Saving the Scot Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more Amara titles… A Protector in the Highlands

  A Lord for the Lass

  How to Train Your Baron

  The Devilish Duke

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Jennifer Trethewey. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  [email protected]

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Erin Molta

  Cover design by Yellow Prelude Design, LLC

  Cover photography by Shutterstock and Deposit Images

  ISBN 978-1-64063-776-4

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition March 2019

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

  xoxo

  Liz Pelletier, Publisher

  This book is dedicated to all the rescuers, the men and women and animals who put their lives on the line daily to save others. To the soldiers, fire fighters, police, EMTs, nurses, doctors, rangers, coast guards, disaster relief workers, rescue dogs, wildland firefighters, ski patrol, and more, I dedicate this book to your bravery and sacrifice. And to the people with no training or super strength who see someone in trouble and step in without reservation to help—thank you for your courage. It gives us all hope for humanity. None of these people would call themselves heroes, but they are. And to some, they are guardian angels.

  Prologue

  March 1822, Edinburgh

  Louisa Robertson didn’t think anything was more thrilling than wearing men’s trousers, with the possible exception of wearing men’s trousers on stage. One had the sensation of being altogether naked. It was the most freeing thing she’d ever done.

  It was also the wickedest thing she’d ever done. Wicked and dangerous. If her tyrannical father, General Robertson, discovered what she’d been doing while he was away, he would put a swift end to her assignation with the stage, for that was what she believed her relationship with the theater to be—a love affair. And this evening she would consummate that love affair by playing the role of Viola—a young girl who disguises herself as a boy—in her favorite Shakespeare play, Twelfth Night.

  Louisa stepped into the wings and inched closer to the stage. From there she could peer out and spy on the audience. As the stage manager, Ronald, had said, the house was full this evening.

  “Stand by for your entrance, lass,” Ronald whispered.

  Louisa nodded and made a last-minute adjustment to her trousers. They had a habit of riding up her bottom.

  “Ye ken your lines?” he asked.

  “Oh, aye.” A tremor of nerves fluttered up from her belly. She shook out her hands and slowed her breathing. For weeks, she’d lingered around the theater, performing odd jobs whenever she could, and her persistence had paid off. Two nights ago, without notice, the actress playing Viola had left the tiny Edinburgh theater for a better part in London, causing the biggest stramash Louisa had ever seen—costumers swooned, stagehands wept, and managers vomited. Louisa went straight to the director and told him she knew all Viola’s lines and as she and the actress were of a size, she could fit into her costumes, as well. Out of desperation, he had agreed to let her stand in for the actress until they found another.

  “If you lose your place,” the stage manager said, “Sam’s in the pit wi’ the book.”

  “I ken it,” she whispered back. He was beginning to make her nervous.

  Her previous scenes had gone well this evening. The audience was laughing uproariously at the actor playing Malvolio who was, as the other actors knew, in love with his own performance. His tendency to languish in laughter only added to her nerves. Would he never finish?

  At last, Malvolio exited, nearly knocking her over on his way through the wings, uttering a terse, “Have a care, lass.”

  Ronald poked her in the side. “Right, then. Here comes your cue.”

  From on stage, the actress playing Olivia announced, “Give me my veil: come, throw it o’er my face. We’ll once more hear Orsino’s embassy.”

  Louisa strode into the scene imitating the swagger her brothers would use and spoke in a tenor voice. “The honorable lady of the house, which is she?”

  “Speak to me: I shall answer for her. Your will?” Olivia craned her head to the side, as if trying to see something behind Louisa, which was odd. Olivia had never done that before.

  Nevertheless, Louisa declared Viola’s lines in her young man’s voice. “Most radiant, exquisite and unmatchable beauty, I pray you”—Louisa hesitated for a moment. Behind her, there was some disturbance in the audience and she was tempted for a half second to look out and see what it was, but she picked up her line and went on—“tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I would loath to cast away my speech, for besides that it is excellently well penned…” There was definitely something amiss. A few men shouted for someone to sit down, and a lady expressed her indignation. Olivia and her attendants shuffled away from Louisa as far upstage as the scenery would allow.

  Louisa turned gradually toward the audience on her line. “I…have…taken…great…pains…”

  A large red-faced uniformed officer of the Royal Highland Regiment stormed up onto the stage.

  Louisa stiffened. “Hallo, Da,” she said in her little-girl voice. “What are you doing here?”

  General Sir Thomas Robertson wrapped an iron arm around Louisa’s waist, hoisted her onto his shoulder like a sack of grain, and marched out of the theater to riotous laughter and applause.

  Humiliating.

  What was her father doing in Edinburgh? He was supposed to be in Ireland. And how had he known where to find her? By all God’s glory, if her doaty maid, Mairi, had been the one to tell, she would sit on that girl. Bonnets. The costume mistress would be in a right state if she failed to return her trousers.

