A Kiss for a Highlander (11 page)

The whole family sat down to dinner together to celebrate Rosie and Jack’s betrothal. Mr. Delacourt, while he could not profess to be happy at the circumstances, liked and admired the man his daughter had chosen. He and Jack had already discussed ways that it might be possible to secure the king’s pardon. The one area on which they could not agree was the final, climactic battle which was approaching. If Jack fought in that, it was hard to believe that King George II could ever forgive him. Despite Mr. Delacourt’s gloomy pronouncements on the subject, the meal was an occasion for laughter and conversation. Although a touch of sadness did invade the proceedings, for the time of parting was now upon them.

Martha wondered if anyone else present might suspect that her body had recently undergone a remarkable transformation. Could anyone looking at her see that she now existed in a state in which every minute was spent in tightly wound tension and apprehension, because her nerve endings had been awakened to passion beyond belief? Fraser knew it, of course. How could he not? He had been there when she cried out in ecstasy for him. He had felt her internal muscles grip and hold him as if she would never let him go. She forced her eyes across the table to him now and saw that he was watching her face. He grinned at her, enjoying her torment. He was letting her know he was aware that, even with these people around them, all she could think about was him. About how she wanted him to rip her clothes off and force her thighs apart, then bury himself hard and deep inside her.
Deep
inside her. She wanted to slip underneath him, to climb on top of him, to let him take her from behind as he bent her over the back of the nearest chair. She wanted him slow and gentle, then hard and fast. She just wanted
him
. Over and over.

“Is that not so, Martha, my dear?” She realised, in shock, that Cousin Henry was addressing her directly, and she had no idea what he had said. Luckily, Rosie interrupted before she was forced to betray her inattention.

“But, Papa, I really do not see why it would be unseemly for me to go to Scotland with Jack now. Not when we are to be married anyway.”

Mr. Delacourt rolled his eyes at Martha, and she endeavoured to explain the situation on his behalf. “Rosie, you know that you cannot be married before Jack leaves for the border, because to do so would obviously alert the clergyman who was asked to conduct the ceremony to his true identity. And you cannot travel unmarried with him into Scotland because of the harm that would do to your reputation.”

“I don’t care about my reputation.” A stubborn expression descended over her pretty features.

“No, but I do.” Jack reached for her hand. “You will remain here under your father’s roof until I am able to return and lead you to the altar in the conventional way as a free man, my sweet.”

“But that could take years,” she exclaimed. “In the meantime, you will run off with some bonnie Scots lassie and leave me here to pine away of unrequited love. I just know it.” It took all of Jack’s considerable powers of persuasion to placate her.

“Word is that the prince is encamped close to Inverness,” Mr. Delacourt said, effectively changing the subject. “There was a failed attempt at Moy to capture him and deliver him up to the Duke of Cumberland as a prisoner. It seems inevitable now that the decisive battle will take place near where he is currently established at Culloden House.”

“And I must go there before the battle commences.” Fraser’s deep tones cut across any other conversation, silencing them all. “My home is near Culloden. I’ll not have my people fighting for a cause that is mine while I hide away here in England. I must go as soon as Jack is able to leave.”

Martha stared at him in horror. She knew, of course, that he had to go. February had passed and each day spent here brought danger closer. But the reality of his going suddenly hit her like a blow to her stomach. Fraser met her gaze with a question in his eyes. Before either of them could speak, the door flew open and Mrs. Glover rushed in, her face red and her eyes wide in terror.

“Soldiers!” she gasped, pointing a shaking finger in the direction of the window. “Dozens of them…coming across the fields.”

“Get up into the attic. Both of you. Jack, you know where the hidden room is. Stay there until I come for you,” Tom said to Jack and Fraser. When the big Scotsman didn’t move, he gave him a shove. “Now. Go.” Reluctantly, Fraser followed Jack out into the hall and up the stairs. He turned back with his foot on the first step.

“Martha?” She paused in the midst of the flurry of activity around her and looked at him through the open door. “Take care.”

