A Kiss for a Highlander (4 page)

Martha had fallen instantly, irrevocably and stubbornly in love with the old dower house. Mr. Delacourt, for his part, had categorically refused to allow her to take up residence there alone.

“It is not necessary for you to do so, my dear. Delacourt Grange must be your home. We are your family now. Besides, you are too young to live alone. ’Twould not be seemly. And, in any case—” his voice held a note of triumphant finality, “—the house is not fit to be lived in.”

He never quite knew how it happened. All of his objections were unarguably sound, and Martha had not raised a single argument. Yet within six months, the old dower house was not only restored to its former glory, it had become Miss Martha Wantage’s home. Mr. Delacourt was forced to agree that it was an arrangement that suited everyone. The children spent the day at the old dower house for their lessons, and Martha often ate with the family at Delacourt Grange in the evenings. She was able to preserve the veneer of independence that was so important to her. Mr. Delacourt, meanwhile, was able to reap the benefits of her considerable organisational skills whilst still indulging his reclusive tendencies.

Mr. Delacourt occasionally knew a moment or two of trepidation. When the day arrived that Rosie married and left Delacourt Grange, he believed that Martha would feel under an obligation to go with her to care for her children. But he dismissed such fears as nonsensical. Rosie, although the reigning belle of the neighbourhood, was young and showed no signs of flying the nest just yet. And it wasn’t as if Martha herself was likely to receive any offers of marriage!

“I think the one upstairs is definitely sleeping easier,” Rosie said, as she joined Martha at the kitchen table for a late breakfast. “Are you quite sure there are no signs of life from the other one?”

The question struck them both as so funny that they began to laugh uncontrollably. It was into this scene of mirth that Tom strolled some minutes later.

“I take it he is not dead, then?” He pulled another chair forward so that he could join them.

“Which one?” Rosie asked, mopping her eyes on her handkerchief as Martha signalled frantically to her. They had decided not to tell anyone about the inconvenient appearance of the second rebel. Martha’s reasoning was that, if he regained consciousness, they could speedily send him about his business by warning him that he must leave Mr. Delacourt’s property immediately or risk be handed over to the redcoats. The fewer people who knew about him, the less chance there was of attracting the soldiers to their home and the fact that they were sheltering the first rebel being discovered. Rosie had been unconvinced. A man bold enough to break into a house in the dead of night might not be cowed by feminine threats, she had reasoned.

“Don’t worry,” Martha had said, with more assurance than she felt. “He will be too pleased to escape the hangman’s noose to try any further nonsense.”

If he died, of course, the situation was altered. Martha would be guilty of murder, and a whole new subterfuge, such as burial of a large and cumbersome body, would be required. Even if he was only a Scotsman, Martha pointed out, murder was a sin. She would rather not advertise her crime to the world.

“If he dies, it will take the two of us a week to dig a hole large enough to bury someone that big,” Rosie had said, with a glum expression.

“Rosie is being nonsensical.” Martha frowned in her young cousin’s direction. “We were trying to fathom how many rebels may be lying low around the countryside in houses like ours. But do tell us, Tom, what news is there of the prince?” She poured milk into a tankard for Tom and cut him a thick slice of bread.

“It is much as expected. The Jacobite army is on the march back toward the border, pursued, so it is said, by Cumberland’s troops.”

“Will there be more battles?” Rosie’s eyes were troubled.

“Undoubtedly. If Cumberland can catch up with the rebels, that is. The prince is equally determined to stay one step ahead. If Cumberland cannot meet the prince and face him in England, he will cross the border and follow the Jacobites deep into Scotland with the goal of re-establishing the king’s supremacy over that land. It is a battle of wills now between the two men.”

“And yet they are kinsmen, these two who would meet on the battlefield and do each other to death,” Martha said.

“Yes, indeed. Cumberland is the prince’s distant cousin and the two are of a similar age. In other circumstances they might even have been friends. But their loyalties lie in very different directions. The prince, of course, is sworn to fight for the true bloodline of the Stuarts through the Scottish crown. Cumberland is the youngest son of the current king and must defend the Hanoverian cause.”

