servants for most of the morning.”
    He leapt to his feet, buttoning his uniform. “I’ll have him arrested.”
    “No,” she shrieked. “He’s done nothing wrong. I am solely to blame, and he was a perfect gentleman. Please, allow me to bring him to luncheon. You’ll see.”
    He narrowed his eyes. “Gentleman or no, you’ve saddled yourself with him now, my lass. Your mother must be turning over in her grave.”
    Charlotte wasn’t sure what he meant. Her clandestine publishing endeavors were more likely to cause her mother’s outrage beyond the pall. “Do I have your permission to bring him?”
    He looked bleak. “Yes, but take that blasted wig off my desk, and do something with your hair before you appear in the Dining Hall.”

LUNCHEON

    Braden paced the small chamber, fearing he was drowning again. He’d always had an eye for the lasses, and courted more than a few, but he’d never been swept away by need of a female before. He’d travelled three hundred years to meet a woman who fired his blood like no other. Charlotte had been gone less than an hour and already he craved her return.
    He was afraid once the Duke got wind of his presence and what had transpired after his release, she’d never be allowed to see him again. The notion filled him with desolation, perhaps because she was the only person he could depend on in this century.
    Nay, if he’d got the measure of Charlotte, she was too feisty to allow her uncle to dominate her, though mayhap she’d have no choice. He wondered what had become of her parents.
    He went to the garderobe and inspected his appearance in the mirror in case the Duke allowed him to attend the midday meal. Luncheon she’d called it.  
    The red woollen doublet suited him and looked mighty fine with the frilled shirt. He was getting used to the trews, especially once he’d figured out the braies were meant to be worn beneath them. He chuckled. His bollocks nestled nicely in the silky material. The boots were certainly more comfortable than anything he’d ever worn.
    Now if his hair would grow he’d look less like a new hatchling.
    He hurried back into the chamber when he heard the door open. Resolved to tell Charlotte of his attraction to her, he stopped abruptly. She’d coiled her hair back into the tight round thing atop her head and changed her clothes. Her spine was rigid, her mouth drawn. He sensed her tension, perhaps because she wasn’t alone. Simone accompanied her.
    Disappointment flooded him. Had she come to say goodbye? He attempted a smile. “Lady Charlotte.”
    “Mister Ogilvie,” she replied stiffly, reaching for something the maid held in her hands. “We’ve brought a bonnet for you to wear to the luncheon.”
    Relief surged through his veins. The Duke had given permission, but that didn’t mean he was pleased. Charlotte’s demeanor seemed to suggest she was upset. And the bonnet! Braden had expected a simple woolly tam.
    At Simone’s urging he sat on the edge of the bed while she perched the stiff blue hat on his head. “ Voilà ,” she exclaimed. “Very ‘andsome .”
    Charlotte shooed her away. “You do look rather splendid,” she cooed, fluttering her eyelashes in an uncharacteristic manner.
    She’s jealous of the maid.
    A spark of hope kindled in more than just his heart. “Am I to be allowed to accompany ye?”
    “Aye,” she murmured.