Page 7 of Keeping Kate
Chapter 2
Kate paused, her heart sinking a little as she faced the tent flaps. Did Captain Fraser remember seeing her in London?
He needed only a small leap of reason to realize that a Scotswoman who he had seen at the royal court in London, who then appeared dressed as a Highland servant in a governmental officer’s tent, must bel’intriguanteKatie Hell, the spy wanted by the military. If he stopped her and asked Lieutenant Heron or Colonel Grant to identify her, her ruse would be over—and she and her kinsmen would be in grave danger.
“Miss,” Fraser said firmly. “Come here, please.”
She did not turn, knowing she could not allow him to recognize her as the lady from St. James’s Palace. She would have to rely on her supposed ignorance of English.
“Oiche mhar,”she murmured. Good night, and may it please be so, she thought.
Entering the tent earlier, she had realized with a shock that the captain was the Highland swordsman from St. James’s Palace, and the other officer was a young lieutenant she had encountered weeks ago. Luckily, neither man had paid much attention to her as she moved cautiously around the tent. For the last couple of weeks, she had come and gone in the camp freely, taking and delivering laundry, then bringing it to a local woman who did the actual work for the officers. And now and then, she found and brought out papers that were of interest to her kinsmen.
She moved toward the tent flaps, heart quickening in dread—and foolishness, too, for she had daydreamed of meeting the Highland swordsman again. She had learned, weeks ago, that he was a Fraser from a family of tea and cocoa importers, a younger son with an officer’s commission, common enough for sons of wealthy merchant families. Though certain she would never see him again, she had wished to see him just once more, to watch his skillful swordsmanship, to speak to him. And she had acquired, as well, a bit of a passion for Fraser chocolate. It was excellent, after all.
But she had not thought to encounter him here, in the Highlands, when he had been in London. Now the subject of her little infatuation could have her arrested. Had he asked about her in London, as she had done of him? Had he learned her name?
“Miss,” he repeated.
“Eh?” She half-turned, hand on the tent flap. Her knees began to tremble.
Tonight she had taken a great risk in coming here once more to search for some vital documents for her Jacobite kinsmen. They had heard that a newly arrived captain possessed lists of recently arrested Highland prisoners, and her kinsmen needed that list if they were to try to help the captives. Even now, a cousin waited outside the camp in darkness and rain to receive the documents and then spirit her away to safety.
“Miss, just a moment,” Fraser said sternly.
Running would only raise further suspicion. Turning slightly, she ducked her head under the shadow of her plaid shawl. “Eh?”
“Shirt,” Fraser said, plucking at his sleeve. “An leinen?”
“Leine.” Surprised, she corrected the plural.
“My Gaelic is not what it was when I was a lad,” he explained. “Myleineneeds laundering, if you will take it.” As he spoke, he undid the buttons of his waistcoat.
Kate pointed to the garments folded on the bed, careful to answer in rapid Gaelic that his clean shirt was on the cot.
“Leine,”he repeated, clearly not understanding.
“For a Highlander,” she went on in Gaelic, “you do not know your native language very well.” He blinked and smiled vaguely, lost in the conversation. He lifted his shirt as if to remove it. “Ach, but you are a beautiful Highland man,” Kate murmured.
She went closer, stretching out her hand for the shirt, looking away while he stripped it over his head. Looking again, she caught the garment as he tossed it to her.
For a moment, she stared, stunned. He turned toward the cot to pick up the clean shirt, standing bare to the waist in the lantern light. Taut and beautiful as a god, with wide shoulders and chest smoothly muscled, he had shining brown-gilt hair that brushed over his shoulders, slipping loose from its queue ribbon. He looked more like a proud Celtic warrior than a loathsome king’s man. And she should not be staring.
But just as in London, when she had watched him and then walked past him with only a murmured word, the man had a strange effect on her. Her breath went faster and she could barely think. But she could not allow that to happen. Dumping the shirt into her basket, she spun away, knocking against the table. Papers fluttered to the floor.
“Blast,” Fraser muttered. Pulling the clean shirt over his head, he dropped to his haunches to reach for the fallen pages.
Taking the chance, Kate quickly scanned the papers still on his desk, seeing the awful broadsheet depicting the ‘Highland Wench’ as a virago; Fraser’s recent interview notes; and a page containing long lists of names. That was exactly what she needed.
A swift glance had revealed Ian Cameron’s name on the list of arrested Highlanders—her kinsmen needed to know where he was being held. Cameron held a secret that could save and protect thousands of Highland Jacobites. The English must not be given the chance to wrest that knowledge from him.
Reaching out just as Fraser stood, Kate whipped her hand away and inadvertently tipped over a china cup. Liquid—strong tea, she saw—spilled out, soaking the broadsheet. As she snatched at the page, so did Fraser, and it tore between them.
What in heaven was wrong with her? She was never this clumsy or inept, she thought. Wanting desperately to flee, she must yet accomplish what she had come to do.
Dropping her basket, she snatched up a linen towel to sop up the spill while Fraser reached for more wet pages. He grabbed the cloth from her to swipe at rapidly blurring ink, muttering under his breath.
“Give me that—it is fine,” he said. “You may go.”
