Chapter 1

Kingston, Jamaica

Ten years later, August 1756

" A re you sure you're not a Jacobite, Mr. Burnley? I hear there are quite a few skulking around the Caribbean."

Stifling a curse, Robert forced himself to give his most charming smile to the well-endowed and considerably inebriated Dowager Countess Ogilvy, or Eliza, as she repeatedly insisted on being called sotto voce . He moved his forearm slightly so the Scottish noblewoman would refrain from resting her ample bosom upon it, as she tended to do whenever she leaned forward to breathe huskily in his ear.

Although he'd been a dinner guest of the Governor of Jamaica, George Haldane, on several occasions over the last few years, Robert had never yet had the misfortune of being seated beside such a trying guest. He generally ignored the attentions of wealthy, upper-class widows, preferring instead to engage a mistress whenever he felt the need for feminine company. Given the Caribbean could never be a true home to him, he had no desire to take a wife or become entangled with a needy aristocrat like the dowager countess. He preferred simple, uncomplicated relationships.

Keeping his expression carefully neutral, Robert replied in a perfect imitation of an English gentleman's drawl, "As romantic as it might sound having a Jacobite to dinner, Lady Ogilvy, I'm afraid I'm about as Scottish as the spotted dick and custard we just had for pudding."

Lady Ogilvy giggled. Out of the corner of his eye, Robert noticed Governor Haldane turn his attention their way. He knew for a fact that the governor had served as a brigadier general in King George's army and had been present at Culloden. While the Rebellion against the British had ended ten years ago, Jacobites would definitely not be this man's cup of tea.

Ignoring the coil of tension in his gut, Robert calmly met the man's interested gaze, and raised his glass in a silent toast, watching for Haldane's reaction. Even though Robert had been residing in the British colony on and off for nearly four years, and he was confident his bona fides would hold up even under the most careful scrutiny, it was his natural instinct to be cautious.

Thankfully, Haldane simply smiled back at him, then winked. Blast the man . He obviously knew what a trial the Ogilvy woman could be and was merely amused by her behavior.

The dowager countess squeezed Robert's thigh under the table in a rather forward attempt to reclaim his attention. "Oh, you are wicked, Mr. Burnley," she simpered. "It's a shame you're not Scottish, though. I think I'd rather fancy seeing you in a kilt. Although now the King has had them banned, it's quite possible I'll never see a good pair of bare male legs again."

Across the table, Robert's good friend Captain Kenneth Drummond started to laugh from behind his glass of claret.

"I think perhaps I'm sometimes mistaken for a Scotsman because of the dubious company I keep," Robert said with a deliberately rakish grin. "Take the captain of my merchant vessel, the Phoenix. " He gestured toward his friend. "He's a Highland rogue if ever I saw one, don't you agree?"

The dowager countess turned her slightly cross-eyed gaze toward Drummond, who was barrel chested, florid faced, and shaggily bearded. Robert had always thought his friend bore a remarkable resemblance to a Highland bullock.

"Hmmm," she murmured, clearly unimpressed before fixing her attention back on Robert. "You, my dear Mr. Burnley, are decidedly more handsome." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "In fact, I know who you remind me of—and what a handsome devil of a Scotsman he was back in his day. William Grant, the Earl of Strathburn."

Blazing, bloody hell!

Again Robert strove to keep his face devoid of any kind of reaction. How damned unlucky could he be, to be seated next to someone who'd actually known his father? He really couldn't wait for the governor to announce it was time for the ladies to depart so the gentlemen could indulge in pipe-smoking and port. Fortunately, Haldane was deep in conversation this time and had not noticed the countess's latest inopportune pronouncement. Though he noticed Drummond was still listening.

Despite the fact his gut had twisted with tension, Robert took a leisurely sip of wine. "Strathspey, you say, my lady?" It wouldn't hurt to be deliberately obtuse.

"Strathburn," corrected the dowager countess. "Honestly, the resemblance is astonishing."

"Strathburn, my apologies… And no, I'm not familiar with that particular noble family," Robert drawled in a low voice as he skimmed his gaze over the woman's décolletage in an attempt to distract her.

Lady Ogilvy smiled crookedly. Leaning forward so her nose was only inches away from his, she gazed deeply into his eyes. "You have Lord Strathburn's eyes, I think… Such a remarkable shade of dark blue." Sighing, she sat back and took a sizable swig from her wine glass. "I was in love with William once, you know. Every girl debuting my year was. But then he went and married that dreadful woman, Caroline Hamilton. And when you consider all the rest he's had to endure!" She touched the pearls at her throat. "My heart weeps for him."

"Whatever do you mean?" asked Robert affecting an air of bored nonchalance as he eyed the dowager countess over the rim of his glass.

"Och, it's such a tragic tale." The countess leaned forward again and whispered dramatically, "His eldest son, a Jacobite, disappeared after Culloden and now his rogue of a younger son, Simon, is proclaiming himself the sole heir." She snorted. "Now there's a pretender for you. He's even styled himself as the Master of Strathburn even though Lord Strathburn hasn't yet had his oldest son legally declared dead. When I was last in Edinburgh for Hogmanay, it was common knowledge that Simon had gambled away half his family's fortune. And of course, none of the eligible young women will touch him with a ten-foot barge pole, despite his handsome looks?—"

At that moment, the governor's wife stood to announce that the ladies would withdraw.

Robert cursed inwardly again. Although he was glad to be rid of the dowager's cloying company, he really wanted to hear more about how his father and the clan had been faring. The breadcrumbs of intelligence he'd managed to garner every now and again over the years had been scant to say the least.

As he and Drummond stood with the rest of the gentlemen, he exchanged a meaningful look with his friend. They needed to talk.