“I will.” She gave him a quick, reassuring smile, and he followed Jack. Martha turned back into the chaos of the dining room and drew in a deep breath. “Rosie, Mrs. Glover, quickly, help me to clear Jack’s and Fraser’s dishes so that there is no trace of them here at the table.” They had just completed that task when a heavy pounding on the door made them all start.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion, Captain Overton?” Mr. Delacourt asked, with a touch of frost in his mild voice when Mrs. Glover ushered the captain into the room. “You have searched my property once. Surely that was sufficient to assure yourself that I am
not
harbouring a dangerous criminal. Must my family and I also be interrupted as we eat our dinner while you and what appears to be half the county’s militia pound on our door?”

Captain Overton’s manner was distinctly less conciliatory this time. “Your pardon, sir. But I have received information from a very reliable source that, not only have you been sheltering Lord St. Anton since the battle at Swarkestone Bridge, you have also had another gentleman—none other than a dangerous highlander—staying here as well.”

“Was it by any chance Sir Clive Sheridan who gave you this information?” Rosie asked quietly. The captain, noticing her for the first time, blinked as this vision of loveliness smiled sweetly up at him. “I only ask because I think Sir Clive may be a little put out that I have not responded to his advances.” She lowered her eyes shyly. “I think perhaps this might be his way of avenging himself upon my family. I am only sorry that
your
time has been wasted on this nonsense, Captain.”

Resolutely, the captain turned away from the wide grey eyes that were uplifted to his at the end of this speech. “My orders are to search the house and the grounds again, sir. You and your family will oblige me by remaining in this room until my investigation is complete.”

“Well, how long will you be?” Harry asked. “I have to walk my dog each evening. He will be most restless if I keep him waiting.”

“And I have matters to attend to in my own house,” Martha said, attempting to infuse a touch of impatience into her voice. “This is really most inconvenient.”

“Stop wasting my time!” Captain Overton’s voice cracked out sharply, stunning them all into silence. Beau gave a low, warning growl. “And shut that hound up unless you want me to do it with my boot. Let us get one thing settled. I have not come here to negotiate with you. My men
will
search your property, and they will take as long about it as is necessary. Now, if you will excuse me…” He gave a stiff little bow and backed out of the room.

Rosie exhaled slowly. “Detestable man,” she muttered.

“He is following his orders, my dear,” Mr. Delacourt said.

“I meant Sir Clive. Will they search the attics, Tom?”

“Unless they are completely stupid—and I don’t see any reason to doubt Overton’s intellect—they will. But Jack and Fraser are concealed in the hidden room behind the attics. They should be safe. We will all just have to wait it out.”

“
Should
be?” she exclaimed, twisting her hands in her lap. “Oh, I can’t bear it.”

“Well, you must,” Martha said calmly. “We all must. Harry, isn’t there a deck of cards in the bureau over there? Let us play a hand or two to while away the time.”

“Oh, Martha, must you always be so cold and practical?” Rosie wailed. “I don’t know how you can remain so calm and unfeeling. But then I suppose ’tis easy for you. After all, you do not have someone you love in danger up in the attic.”

Martha regarded her steadily over the top of her spectacles for a moment. Rosie could not have hurt her more if she had flayed her face open with a horsewhip. But Rosie couldn’t know that Martha wanted nothing more in that moment than to find an outlet for her own feelings. She longed for the luxury that Rosie had of allowing the gnawing panic that consumed her to show openly. A razor-sharp sword of fear sliced through her resolve and tried to shred her outward composure. All she could think of was that Fraser was in danger and she could do nothing to help him. The thought played on a persistent, agonising loop in her mind. The hand that held the pack of cards shook, and she lowered it quickly.

She must concentrate on making everything appear normal. They all must. Things were bad enough anyway, but if Captain Overton glimpsed any nervousness in them, he would rip the house apart. That was what she could do to help Fraser. She could make this a scene of normality so that the captain’s suspicions were lulled. Pushing her spectacles up her nose in the gesture she always used to steady her nerves, she smiled at Rosie with an attempt at reassurance.

“Indeed, I am so very fortunate to have no man to care for and worry about, am I not, Rosie?”

Slipping back into the role of demure old maid that had stood her in good stead for so long, she picked up the cards. With a hand that was now steady, she began to shuffle. Turning to Harry, who was casting increasingly troubled glances toward the ceiling, she said gently, “You decide. What shall we play?”

