A Kiss for a Highlander (6 page)

The scolding he had anticipated for not remembering her name did not materialise. On the contrary, her manner was indicative of her resignation at his memory lapse. It was as if she did not expect or deserve any acknowledgment from him or anyone. The thought disturbed him. He might not have any time for her—might even actively dislike her—but no human being should be made to feel that worthless.

Suddenly he felt tired to his very bones. Nothing else mattered. He tried again to remember the last time he’d slept in a bed. It felt like he had been marching forever. That made him think longingly of his highland home. Resolutely, he turned his thoughts away. Home was not the same place any more. Not since—well, not for a very long time.

“You look exhausted.” Martha’s voice was brisk, almost accusatory.

“Aye. I don’t know how it is, but I find having my head bashed in always makes me woeful sleepy.”

He watched in fascination as a blush tinged her pale cheeks with soft colour. “Dinner will be a few hours yet. You should go and get some sleep.”

“Am I hearing you right, crabbit one? Ye’ll not only feed me, you are also proposing to let me sleep somewhere other than your cellar floor? Such hospitality, and all for a beastly Scotsman, leaves me moved almost beyond words.”

The sourpuss expression returned and her lips thinned. “And yet the words keep coming, each of them more worthless than the last. I am doing this for Lord St. Anton, whose family were good to mine,” she said coldly. “If I had my way,
you
would be taking your chances with the king’s steel by now.”

She moved to let him pass her in the narrow hall, but he paused, looming over her briefly. Martha pushed her spectacles up her button nose in a nervous gesture, and he heard the click of her throat as she swallowed hard. She cast a scared, fleeting glance up at him, and he noticed again how hard she found it to look him in the eye. In spite of himself, Fraser was increasingly intrigued by this odd, damaged soul who, it seemed to him, was trying just a little too hard to convince the world that she had a lump of stone in place of a heart.

“Aye,” he said, stepping aside to allow her more space. He placed a foot on the first stair. “Sleep sounds like a very good plan just now.”

Hours later, Fraser’s eyes opened. It took him a long time to shake off the mists of a deep sleep and accustom himself to his surroundings. When memories of the last few days did return, he was conscious of a feeling of well-being that was disproportionate to his situation. He sat up, clearing the remnants of fog from his mind. The curtains of the bed were back and a fire raged in the grate. The room was warm and comfortable. Darkness had fallen, but someone had left a candle and tinderbox close at hand. By the fire’s golden glow, he saw that his kilt and shawl lay neatly folded on top of a wooden chest. His dirk had been placed on top of them. The realisation that he had slept so deeply that an Englishwoman who hated him with every fibre of her being had been able to enter the room with a knife in her hand struck him as worrying. At the same time, he found the fact that all she had actually done was lay out his clothes and light a fire to warm his rest oddly touching.

The smell of cooking filled his nostrils. His stomach gave an appreciative rumble, and he rose to investigate. Downstairs, he found the kitchen empty, but a large pot on the fire seemed to be the source of the delicious aroma. His linen shirt, the blood and mud washed away, was drying on a wooden pulley suspended above the flames. As he looked around him, drinking in the homely atmosphere, the door flew open and Martha struggled in. Her arms were full of logs, and the hood of her woollen cloak had fallen back. Huge snowflakes coated her hair and melted into moisture on her face.

“Here, lass, let me.”

Fraser hurried forward to take the logs from her, and she jumped back slightly as his hand touched hers. She bit her lip as though annoyed that she had betrayed her nervousness to him. While Fraser stacked the logs beside the fire, she removed her glasses, which had steamed up in the heat of the kitchen, and began to wipe them on the edge of her cloak. He watched her with interest.

“You should leave them off,” he said. “You look better.”

She promptly put them back on. “I can’t see without them.” She held her hands out to the fire. “The snow is coming down heavily now.”

“Good.” She raised her brows, and he elaborated. “’Twill slow the king’s men down in their hunt for any of the Jacobites daft enough in the heid to get themselves left behind.”