  Outside the theater, the general tossed her into a waiting carriage. She scooted into the corner and made herself as small as possible. A mass of kilted muscle and fury launched himself inside, slammed the door, and banged on the roof for the driver to go. She remained perfectly still on the bumpy, jangling carriage ride. Any minor movement might further incur his wrath. They didn’t refer to her father as the Tartan Terror for nothing.

  The general did not say a word all the way from Grass Market to
their town house on George Street. He wouldn’t even look at her. The silence was worse than shouting. She could bear the shouting. What she couldn’t bear was the look on his face. She had shamed him. She hadn’t meant to. Louisa only wanted the same freedoms her older brothers enjoyed but that she was most unfairly denied.

  A sickly feeling gnawed at her bowels. The last time she’d provoked the general with “behavior unbecoming a lady” he had leveled a disturbing threat. Would he remember that warning? Worse, would he follow through?

  Once inside the house, he rumbled an ominous, “Go upstairs and change into decent attire. I will speak to you in the parlor.”

  Her young maid waited at the top of the stairs wide-eyed. “I’m sorry, I am. Truly.” She wrung her hands in her apron. “The general come home in a rage. You ken he can be a right fright when he’s got his blood up. Your brother tellt him aboot the acting and…” Mairi deflated. “I tellt him the rest.”

  Mairi’s eyes were puffy. She’d obviously been weeping. At the sight of her overwrought maid, Louisa’s anger melted into despair. She hadn’t been any less afraid of the tyrant. How could she fault Mairi? “It’s all right. I’m no’ angry. Could you help me change?”

  A half hour later, Louisa entered the parlor wearing a subdued gown of gray muslin and with her hair wound into a missish braid. The general stood by the fire with a whisky in hand. His coloring had returned to normal.

  “You wanted to speak to me, Da.”

  He turned and stared at her as if he’d never seen her before. It had been months since he was home last, for Hogmanay. It was mid-March now. He looked as dashing as ever in his uniform and despite her apprehension, she was glad to have him home even for a little while. Unable to stomach her father’s disapproval, she let her gaze drop to the delicate painted china figurine of a French courtesan. It had been her mother’s.

  She reached for the figurine, but flinched when her father shouted at her.

  “Disgraceful,” he bellowed. “If one of my men had done anything half so reprehensible they’d be pilloried for a week.” He tossed the rest of his whisky down, set the glass on the mantel, and began to pace in front of the fire, head lowered, hands behind his back. He paused. “I blame myself. I thought after your mam passed, your granny would take you in hand. Instead, she let you run wild like some savage. Do you ken what they call you when my back is turned? The General’s Daughter from Hell.” Father looked up at heaven as if appealing for some divine power to intervene. “Daughter from Hell. That makes Tartan Terror sound like a crabbit spaniel.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “What in damnation were you doing on that stage?”

  Had he watched her? Hope gave her heart a squeeze and she gasped. “Oh, Da. Did you see me? Did you like it?”

  He went red in the face again and shouted, “Do you suppose I like seeing my daughter on stage in trousers!”

  Is it me being on the stage that dismays him or the trousers? “Da, please sit down. You’re making yourself sick.”

  “I’ll tell you what makes me sick. What makes me sick is your willful disobedience. Your undisciplined character. Your intractable temper. And since you cannae control yourself, it is left to me to save you from what will surely be your ruination.”

  Her heart lurched. “No, Da. I’m sorry.”

  “You mind what I told you the last time.”

  “Please, Da. Please dinnae do it.” Tears sprouted from the corners of her eyes.

  “I will not be moved.”

  “I promise, I’ll never—”

  “Aye. That’s what you promised last time you disappointed me, and the time before that, and the time before that. You broke your promise every time.”

  She needed air. She was suffocating and the room had started to spin. “I willnae…you cannae. You cannae make me.”

  “Yes, I can. You, Louisa Robertson, Daughter from Hell, will be married by the end of summer.”

  Chapter One

  May 1822, Leith Docks, Edinburgh

  Ian Sinclair untied the knot in his neckcloth and began retying it again. It had to be perfect. Everything had to be perfect today.

  He called to his quartermaster. “Mr. Peter!”

  Peter appeared at his cabin door instantly. He must have been hovering again. “Aye, Captain.”

  “Are the passengers ashore?”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “The cargo?” he asked, his chin lifted while he worked at the cloth.

  “Unloading as we speak, sir.”

  “Supplies?” He still couldn’t get the bloody knot right.

  “Cook’s gone ashore with the list.”

  “And the topsail—”

  “Topsail’s being mended, masts are oiled, and the guns are cleaned.”

  “And the—”

  “Everything’s done, Captain.”

