Read Online Highland Tides by Anna Markland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anna Markland
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modest, John. Your actions cost the Jacobites dearly and probably led to their defeat at Culloden.”
Augusta pouted, fluttering her eyelashes at Reade. “I’m bored with this talk of Culloden. We never speak of anything else.”
While Braden appreciated war wasn’t a topic of interest to women, there was a question burning at the back of his mind. “I hope ye dinna mind me asking,” he said. “Ye are a Robertson, and most of the clan fought for the Jacobites yet ye fought on the government side.”
Reade narrowed his eyes and dug a finger into the cloth wound around his neck. Braden had learned they were called stocks. He got a feeling from the man’s reddening face it wasn’t the first time he’d been asked the same question.
“A man has to follow his conscience,” John replied. “I’m a Protestant and didn’t want a Papist king ruling my country. Charles Stuart is a dissolute young man who wouldn’t have made a good king.”
Charlotte eyed Braden with a look of warning, but he seized the opportunity. “I suppose the regicides who did away with James Stewart thought he wasna a good king at the time.”
John Reade loosened his neckcloth further. Braden wondered why men wore such a thing that seemed to make their faces rounder and redder than was natural. “You evidently have a keen interest in the history of that time.”
Charlotte cleared her throat. “He does, my lord John. He’s particularly interested in an ancestor who might have been involved.”
He arched a brow. “Indeed. What’s the fellow’s name?”
Braden swallowed hard. “’Tis a woman. Margaret Ogilvie.”
John hesitated, then a bright smile lit his face as he leaned forward. “Margaret! Are ye kin to those Ogilvies?”
Mayhap he is a Scot.
Braden’s heart was beating too fast. “Aye,” he rasped.
Their guest raised his wineglass. “We must be distantly related, young man. Margaret was my four or five times removed great-grandmother.”
~~~
Charlotte gasped. “A direct ancestor,” she exclaimed, rejoicing at the amazement evident on Braden’s face.
Augusta yawned ostentatiously. “The next course is taking too long to arrive,” she complained.
No one paid her any attention. Charlotte hoped her wig looked more elegant than her sister’s tottering beehive.
Braden had been understandably taken aback at John Reade’s revelation, but he recovered quickly. “I take it then she didna wed Robert Stewart.”
John took a gulp of his wine, obviously enjoying this unexpected turn of events. “Nay, laddie. She married Rheade Robertson, who became chief after the capture of the regicides. I changed my name in his honor.”
Charlotte noticed his Scots brogue had become more pronounced. She had a feeling they wouldn’t be able to stop him recounting the whole story if they tried. “Can you tell us the tale?” she prompted.
Braden drummed his fingers on the table, looking impatient. “I ken Rheade and Logan captured the Stewarts and Tannoch lost an arm in the pursuit of Robert Graham, but I didna ken my sis—Margaret—married Rheade.”
Charlotte crossed her fingers under the tablecloth. If Braden blurted out the truth it would ruin everything.
The truth?
Aye, she believed him now. Either he’d completely lost his wits, which she knew wasn’t true, or the interplay of shock, excitement, and delight on his face spoke of his genuine relief his sister hadn’t suffered a horrendous death.
Here was a story indeed.
Step aside, Pilgrim Peter.
Augusta clapped her hands in glee when the venison was served.
“Venison,” Braden exclaimed, inhaling the aroma of the meat as it was served on his plate. “’Tis many a year since—”
He stopped abruptly when the Duke coughed loudly. “I beg yer pardon. Please continue. I must hear the rest of the story.”
As John recounted the history of his ancestors Charlotte lamented not being able to take notes. She’d have to remember the details he provided.
Augusta pouted, fluttering her eyelashes at Reade. “I’m bored with this talk of Culloden. We never speak of anything else.”
While Braden appreciated war wasn’t a topic of interest to women, there was a question burning at the back of his mind. “I hope ye dinna mind me asking,” he said. “Ye are a Robertson, and most of the clan fought for the Jacobites yet ye fought on the government side.”
Reade narrowed his eyes and dug a finger into the cloth wound around his neck. Braden had learned they were called stocks. He got a feeling from the man’s reddening face it wasn’t the first time he’d been asked the same question.
“A man has to follow his conscience,” John replied. “I’m a Protestant and didn’t want a Papist king ruling my country. Charles Stuart is a dissolute young man who wouldn’t have made a good king.”
Charlotte eyed Braden with a look of warning, but he seized the opportunity. “I suppose the regicides who did away with James Stewart thought he wasna a good king at the time.”
John Reade loosened his neckcloth further. Braden wondered why men wore such a thing that seemed to make their faces rounder and redder than was natural. “You evidently have a keen interest in the history of that time.”
Charlotte cleared her throat. “He does, my lord John. He’s particularly interested in an ancestor who might have been involved.”
He arched a brow. “Indeed. What’s the fellow’s name?”
Braden swallowed hard. “’Tis a woman. Margaret Ogilvie.”
John hesitated, then a bright smile lit his face as he leaned forward. “Margaret! Are ye kin to those Ogilvies?”
Mayhap he is a Scot.
Braden’s heart was beating too fast. “Aye,” he rasped.
Their guest raised his wineglass. “We must be distantly related, young man. Margaret was my four or five times removed great-grandmother.”
~~~
Charlotte gasped. “A direct ancestor,” she exclaimed, rejoicing at the amazement evident on Braden’s face.
Augusta yawned ostentatiously. “The next course is taking too long to arrive,” she complained.
No one paid her any attention. Charlotte hoped her wig looked more elegant than her sister’s tottering beehive.
Braden had been understandably taken aback at John Reade’s revelation, but he recovered quickly. “I take it then she didna wed Robert Stewart.”
John took a gulp of his wine, obviously enjoying this unexpected turn of events. “Nay, laddie. She married Rheade Robertson, who became chief after the capture of the regicides. I changed my name in his honor.”
Charlotte noticed his Scots brogue had become more pronounced. She had a feeling they wouldn’t be able to stop him recounting the whole story if they tried. “Can you tell us the tale?” she prompted.
Braden drummed his fingers on the table, looking impatient. “I ken Rheade and Logan captured the Stewarts and Tannoch lost an arm in the pursuit of Robert Graham, but I didna ken my sis—Margaret—married Rheade.”
Charlotte crossed her fingers under the tablecloth. If Braden blurted out the truth it would ruin everything.
The truth?
Aye, she believed him now. Either he’d completely lost his wits, which she knew wasn’t true, or the interplay of shock, excitement, and delight on his face spoke of his genuine relief his sister hadn’t suffered a horrendous death.
Here was a story indeed.
Step aside, Pilgrim Peter.
Augusta clapped her hands in glee when the venison was served.
“Venison,” Braden exclaimed, inhaling the aroma of the meat as it was served on his plate. “’Tis many a year since—”
He stopped abruptly when the Duke coughed loudly. “I beg yer pardon. Please continue. I must hear the rest of the story.”
As John recounted the history of his ancestors Charlotte lamented not being able to take notes. She’d have to remember the details he provided.
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