Removing her cloak and hanging it on a peg behind the door, she turned to the fire and to the pot. “I can’t offer you haggis.” She looked back over her shoulder at Fraser with a slight smile. “It’s only boiled mutton. But I have cooked neeps and tatties for you.” For a moment, the emotion provoked by her words threatened to overwhelm him, and Fraser had to clench his fist hard at his side. She had gone to the trouble of cooking traditional Scots food for him. How long had it been since someone—anyone—had thought just of him? Something in his face must have startled her because she added swiftly, “I thought it best to keep up the pretence that I am glad to have you here.”

He laughed, glad to be able to release the slight obstruction in his throat. “I hope there’s plenty, lass. It takes a lot to fill me.”

“That’s what I thought. You are very big.” The ready blush rose to her cheeks. She focused again on her task, stirring the pot and pushing her glasses back up as they slipped down her nose. Within minutes, she had set a steaming plate of food on the table in front of Fraser, together with several thick slices of bread.

“It’s a long time since I’ve tasted anything this good,” he said truthfully. Shyly, she cast her gaze down to her own plate and continued to eat, ignoring the words. He could tell she was pleased, however. “I suppose it’s too much to ask that you might also have a wee dram to wash it down with?”

“Oh, but I do.” Martha jumped up and went to the pantry that was set to one side of the fireplace. “I’d almost forgotten about it. My mother used to say—” She broke off, frowning slightly at the earthenware flagon that she withdrew from the shelves. “Well, there is nothing quite like a drop of whisky in hot water to keep a head cold at bay.”

“Will you no join me?” Fraser asked, when she had poured some of the amber liquid into a goblet and placed it before him.

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like the smell.”

“Lass! You wound me with your words. Ye are talking to a Scotsman. Don’t insult me, share a dram with me.”

Hesitantly, she agreed, holding her breath as she took a tiny sip of the fiery liquor. “Oh, my good Lord.” She spluttered, her eyes watering and her cheeks burning. Fraser’s laughter echoed around the room.

“Hits the spot, does it not?”

“It burns,” she said reproachfully. She raised her goblet to her lips once more, and her eyes met his over the rim. Fraser was fascinated at the gleam of mischief which lightened her habitually serious expression. “I don’t like the taste,” she explained as she took another sip, “but, my goodness, I do like the effect!”

Later, Fraser sat before the fire in the small parlour while Martha set tiny, neat stitches in his shirt, mending the tears that had happened as a result of the skirmish at Swarkestone Bridge. He kept his eyes on the hearth. The leaping flames within cast shifting shadows over his face, which he hoped masked his thoughts. Burning wood crackled, charred and split, sharing its sweet, woodsy warmth. Outside, the snow continued to swirl and dance, turning the rolling Derbyshire hills into an alien, impenetrable landscape that reminded him of home. Martha mustn’t know, or ever suspect, how much this scene of cosy domesticity—so unexpected and unlike his life in recent times—added to rather than soothed the ever-present ache in his chest. It was a hurt that even the finest Scotch whisky would never be able to assuage.

Before bed, he went out to the woodshed and brought in more logs. Martha waited in the open kitchen doorway with a lighted candle while he stomped the snow off his boots. She smiled her thanks and tentatively reached up to brush the melting snow from his broad shoulders. At her touch, Fraser felt like a man who had tamed a wild bird.

Later, in the still, cold night, he was wakened by a sound he could not place. It took him a few seconds to recognise that it was a woman sobbing. His throat tightened as he was forced to listen helplessly to Martha’s anguished dreams. He wished he could find a way to make the reiving bastards who gave all Scots men a bad name pay for their crimes.

Chapter Six

The snow continued to fall relentlessly for several days so that it had proved impossible to go even as far as Delacourt Grange. Martha, never one to remain idle, decided to use the enforced captivity and the bonus of the presence of a brawny Scotsman in her house to finally do something about clearing the cellar. The temporary truce of their first night alone together did not hold up for long.

“No, not there.” Martha frowned at Fraser over the top of her glasses. “I said I wanted it in that corner.”

