The Guardian Read online

  The Guardian

  Of Might & Manners

  Highland Heroes

  Book One

  by Maeve Greyson

  © Copyright 2019 by Maeve Greyson

  Text by Maeve Greyson

  Cover by Wicked Smart Designs

  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

  P.O. Box 7968

  La Verne CA 91750

  [email protected]

  Produced in the United States of America

  First Edition November 2019

  Kindle Edition

  Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook, once purchased, may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for you and given as a gift for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If this book was purchased on an unauthorized platform, then it is a pirated and/or unauthorized copy and violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Do not purchase or accept pirated copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work. For subsidiary rights, contact Dragonblade Publishing, Inc.

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  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Maeve Greyson

  Highland Heroes Series

  The Guardian

  The Warrior

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  Amazon

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Publisher’s Note

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Maeve Greyson

  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

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from The Warrior

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Kensington Palace

  Early spring 1693

  Graham MacCoinnich eyed his surroundings, rubbing his hands together with slow, purposeful movements. Several grim outcomes had come to mind since receiving the strange summons from the crown. This situation had not been among them.

  Graham shifted in place and pulled in a deep breath, hissing it out between clenched teeth as he stole another veiled glance around the small but opulent chamber—unoccupied except for himself. An ill-feeling permeated the air of what appeared to be a private library of the palace. Bookshelves lined each wall, laden not only with books but also all manner of useless baubles and trinkets, the likes of which Graham had never seen. Luxurious chairs and couches sat in clusters of twos and threes, crowding every available space. Tables littered with gilded boxes and cut-glass decanters filled to their stoppers highlighted the cozy arrangements of gaudy furniture.

  Graham wet his lips. He wouldn’t turn away a drink about now. A bead of sweat trickled down his spine and settled in the crack of his arse. He didn’t care for this place a damn bit. A chamber made for secrets. Dark. Ominous. The room reeked of deception.

  He shifted positions again, turning with as nonchalant an air as he could muster. Places such as these always held spy holes, riddled with them, in fact. Someone watched him. He’d bet a barrel of fine MacCoinnich whisky on it. The king’s personal guard had escorted him here with a rudeness that had come close to forcing him to teach the man better manners. Graham had managed to refrain. Barely. He still itched to put the insolent bastard in his place. But he wouldn’t dare. It was too great a risk. After all, he was a Scot in the heart of hostile soil. For his own sake and the sake of his brother Alexander’s new clan and young family, he’d behave. At least for now.

  A quiet click to his right made him turn—a paneled door swung open.

  “Come this instant, daughter. His Highness will join us presently. Your maid can fetch your journal later. We’ve greater matters at hand than the whereabouts of your silly sketches, and I will not be humiliated by running after my progeny like an incompetent nursemaid.” A tall man, once broad across the shoulders but now stooped with age, held tight to the hand of a fetching young woman. He yanked her forward with a rude, impatient jerk.

  “Papa! I beg you—”

  “This instant, Mercy! Heed me now. Not another word, do you understand me?”

  The scarlet-cheeked beauty careened to a bouncing halt as her alarmed gaze fell on Graham. Her chin jerked to a prideful angle but her full lips quivered, and her slender throat flexed as she struggled to recover a calm, gracious appearance.

  Graham’s heart went out to the lass for suffering such an embarrassment at the hands of her brute-of-a-father. He stepped forward with a warning glare at the man and lifted his fists to a more noticeable level. The old bastard better change his behavior or rue the day he stepped into the presence of a MacCoinnich. Women were precious and meant to be treated with respect.

  The lady’s father made a weak attempt of jutting out his chin but took a half step back and cleared his throat.

  Good. The old fool understood the warning.

  Graham shifted his attention back to the sweet lass peering out from behind her father.

  A rare vision. She had glossy black hair and skin fairer than any ivory Graham had ever seen. And those eyes… Fathomless. Curved as though smiling and colored the rich hue of a well-aged whisky reflecting torchlight. A man could get trapped in those eyes, completely ensnared with the promise of discovering the rest of the lady’s charms.

  Graham wrenched himself free of her spell. Such a dalliance could prove dangerous. Not only was she a Sassenach but more than likely a noble, judging from the looks of her father and her regal, genteel demeanor. The situ
ation begged careful handling. He made a polite nod toward the beguiling lass and stepped between her and her intolerable father. “M’lady. Graham MacCoinnich at your service.”

  The lass curtsied and dropped her gaze with a coy turning of her head, but Graham didn’t miss the glances she stole at him through those long, dark lashes. Aye. A fine, rare beauty, this one was.