Chapter Eleven

The hour was well advanced, and they had been yawning over the cards on and off for several hours. The footsteps of the soldiers pounding through the rooms around and above them punctuated their conversation.

“Why are they still here? They have checked each room over and over,” Rosie asked.

“To make us sweat,” Tom said. “They are showing us that they can stay here all night if need be.”

“Do you have your gun with you, Tom?” Rosie threw down a card at random.

“If you are going to play at all, play properly,” Harry said reproachfully, scooping up her discard and displaying a winning hand.

“Yes, I have carried my old flintlock with me since Swarkestone.” Tom pointed to where he had placed it on top of the bureau near the door. “When the Jacobites invaded, I was worried that deserters might turn to robbery and looting. I thought it best to stay armed in case I needed to defend the household.”

Rosie studied the gun with interest. “Do you keep it loaded at all times?”

“Yes, but of course it carries only one shot. It is probably more use to me as a cudgel.”

“Why all these questions about the gun, Rosie? It is not as if Tom is going to use it.” Mr. Delacourt raised his brows at his daughter’s flushed face.

“I just wondered if Tom would be able to go to Jack’s aid should the soldiers discover him.” She tossed her head defiantly.

“I would imagine that, if it came to a fight, Fraser might be of more help with his dirk. We must hope that no such eventuality occurs, however, since it would inevitably result in Jack and Fraser’s arrest,” Mr. Delacourt commented, and silence reigned once more.

At long last, Captain Overton reappeared in the doorway. He was clearly vexed to be forced into another admission of failure, and his eyes were narrowed as they scanned the room. It seemed to Martha that the captain’s gaze rested on her face for just a fraction longer than necessary. Telling herself that she was being foolish, she willed herself to return his stare calmly. Soon—pray God—this nightmare would end and she would be safe in Fraser’s arms again.

“My men and I will leave you now, sir,” Captain Overton was saying, with a curt bow to Mr. Delacourt. “I give you good night, ladies.”

When the front door had closed behind him, Rosie bounded up from her chair. “I must go up and tell Jack they have gone.”

“Not so fast, Rosie,” Martha warned. “Let us be quite certain they are gone.”

Tom twitched the curtain aside and watched the soldiers depart. “To say there were dozens of soldiers was an exaggeration on Mrs. Glover’s part. There are mayhap fifteen of them altogether.”

“Enough to take Fraser and Jack by force if they
had
discovered them,” Martha said in an oddly hollow little voice. She tried to gather up the cards, but, finding that her trembling fingers were likely to betray her, she gave up the task.

“What’s this?” Tom said, from his watching position at the window. “Overton and his sergeant have paused partway down the drive. I can see their faces quite clearly, because the sergeant is holding a flaming torch aloft. Overton has waved the rest of the company to continue on ahead of them.”

“What are they doing, Tom?” Martha thought her own voice sounded distant, as though calling to him from a long way off.

“They are looking up at the attics.”

“No! Oh, dear God, no.” Rosie covered her face with her hands.

“They are coming back. Just Overton and the sergeant.”

The hammering of the front-door knocker sounded doubly loud this time. Martha cast a warning glance at Rosie while Tom went to answer the door. When he returned, he brought Captain Overton and his sergeant in his wake.

“Well, Captain?” Mr. Delacourt feigned a note of weariness.

“Your pardon, sir,” Captain Overton said, with a return of his former polite manner. “But Sergeant Daly has just pointed out something odd to me which leads me to the conclusion that we need to investigate the attics again.”

“And what is this ‘something odd’ to which you refer, my good man?” Mr. Delacourt addressed his question directly to the sergeant.

“There is an extra window, sir,” the young man replied promptly. “I counted the attic windows from the inside while I was up there and there were twelve. But from the outside, there are thirteen.”

“Odd indeed. But perhaps you miscounted?”

“It is easily solved, however, sir. Sergeant Daly and I will simply check the attics again,” Captain Overton said.

“This is nonsense.” Mr. Delacourt’s words of protest scarcely registered with the two soldiers, who were distracted by Rosie. Clearly distressed, she had risen from the table and moved swiftly toward the door. Martha hurried after her.

“Stay where you are, please, Miss Delacourt.”