“Make your mind up, woman.” Biceps bulging under the strain, Fraser placed the old wooden dresser, which had three of its five drawers missing, back down on the cellar floor with a thud. “Ye’ve asked me to move this bloody thing four times, and now you want it right back where it started.”

“You can go if you want. I don’t need a bad-tempered Scotsman under my feet.”

“No, what you need is to be put over my knee so that I can skelp your scrawny backside.” His face hardened with sudden annoyance.

Martha gasped, her own temper flaring. “Try it, Scotsman, and I’ll come after you in the night with my scissors. But I warn you now, next time it won’t be your hair I cut off.” Oh, good Lord, had she actually just said those words aloud? Determined to regain her self-control, she took a deep, steadying breath. It was foolish to allow this big, brash Scotsman to keep chipping away at her dignity. This admirable resolve to remain calm lasted as long as it took him to utter his next words.

“Aye, ye’ve enough temper on ye to try, crabbit one, and no mistake.” There was something about the heat in his stare and the thick, deepening pitch of his voice that flustered her beyond anger, but she didn’t pause to examine the feeling.

“I told you to stop calling me that.” Rosie or Harry could have told Fraser that it was best to avoid Martha when that militant look appeared in her eyes. But neither of her cousins were present to issue him with a warning.

“I’ll not take my orders from a sleekit Englishwoman.” She had to admire the speed of Fraser’s reflexes. He ducked just in time as the old plate she snatched up whizzed past his ear and crashed into the wall behind him. Muttering a series of curses, he made his way toward her. His progress was severely hampered as Martha launched every object she could lay her hands on at him. It became clear, however, that no number of missiles hurled at him were going to deter Fraser. He gave a grunt of annoyance as a boot with no sole bounced off his chest. Temper gave way to fear as she noted the determination on his face, and Martha did something she had never done in her life. Turning on her heel, she ran away. Fraser caught up with her at the bottom of the cellar stairs. Catching hold of her by her wrist and spinning her round to face him, he glared down at her.

“Ye’re a thrawn, stubborn wee lass, no more’n a thorn in my side.”

He held her by her upper arms, close enough so that she could feel his chest rise and fall with each breath. Because of the difference in their heights, her eyes were level with the open lacing at the neck of his shirt. Obstinately, she kept her gaze fixed on that point, on the red-gold hair that peeked through the undyed cloth, and the hint of solid muscle beneath. If she concentrated on that, and the warm, masculine smell of him, she didn’t have to look up and show him the terror in her heart, an emotion that must also be obvious in her eyes. She wondered if he could sense it anyway. Perhaps he heard the pounding of her blood through her veins. It certainly sounded loud enough in her own ears. Whatever it was, she felt something change within him. Slowly, he exhaled and then released her.

“Snow or not, I’m away to see how Lord Jack is faring.”

It wasn’t until he had gone that Martha realised she had been holding her breath.

Some hours later, Martha emerged from the cellar to find that the snow had finally stopped falling. There was no sign of Fraser, and she told herself firmly that her decision to go up to Delacourt Grange had nothing whatsoever to do with him. In fact, she would be only too happy to learn that the wretched man had gone for good. No, she felt it was her duty to go up to the house to discover how things were between Rosie and the all-too-attractive earl. Cousin Henry was a kind and gentle man, but he probably wouldn’t notice what was going on under his nose until it was too late.

Donning her cloak and a stout pair of shoes, she made her way along the path, avoiding the worst of the drifts and icy patches. Even so, her feet skittered over the cobbles and she came close to falling several times.

With a sinking heart, she found on her arrival at Delacourt Grange that her worst fears had been well founded. Rosie, who had become a frighteningly conscientious nurse, had relented for the first time that very day and allowed Jack to leave his bedchamber to eat. Martha found them lingering over their meal in the cosy breakfast parlour.

“Fraser was here earlier, and in a foul mood,” Jack said, as Rosie pulled out a chair for Martha. “He left after doing a passable imitation of a caged wildcat. I suspect he will have found his way to the stables. When we were boys, it was always the place he chose to go when his temper was at its peak.”