  “To hell with this blasted thing.” It was hopeless. He tore at his neckcloth again. “Bloody, buggering bastard.”

  “Want some help with that, Captain?”

  Ian dropped his hands and barked, “Peter, you’re not my damned valet.”

  Peter smiled at his outburst. “Aye, but I tie a handsome neckcloth.” He stepped forward and, in no time, took control of the situation.

  Ian endured Peter’s attention while he listened to the familiar sounds of the crew, their conversation relaxed now that they had made Leith Docks.

  Peter finished and stepped back to inspect his work. “There now. You look smart.”

  He admired the knot in his glass and somehow it irritated him that Peter had done it so effortlessly. “Thanks.”

  Peter held out his best wool coat, tailored to a nicety, brushed clean, and buttons polished. “Sure you don’t want to wear your uniform?”

  “Too presumptuous,” Ian said, slipping the coat over his gray waistcoat and starched white shirt. “I havenae been offered the commission, as yet.”

  “What else could General Robertson want to speak to you about?”

  What else, indeed. Ian wanted that commission, more than he liked to admit. He needed to be back in the army—needed the order, the discipline. He was a soldier and soldiering was what he did best.

  “Did you send word ahead?” Ian asked.

  “Aye, Captain. They’ll be expecting you.” Peter smiled that knowing smile of his.

  “I’m not nervous,” he growled.

  Peter shrugged. “Didnae say you were.”

  He closed his eyes and breathed in, taking that moment to gather himself, master his nerves. Nothing rattled Ian Michael Sinclair, former Captain of the 42nd Royal Highlanders of Foot and second son of Laird John Sinclair.

  “Ask Murphy to find me a hack. I need to be at Edinburgh Castle by the noon hour.”

  “Aye, sir.” Peter dashed off.

  Ian took another look in the glass. Outwardly, he looked ready, but was he mentally prepared for this meeting? He’d been summoned by his former superior officer, Lieutenant Robertson, now General Sir Thomas Robertson, having earned the rank and the knighthood for his valor at Waterloo. Robertson was known informally to some as the Tartan Terror. He had acquired the name in Flanders for his ferocity. It was used by his men out of respect and admiration. Ian owed the general more than his respect. The man had saved his life at Quatre Bras seven years ago. Robertson had carried him off the field to a dressing station, alive and in one piece, but for the gaping saber gash on his thigh. For that, Ian owed him his service and whatever else the general asked of him.

  “Right then,” he said to his reflection. “To Castle Rock.”

  An hour later, Ian and Peter strode across the esplanade to Edinburgh Castle and were waved through the gatehouse. A guardsman met them at the portcullis and escorted them to the Governor’s House where they were hustled inside and asked to wait in a dimly lit hall until they were called.

  “I hear they’ll let you see the Honors of Scotland for a shilling,” Peter whispered.

  “The crown and scepter, ye mean?”


  “Aye, and the sword. I’d like to see the sword.” Peter glanced around as though he might spot the object nearby.

  “Maybe. We’ll see.” Raised voices somewhere in the building distracted Ian. The argument spilled into the corridor and a group of six men trying to outshout each other trailed behind a harried-looking General Robertson clad in red uniform jacket and tartan trews. At the door to his office, the general rounded on his assailants bellowing, “Enough. No more of this until tomorrow.” He turned to Ian and ordered a curt, “Sinclair. Inside.”

  Ian followed the general into his office leaving Peter in the hallway, defenseless. Hopefully, the general’s assailants weren’t after blood.

  The general looked a few pounds heavier and many years older than the mere seven years that had passed since their last acquaintance. He collapsed into his chair, put his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands. Ian waited patiently at attention because he didn’t know how else to stand before the man. At last, the general sighed and raised his head, his eyes red with fatigue.

  “It’s a bloody nightmare, Sinclair.”

  “Is it war, then, sir?”

  “Worse. His Majesty King George IV is visiting Edinburgh, the first time a monarch has set foot on Scottish soil in nearly two hundred years, and all of Scotland has gone mad.” He added bitterly, “The King claims blood ties to Stuart and suddenly everyone’s a Jacobite.” He pointed to the door. “Those sharks you saw out there, MacDonell and Glengarry? They’re threatening a clan war over who takes precedence in the plaided pageantry nonsense.” The general raked a hand through his snow-white hair. “On top of that, the King has ordered his Highland regalia from his tailors, therefore, all peers of Scotland attending the King’s Grand Ball must appear in traditional Highland costume.” He laughed to himself and his voice pitched higher. “The only thing comical about the debacle is watching the lowlanders desperately search for their Highland ancestry and a suitable tartan.”

  “Is there something I can do to help, sir?” Something like a commission, perhaps? A regiment to lead? A garrison to command?

  The general regarded him for an uncomfortably long time, then pointed. “Have a seat, Sinclair.”