“Captain Overton.” Mr. Delacourt drew the captain’s attention back to the table. “Kindly modify your tone when you address my daughter. You are not issuing orders to one of your men when you speak to her. You cannot be surprised at her anxiety after you have practically kept us prisoners in this room tonight. Now it appears you are proposing to repeat the performance. Well, I must inform you that I will be contacting the local magistrate on the morrow to complain about your conduct.”

The captain bowed. “Nevertheless, sir, we will search the attics again.”

“No, I cannot let you go up there.” All eyes turned to Rosie, who had paused by the door. Her voice was oddly calm, and she raised Tom’s old flintlock with hands that were perfectly steady.

“Rosie, no!” Martha tried to grasp her arm to restrain her, but it was too late. The gun went off with a deafening retort, and Rosie was thrown backward with the force of it. At the same time, Captain Overton clutched his chest then, with a look of dawning surprise, pitched face forward onto the floor.

Time seemed to stand still. Nobody moved, and it felt to Martha that, if they stayed that way, it might be as if nothing had happened. As if the captain were not lying on the floor with a slowly spreading crimson puddle beneath him. As if Rosie were not raising a shaking hand to her lips and turning stricken eyes to her cousin’s face.

The spell was broken as the gun clattered to the floor, and with a strangled sob, Rosie hurled herself into Martha’s arms.

“You’ve killed him.” Sergeant Daly turned to Rosie, his eyes widening in horror. “You’ve killed the captain. It was cold-blooded murder.”

“No.” Mr. Delacourt rose to his feet, moving to his daughter’s side. “Dear Lord, you cannot believe that was her intention.”

The sergeant thrust him aside and made a lunge toward Rosie. Beau, sensing that his mistress was in danger, roused himself from his position on the hearthrug and hurled himself at the sergeant, pinning him to the floor. As he struggled to shake off the dog, Tom hauled the sergeant to his feet by the front of his red coat. He crashed his fist into the young man’s face, knocking him unconscious, before dropping him back to the floor.

“Go and get Jack and Fraser,” he instructed Harry as he knelt beside Captain Overton, turning his lifeless form over onto its back. “Martha, help me here, please.”

Jack and Fraser burst into the room minutes later, alerted already to the situation by the sound of the shot and by a brief outline from Harry.

“It was an accident.” Rosie’s voice was little more than a whisper. Her face was as white as the lace at her throat. Jack drew her into the circle of his arms. “I meant to warn him, to give you time to get away. I never meant to kill him.”

“He is dead, nonetheless.” Tom stepped back from the body. He looked over at the sergeant. “And we have a witness. Sergeant Daly over there saw everything.”

“Then we must make sure our fine sergeant here doubts his own eyes.” Fraser’s voice was decisive. “First things first. Let us get him trussed up and out of here so that we can lay some plans. Tom, d’ye have some rope? Help me carry him, Jack. And while we’re about it, this room is no place for a corpse. Martha—” he paused, realising his error, “—I mean, Miss Wantage, will ye no take Miss Rosie into the breakfast room and see if there is a wee drop a brandy to warm her? And maybe take one yourself?” His smile was reassuring, and she let out a soft sigh. Fraser would make it right. Somehow she knew he would.

It seemed to take an age before the men joined them in the breakfast parlour. Rosie had passed through tears and shaking to a state of shocked numbness. She seemed comforted to have Jack near again, however, and he held her icy hands in his to warm them.

“The cellars around here have seen a wide variety of prisoners these last months.” Fraser rubbed the back of his head reminiscently.

“What is your plan?” Jack asked.

“This Sir Clive ye speak of, he saw me at the stables the other day. He heard me speak so he knows I’m a Scot. Mr. Delacourt and Harry must let it be known that I have been holding ye all hostage. Ye were all too afraid of me to do aught but follow what I told you to do. Of Jack there is to be no mention. It must be as if he was never here.”

“I will say nothing of the sort,” Mr. Delacourt objected. “I’ll not malign you in that way, Fraser. You have been a perfect gentleman in your dealings with us.”