  Her father edged his way back in front of her. “Duke of Edsbury, sir.” The man growled out the words in a low, huffing tone that said the name should impress Graham.

  It didn’t.

  “Sir.” Graham gave the duke that much politeness but no more ’til the man proved he deserved it. He’d march straight through hell’s gates before he called the man m’lord.

  Lord Edsbury’s eyes narrowed the slightest bit and the crease between his twin thatches of bushy, gray brows deepened. He stood taller, his spine stiffening into as challenging a stance as the man could muster. He might have been a worthy adversary at one time, a courageous lion, strong, and noble. But now the man moved with the hitched gait of one battling the ill health of overindulgence and advancing years.

  “Papa.” The word floated through the air as soft as a whisper, slipped between the two men, and hovered like a spirit.

  The duke recovered his composure. The required shroud of polite court manners fell across him like a veil of mist tumbling down a mountain. He turned and took his daughter’s hand, pulling her out from behind him to stand at his side. “Allow me to introduce you to my daughter, Lady Mercy Rowena Claxton.”

  “Honored to meet ye, m’lady.” Graham graced her with a smile intended as a gesture of truce. After all, it wasn’t the woman’s fault her father was an arrogant arse—and an English one at that. “Might I call ye Lady Mercy?”

  “You may.” Lady Mercy curtsied again and held out her hand, lowering her gaze as she waited for him to take it.

  Take it, he did. Graham relished the opportunity to graze his mouth across the softness of her long, delicate fingers. He knew well enough it was considered ungentlemanly to press his lips to the lady’s skin rather than hover above her fine hand, but he’d never been accused of being a gentleman nor possessed the desire of gaining the title.

  He took pride in his brazenness, breathing in her enticing fragrance as he drew a step closer. The earthy florals of a heather-filled glen paired with the intoxicating sweetness of a nervous young woman floated around her. What a treasure she was—sadly, a Sassenach, aye, but a treasure to be won and enjoyed, nonetheless.

  She rewarded him with a deeper blush across her high cheekbones and an endearing gasp as she slipped her hand out of his grasp and tucked it to her middle.

  “Damned, ill-bred Scot. I would expect no less.”

  Graham turned and laughed in Edsbury’s face. “Aye, man. A Scot doesna leave a woman guessing after his intentions. They ken verra well when they’re wanted.” He returned his attention to the lady. As much as he enjoyed tormenting her pompous father, he wished the dear lass no unease. “Forgive me if I’ve offended ye, m’lady. I assure ye ’twas no’ my intent at all.”

  Lady Mercy fluttered his words away with a gracious wave. “No offense taken, sir.” With a modest lowering of her gaze, she retreated to a corner.

  Were circumstances different, he’d take great pleasure in getting to know this lass better—despite her being a danger. The strange summons from the crown returned to the forefront of his thoughts and all levity left him. He turned back to the duke. “I assume your presence here means ye have a meeting with the king as well?”

  Edsbury gave him an unsettling scowl, one that made Graham wish he could read the man’s mind. “His Highness will be with us anon. Bentinck, Lord Portland, assured me of such.”

  “Bentinck?” Graham wasn’t familiar with the name.

  “The Earl of Portland. His Highness’s Groom of the Stole.” Edsbury gave a haughty sniff and looked at Graham as though he should be envious of the man chosen to wipe the king’s arse after His Majesty took a shite.

  King William’s entrance cut off the less than complimentary retort burning on Graham’s tongue.

  “Your Highness.” Edsbury bowed long and low, and Lady Mercy rushed to give the perfect, gracious curtsy.

  Graham made the required respectful bow, then straightened and met King William’s gaze.

  The royal, known for his heartless scheming and tenacity, looked worn, far older than his forty-some-odd years of age. His Majesty appeared travel weary and ready for a drink and it was no wonder. The king wintered but a few short months in Whitehall or Kensington, traveling the remainder of the year and entrusting the everyday duties of ruling the kingdom to his wife, Queen Mary. He had proven himself more interested in the expansion of his empire and the battlefield rather than in the running of the kingdom. It was a rare occurrence for him to darken the doors of his own palace for more than a few days during the spring or summer months.

