Free Highland Tides by Anna Markland

Margaret had travelled to Blair to wed Robert Stewart, unaware of the murder. She’d met and fallen in love with Rheade Robertson, but the vindictive and heartbroken Queen Joan had confined Margaret to a nunnery because of her association with Robert Stewart. Then there was the long hunt for Robert Graham.
    “But how did they track him down?” she asked, unable to keep silent.
    “Weel,” the nobleman replied, “legend has it Rheade Robertson had a vision Graham was hiding up at Loch Bhac, which turned out to be true. Queen Joan was convinced to pardon Margaret for Rheade’s sake.”
    “I know this part,” her uncle suddenly interjected, his eyes wide. “They named a burn up there after Graham, and the rock where he was sheltering is known today as Graham’s Rock.”
    Braden frowned. “Why would folk name a stream and a rock for a traitor?”
    John shrugged, bringing on a hiccup. “I dinna ken, but the legend isna true.”
    Braden stopped chewing. “None of it’s true?”
    The veteran soldier smiled like a child gloating when he alone is privy to a secret. “Margaret confided to her children she was the one who had the vision.”
    He seemed hesitant to continue.
    “The vision?” Charlotte asked.
    John’s eyes darted around the table. “I ken this sounds far-fetched, but she claimed her brother told her where Graham was hiding.”
    A lead ball lodged in Charlotte’s belly. “Her brother? How did he know?”
    John Reade’s face reddened considerably. “He had died months before, drowned in a tidal bore. Claimed to have visited the future. Margaret never broadcast he’d appeared to her, fearing she’d be deemed mad.”
    Braden’s face was whiter than the table linen. “She wasna mad,” he rasped. “But if she was shut up in a nunnery, how did she get the message to Rheade?”
    The soldier tapped his chin. “Seems to me there was a servant who’d travelled with her from Oban. Some deemed him a simpleton, but he carried the information.”
    Braden’s eyes filled with unshed tears. “Joss,” he whispered.
    “Aye,” the soldier exclaimed, banging a fist on the table, “and now I recall, the brother’s name was Braden. Same as yours!”
    “The whole thing sounds ridiculous,” Augusta declared. “What are they serving for the sweet?”
    “Aye,” John Reade agreed with a smile. “It would make for an even better novel than the Picaresque Adventures of Pilgrim Peter , by that fellow Tobias.” He turned to the Duke. “Have ye read it, John?”
    Her uncle chuckled. “Aye, drivel if you ask me.”
    This was too close to the bone. The room tilted as Charlotte came to her feet, gripping the edge of the table. “Excuse—” was all she recalled saying before she fainted.

A HIGHER PLANE

    Braden rose quickly from his chair and scooped Charlotte before she collapsed to the floor.
    “Oh, my,” Augusta exclaimed, fanning her face with the elaborate creation painted with scenes from the coronation of King George.   She’d explained the artwork in excruciating detail. “My sister never swoons.”
    “Take her through to the solar,” the Duke ordered, pointing the way. “Mayhap you should use the fan on her instead of yourself,” he chided Augusta. "Find Simone."
    Braden didn’t wait for the empty-headed woman to comply. “I’ll take care of her,” he growled, anxious to get Charlotte out of earshot. "We have things to discuss—alone."
    To his relief the Duke nodded.
    He didn't know where Charlotte's apartment was located, so he strode off to his own chamber, cradling her to his chest. He didn't bother to retrieve the wig when it fell to the floor. The French maid would find it. She was the only other person who knew where his chamber was and it was unlikely she would disturb them.
    He kicked open the door, carried her to his bed and lay her atop it. “Charlotte,” he rasped, leaning over her. “Come back to me.”
    She was pale, her breathing labored. He wondered what had caused her