As soon as it seemed polite enough to disengage themselves from the rest of the assembled party, they armed themselves with port glasses and retreated to the wide balcony that overlooked Kingston Harbor.

"Ye ken, it's yer own fault you were cornered by Lady Ogilvy, being such a bloody handsome devil and all." Drummond laughed as he looked his friend up and down.

Robert ignored the jibe and shrugged. He was used to his friend's teasing about the attention he received from women. This evening he'd adopted his usual "polite society" guise—that of a wealthy English merchant. He was kitted out in snug-fitting black satin breeches and a finely tailored, midnight blue velvet frock coat with an abundance of frothy white lace at wrist and throat. Although he eschewed wearing a powdered wig. He really couldn't abide them at the best of times, and certainly not in these tropical climes. Instead, he wore his dark hair neatly clubbed at the nape with a black velvet ribbon. He certainly didn't clothe himself in the expensive attire of a gentleman and assume this debonair persona to attract the fairer sex. It was simply a way to blend into the upper echelons of Jamaican Society at affairs such as this.

Robert slid Drummond a sideways look. "What if I did go home? To Lochrose?" he said quietly.

His captain grimaced. "Hard to say what might happen after so many years. I could carry on ‘trading' with yer French friend in Saint-Domingue and keep that side o' things afloat if ye decide to leave. But as for all yer other activities…" He shrugged a beefy shoulder. "I dinna have big enough ballocks to captain yer other vessel."

Other activities… Little did any of the "powers that be" in Jamaica know that for the last four years, Robert had been secretly working against the British government and their vile regime of pillaging and exploitation. As he flitted between Jamaica and Britain playing the part of "successful rakish merchant," Mr. Robert Burnley was actually collecting intelligence to ferry to a French privateer operating out of the colony of Saint-Domingue on the nearby island of Hispaniola. Said intelligence included the routes of other British merchant ships that the privateer would then target, and a percentage of the proceeds derived from the physical "booty" went to Robert and Drummond.

It was a venture which had proved both highly profitable and fulfilling. Pretending to be an upstanding merchant also gave Robert the freedom to do what he really wanted…

Aside from the Phoenix he also owned another vessel, the Griffon, which he docked in Saint-Domingue. However, the Griffon wasn't a merchant ship. It was essentially a "corsair" vessel and Robert took great joy captaining it. In fact, his current mission in life—his raison d'être —was to seize British slave trading ships enroute from Africa to the Caribbean and Americas to liberate the poor captured souls on board. Dutch, Portuguese, Spanish, and French slave trading vessels were fair game too. Anyone involved in the dark and evil practice of enslaving was beyond the protection of the law, in his eyes.

So far, Robert hadn't been caught. Of course, he employed extra measures to disguise his appearance, such as sporting a light beard and wearing a mask during attacks. And strikes were often staged under the cover of darkness.

He always seemed to have the devil's own luck when it came to dodging any sort of consequences. He just prayed that after a decade on the run and dicing with danger, his luck wouldn't run out…

Robert gripped his friend's shoulder. "I don't think anyone would question the size of your ballocks, my friend." Then he sighed. "Do you think Lady Ogilvy's information is reliable? I'm not sure what to make of it." Truth be told, the dowager countess's gossip about his family made Robert feel like a landlubber without his sea legs… He was more than a wee bit thrown.

Drummond's heavy brow descended into a frown. "'Tis hard to say, although there may verra well be a grain of truth in it. That last letter from yer squire's cousin, young Annie Shaw, hinted that there were troubles at Lochrose. Perhaps it's time ye returned to find out for yerself, my friend."

Robert took a sip of his port, considering Drummond's advice. Tobias Shaw, Robert's devoted squire, had a cousin who worked as a scullery maid in Lochrose's kitchens. Since Robert had acquired a townhouse in Kingston, Tobias had started up a somewhat surreptitious correspondence with the lass so he could glean tidbits of information about his own family back home. Of course, Tobias hadn't disclosed who his employer really was, only that he worked for a merchant in Jamaica. And Robert, for his part, was keen to hear anything at all about life at Lochrose.

Lochrose Castle. My true home . Robert sighed. Even after all these years, the pull to return to the Highlands, the need to find out how his father and the clan really fared, was as inexorable as the tug of the moon on the sea before him. It was in Robert's blood. He may go by the name of Burnley, but he was a Grant to his very bones.

Needless to say, there'd been countless times when he'd been tempted to return, to beg his father for forgiveness. Make amends. Reclaim his position. But it had been easier to ignore his innermost desire when he'd thought the clan was better off without him.

Apparently it wasn't. Simon had always been lazy and self-indulgent. And cruel. Robert had once stopped him from flogging a horse to ribbons after the poor beast had accidentally thrown him. On another occasion, Simon had shot one of their father's dogs for disobedience. Even at the age of seventeen, his half-brother had developed an appetite for debauchery, often drinking to excess, gaming, and frequenting brothels.

As for Lady Strathburn, Robert's stepmother… During his youth, Robert was aware of her extravagant tastes and wasteful nature. It had been a source of constant conflict between Caroline and his father over the years…especially when it was discovered that she was the one funding Simon's wild ways.

Now duty called to Robert as surely as the summons of the bagpipes or a crann-tara, a Highland clan's fiery cross. While he was a successful "merchant" and had built a life here in the Caribbean, it was abundantly clear that his father and clan needed him. Despite the risks—almost certain rejection by his father and the danger of arrest and execution—he had to try.

Robert ran a hand down his face. "You're right, Drummond. It seems the time has come to set sail for home." His mouth suddenly quirked into a wry grin. "Damned inconvenient that I probably still have a price on my head though."

Drummond slapped him on the shoulder. "Och, ye've faced worse. Take Lady Ogilvy for instance. It doesna get more frightening than that."