“Whisht now, you must do as I say in this, sir. It matters nought what anyone thinks of me. It’s Rosie we’ve to think of. Ye’re to say I have been holding ye all against your will ever since the stramash at Swarkestone Bridge. Tonight, when the soldiers came, I donned the disguise of a woman. ’Twas while I was wearing that guise that I shot the captain. When I am gone, you must release him and tell him all of this. Tell him Tom clouted him before I could shoot him as well.”

Jack gave a snort of laughter. “You’d have the sergeant believe he mistook
you
for Rosie?”

“And have you a better plan to put before us, my fine lord? Especially since Mr. Delacourt here will confirm that Rosie and Martha have been away for the last two days visiting friends in the northeast. Ye must insist that Rosie was’nae here when the captain was shot.”

“Ah, now I see what you mean. If he cannot produce Rosie to support his claim, he cannot prove it. That settles it,” Jack said. “We must set off for the border at once and, married or not, Rosie
must
come with us. We have to get her away from here, sir. Tonight.”

“But what of her reputation if she goes with you while you remain unwed?” Mr. Delacourt’s face was ashen with shock.

“You need not fear for her, Cousin Henry.” Martha surprised everyone, including herself with her next words. “She will be safe. I guarantee it…because I will go with them as well, as her chaperone.”

For Martha, the first two days of their journey had passed in a bleak blur of misty northern landscape. By the time they had gathered together what they needed for the journey, the midnight hour had been upon them. On leaving Delacourt Grange, they had travelled through the darkness and long into the next day until Derbyshire was a distant memory. Crossing the vast shire county of Yorkshire had taken several days, during which they had avoided the main turnpike roads and followed the canal-side tracks that led them past endless forests and dark, brooding hills. In determined silence, they had pressed onward through Durham. Now, as darkness was coming around again, they were on the soil of the ancient borderland where both Jack and Martha had been born. A light drizzle had welcomed them into Northumberland, and this had now become a steady downpour. The horses were bone tired and so were the four travellers. Jack had insisted on this strange, zigzag route across the country so that he could pass close to his estate at St. Anton.

“Since I am a wanted man, I cannot very well march up to the door of my ancestral home and announce my presence,” he said, with a trace of sadness lingering in his voice. “But I would like to know that things are going well on the estate in my absence.”

Mr. Delacourt had provided funds for the journey as well as horses, and almost a week after they left Delacourt Grange, they clattered wearily into the courtyard of a coaching inn in the medieval coastal town of Bamburgh. Fraser had chosen this humble place, pointing out that they could not afford to draw attention to themselves by spending time at one of the more prestigious inns along the main road into Scotland. Despite the humble exterior of the hostelry, Martha thought she had never seen anything quite as beautiful as the golden glow of the lighted sconces that beckoned a welcome in the doorway. Jack, with the natural authority of one born to a title, took charge and went inside to bespeak rooms and food. Fraser helped Rosie and then Martha to dismount.

“Ye look exhausted, lass.” His voice was low so that only Martha could hear.

She gave a quiet laugh and shook her head. “Don’t concern yourself about me. It is an odd circumstance, but I have become accustomed of late to managing with very little sleep.”

He groaned in response. “Stop it, lass. Ye’ll have me dragging ye off to a barn and taking ye quick and rough to get rid of the ache I have for you in my loins.”

Her own breathing quickened instantly in response. “You’ll not hear me complaining, Scotsman,” she murmured, breaking off the exchange abruptly as Jack came back to them.

“The horses need rest, so I have taken rooms here for two nights. I know you want to be over the border as soon as we can, Fraser. But it will do us no good to wear our mounts into the ground before we even reach Hadrian’s Wall. It means we will have to kick our heels here tomorrow, but I intend to take Rosie to view St. Anton Court, the house she will one day call her home.” He took Rosie’s arm and they went inside.

Martha was about to follow them, but Fraser forestalled her with a light grip on her elbow. “How far are we from your own home, lass?”

“A mile or two, no more.” Her voice was quiet.

“What is your wish for the morrow?”

She thought for a moment. “I would like to go there,” she said, raising her eyes to his face. “But with only you for company, if you please.”

“It shall be as you desire.” She wished, not for the first time, that she could read his expression when he looked at her in that way.

The food was good, but Martha was so drowsy that she could not have said, ten minutes after the meal was cleared, what it was she had eaten. Within minutes of tumbling into the bed she and Rosie shared, she had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.