  King William didn’t speak for a long moment. Just stood there. Motionless, except for the occasional shifting of his impeccably arranged long brown curls whenever he took in a breath. He peered at Graham, studying him as though weighing his merits to decide if he was lacking. After what most would consider an overlong stare bordering on rudeness, His Highness pursed his thin lips and gave a slow, imperious nod. He moved to sit in a luxurious chair situated on a raised platform near the entrance. With a lazy turn of his head, he shifted his focus to the almost invisible young lord standing beside his chair like a well-trained dog waiting for his master’s command. “Pray tell, is there a reason our glass is bereft of port?”

  The thin lordling’s eyes flared wide with alarm, then he sprang into action, snapping his fingers at the pair of servants flanking the king’s private entrance to the room.

  The older of the servants bowed and bobbed as he hurried to snatch a decanter from the cabinet beside His Majesty’s chair. “Sincerest apologies, m’lord, but Her Highness—”

  Before the young, attending lord could administer a more severe reprimand, King William held up a bejeweled hand.

  “We are well aware of Her Majesty’s position on sobriety, but as you should know, if you wish to continue in our service, when we are present at the palace, it is our command and our rule. Not the Queen’s inclinations.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Still bobbing and bowing as he scurried to fill more glasses, the addled servant waved his counterpart forward and gave a jerking nod toward Graham, the duke, and Lady Mercy.

  King William took a slow sip from his glass, all the while continuing to study Graham.

  Graham clenched his teeth harder and lifted his chin. Royal or not, he would not give the man the satisfaction of a Scot cowering at his feet. The ominous echo of a ticking clock filled the room. Graham felt the minutes of his life slipping away, and the feeling shattered his ability to curb his impatience. Time to end this waste of time. “Your summons appeared urgent.” He gave a stiff nod. “How might I be of service to His Majesty?”

  The king’s gaze slid from Graham to Edsbury. “The Duke of Edsbury is in need of your service, and it is our most adamant wish you see fit to accept the task.” A sincere smile wiped the weariness from the king’s long, drawn face as his attention settled on Lady Mercy. “Edsbury and his daughter, the lovely Lady Mercy, are our particular favorites here at court.” With an affectionate tilting of his head in her direction, King William extended his hand and wiggled his fingers. “Come to us, child.”

  With the barest rustling of her full skirts, Lady Mercy hurried to the king and knelt at his feet, placing her fingertips up beneath his. She bowed her head, pressing a kiss over the jewel-encrusted rings sparkling across his knuckles. “My king,” she murmured as she lifted her face to his and gifted the king with a reverent, adoring smile.

  Graham studied the king as His Majesty gazed down at the lass, fully expecting to witness the signs of a lascivious royal sizing up his next mistress. But such lust was not there. Surprising. A genuine fondness fil
led the king’s face. He gave Lady Mercy the adoring look one would expect from a benevolent guardian toward a most beloved charge.

  “Explain to him, Edsbury,” King William said as he kept his pleased countenance fixed on Lady Mercy. He took tight hold of her hand, steadying her as she seated herself on the small, upholstered stool beside his chair. “Your loveliness is a welcome balm to our weary soul, my dear. A welcome balm, indeed.”

  With a graceful nod, Lady Mercy lowered her gaze. “You are most kind, Your Majesty.”

  His patience thinning even more with this royal parlor game, Graham turned to the duke. “The task?”

  Edsbury’s jaw flexed. He took a fortifying sip of the dark liquid in his glass, then scowled down at the port as he swirled it in a slow, methodical circle. “Lady Mercy has a great interest in the flora and fauna of Scotland. The Highlands, in particular.” He leveled an even sterner scowl on Graham. “My late wife’s influence, I fear. I blame her for the indulgence of my daughter regarding such. And with both my wife and my son’s untimely deaths, Lady Mercy appears to need a distraction from her grief or there will be no peace in my household.” He snorted, then coughed as though his words left a detestable taste in his mouth.

  “Ye have my condolences, sir.” Graham considered the man a rude cur, but he’d not be heartless toward him. ’Twas a raw thing to outlive a wife and a child. He’d witnessed such when cousin Ian had lost his wife and unborn child in the attack at Glencoe. “My genuine condolences, sir,” he stressed.

  Edsbury responded with a stiff nod.

  “May they ever rest in peace.” Graham raised his glass to Lady Mercy, holding it high as he gave her a respectful bow before downing the contents.

  The duke responded to Graham’s kind words with another jerking nod, then turned away, settling a long, studious glare upon his daughter still seated beside the king. He drained his glass, accepted another from a servant, then turned back to Graham. “It is Lady Mercy’s wish to compile a book, an enhanced journal of sorts, cataloging the plants and animals of the Highlands. She wishes to dedicate it to her mother and brother since they were both avid lovers of nature.”