Martha resisted the temptation to ask the questions that crowded to her lips. Why on earth should she suddenly be interested in what Fraser was like as a boy? Instead, she listened as Jack attempted to explain to Rosie why he had chosen to swear loyalty to Bonnie Prince Charlie. “My mother was a Scotswoman, her family were from the highlands. My father was an Englishman, of course, although, as you and I both know, Miss Wantage, Northumberland is a county that has never quite been sure of its loyalties. He was a close friend of the Old Pretender, the prince’s father. So it was in some ways inevitable that I should throw in my lot with the son. I completed the grand tour after Eton, and I first met Prince Charles then. We became friends.” Martha watched as he passed Rosie an apple he had peeled, and she received it with a smile of thanks. It seemed they had already reached a stage where words were not necessary between them, and Martha’s heart sank a little further. “But my life and loyalties changed that day at Swarkestone Bridge.”

Martha judged the conversation to be moving into dangerous territory and decided to deflect its focus. “How did you come to be injured at Swarkestone?”

Jack gazed out of the window for long minutes at the wintry scene as he answered. “Some of the memories I have of that day are hazy, so Fraser has filled in the details for me. The call went up for volunteers to protect Swarkestone Bridge so that the prince might cross and commence his triumphant march on London. Fraser and I were at the lead of the party of seventy highlanders. When we arrived, all was quiet. I was tired after the long ride south and decided to doze in a small copse. The ground was freezing hard, but I wrapped myself in my cloak and tried to ignore it. Fraser—who has the constitution of an ox and can manage without sleep for days at a time—laughed at me for what he called my laziness. He went to stand guard on the bridge itself with the other clansmen. I woke some time later, but I know not how long had passed. A red-coated boy—for that was all he was—stood over me, his musket in one hand. As I got to my feet, he fired, and the impact of the shot threw me down the slope toward the riverbank. Fraser and the other highlanders were alerted by the gunshot and rushed from the bridge into the fray. A couple of the men had already stolen several horses from the local blacksmith in preparation for the crossing. Fraser placed me upon one of these aging nags and threw himself up behind. I lost consciousness then and came round in your back bedchamber, Miss Wantage.”

Rosie shuddered. “If it had not been for Fraser, you would surely have died. He saved your life.” Martha could see her cousin’s feelings toward the Scotsman softening.

“Fraser sees the situation very differently. He blames himself for my injury, believing that, had he remained with me while I slept, the redcoat would not have been able to shoot me.”

“But that is nonsensical.” Martha wished the exclamation unsaid as soon as it left her lips, particularly as Jack and Rosie both regarded her most peculiarly. “I mean, he could not have known what would happen when he left you to sleep,” she added in a milder tone.

“No, but Fraser’s past experiences have led him to be less than kind to himself about his own dealings with the English.” Really, Martha thought, with a trace of annoyance, a statement like that might almost have been designed to provoke curiosity in the listener. Even someone like her—someone who had not the least interest in Fraser Lachlan and the events that had shaped him—could not help but wonder at the meaning behind Jack’s cryptic words.

“But
you
are English.” Rosie’s words interrupted her deliberations.

Jack smiled. “Nonetheless, our Jacobite code allows Fraser to tolerate me.”

“I confess I do not understand these things, these codes of honour that seem so important to men.” Rosie cast a sidelong, speculative glance in Martha’s direction. “Must you and Fraser go to the prince? Can you not stay here?”

Before Martha could remonstrate with her for her forwardness, Jack spoke. “We have sworn an oath of allegiance to the prince, and we must go to him as soon as we can do so. Our vows hold true. If the Jacobites win, we will be free men. If we lose—” he broke off at the soft moan that escaped Rosie’s lips, “—and I survive, I will be a fugitive. A wanted man with a price on my head. I must either flee the country or seek to gain the king’s pardon. Until I do that, I cannot return to my estates and begin to live a normal life again. I cannot ask any lady to be my wife.”

With a little cry, Rosie betrayed her feelings by dashing out of the room. Martha bent her head over her teacup. Heartily, she wished she didn’t have to share this doomed love story. Or that it could end differently. Why couldn’t Bonnie Prince Charlie have chosen a different route for his invasion? There would be no need then to shield the hearts of unprepared Derbyshire maidens against the devastating effect of these seductive rebels. Jack’s voice brought her back into the room.

“Please make her see sense, Miss Wantage. I would have to be the worst cad in the world to ask her to share my shame.”

Martha thought that Rosie was probably already too lost in love for sense, but she agreed to try. She found Rosie in her bedchamber, indulging in a hearty bout of tears.

“Are all men proud, and stubborn, and doltish about nonsensical things such as honour and people’s reputations and good names?” Rosie demanded angrily, punctuating her tirade by giving her pillow a series of vicious thumps.

“I’ve no experience of my own to draw upon, but I’m told that all the best ones are.” Martha patted her shoulder sympathetically.

No matter how hard Martha tried—and she told herself that she did try very hard indeed—it was difficult to avoid a man as large as Fraser Lachlan in a house as small as the old dower house. She was not assisted in her attempts to do so by the fact that he did not seem to notice that she didn’t want his company. He continued to join her for meals and to sit with her beside the fire each evening. Well, just because
he
had no perception about social nuances didn’t mean that she was going to descend into rudeness. She remained tight-lipped about the fact that she found him a nuisance and instead made him enormous portions of porridge for breakfast. She learned how to make a traditional Scots meat-and-potato stew he called stovies. He seemed particularly fond of this dish and consumed huge quantities of it for his dinner. While at Delacourt Grange one morning, Martha found an excuse to go into Mr. Delacourt’s cellar and surreptitiously removed several bottles of Scotch whisky. She reasoned that Cousin Henry hardly ever touched strong spirits.

She found Fraser jobs to do around the house, and she didn’t ever—really never at all—dwell on what it would be like when he left and the chair on the opposite side of the fire was empty once again. It didn’t cross her mind to wonder if, once the decisive battles were over, he would be going back to a woman somewhere. Or if he would ever taste a meal in the future and find it wanting because it had not been cooked by Miss Martha Wantage. Not once did she cast a sidelong glance in his direction as he sipped Cousin Henry’s whisky and stared into the fire. She didn’t speculate about whether his thoughts included her. No, none of these things crossed her mind because she would, of course, be heartily glad to be rid of him. It didn’t matter anyway, because the snow lay thick as ever on the ground and he wasn’t able to go anywhere.

“Must you go out?” Fraser asked, watching her over his porridge bowl one morning as Martha fastened her cloak around her shoulders. “I went for firewood earlier and the ice is treacherous underfoot. It’ll take your legs from beneath you. Let me do your chores for you today.”

Martha blinked slowly. She wondered if her face revealed any inkling of the effect his words had on her. But how could it? How could he know that, in that instant, she had felt a brief pang of longing for something she would never have? That, with his throwaway last sentence, he had instantly aroused everything she had ruthlessly subdued since she had been forced to leave her home? The yearning for normality, for a man to share her home, hearth and life. Someone to care and utter the sort of words Fraser had just said. Someone who would say “let me”.

“I must go up to Delacourt Grange and see Harry.” She turned resolutely to the door. “He is to start Eton College soon and much of the teaching there will be in Latin. I am not a Latin scholar, but Mr. Dewson, the parson at Matlock, has set Harry a series of tasks to complete in that language. I promised to supervise him while he completed them. I suspect he has not yet started and has been using the weather as a convenient excuse to avoid them…and me.”

“He strikes me as a fine, trickit lad, but one who is not overfond of his books.”

“No, no-one could accuse Harry of being studious. All that interests him is the army. He sees learning as a means of getting him into a cavalry regiment. Oh, he is bright enough.” She laughed as a memory or two came back to her. “I only wish I could persuade him to put as much effort into completing his work as he does into avoiding it.”