“I confess I am at a loss to comprehend why the highlanders are on the side of the prince,” Rosie said.

“It has become as much a Scottish civil war as a fight between England and Scotland. It’s no wonder you cannot keep up with it all. I doubt the prince himself would be able to unravel the intricacies of his own support.” Tom shook his head over the vagaries of the warring sides.

“The man upstairs does not look like a highlander.” A soft blush touched Rosie’s cheeks. Martha and Tom exchanged a look laden with foreboding.

“He may be an English or Irish nobleman loyal to the Stuart cause, even possibly one of the French nobility who form part of the prince’s retinue. The Jacobites are a diverse group, as are the king’s supporters. Whatever he may turn out to be, perhaps I had best go and check on him?”

He rose from the table and Rosie went with him. She turned back at the door. “Will you be joining us, Martha?”

“No, I have something I need to attend to in the cellar.” Was it guilt that drew her eyes constantly back to the closed door? The persistent memory of the brief touch of the Scotsman’s lips against her own had left her emotions in turmoil. Restlessness and confusion were new emotions for Martha, and she wasn’t sure she liked them.

“Again?” Rosie bit her lip as though catching the next words before they could escape her mouth. “You will be careful, won’t you?”

“Certainly I will,” Martha said, her unruffled manner disguising the heavy thud of her heart. “It may be very cluttered down there, Rosie, but I wouldn’t describe it as hazardous.”

“I am being foolish, of course…” Rosie cast a glance up at Tom’s increasingly bewildered countenance. With a little laugh and a shrug, she made her way out of the room and up the stairs.

“Proof indeed, if such a thing were needed, that a handsome invalid can do much to disorder a maiden’s mind,” Tom said to Martha, before he followed her.

Martha began to clear the table as she pondered the matter of how to get the highlander in the cellar out of the house—alive or dead—without alerting Tom, or anyone else, to his presence. She was still considering the matter when a sound like a hunting horn startled her so much that she almost dropped the jug she was holding. Master Harry Delacourt burst into the kitchen with his devoted retriever, Beau, close on his heels. Harry had recently attained his twelfth summer and was a sturdy, athletic young gentleman who had something of his sister’s countenance, but none of her grace. The recent incursion by Jacobite troops into the county had fired his imagination, and he wore a wooden sword and an expression of importance.

“What’s going on, Cousin Martha?” he asked, while stuffing apples into his pockets.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Why is Rosie staying here with you, instead of at home?”

“I asked her to keep me company following the invasion,” Martha improvised rapidly.

Harry’s eyes lit up. “I will take Rosie’s place. I can protect you,” he exclaimed, brandishing his sword with enthusiasm. “You will need a guard to keep you safe from these desperate brigands.”

“I do not need protection, thank you, only a companion,” Martha told him firmly and he shrugged. He had clearly decided that, on balance, spending time with his prim cousin would be less interesting than hiding out in the woods to watch for marauding rebels. She might even expect him to work on his handwriting, always a contentious issue between them.

“Why on earth do you need all those apples?” Martha eyed him in some astonishment.

“Sustenance.” He went out, his swagger only slightly impaired by his bulging pockets. His faithful hound threw a longing look in the direction of the breakfast table before reluctantly trailing behind him.

Chapter Four

There was no point in putting it off any longer. She really must go into the cellar and see if the highlander had regained consciousness. Martha found herself in the grip of conflicting emotions, something that she had never experienced before. How could she long to see the highlander again and yet dread it at the same time? This foolishness must end. The sooner he was gone, the sooner she could rest easy.
Easier
, she corrected herself. There was the handsome hero in the back bedchamber and the matter of young Rosie’s tender heart to be dealt with.

Reaching for the tinderbox, Martha lit a candle and drew the key from her pocket. The cellar door swung inward. How was it possible for the darkness to suddenly appear
darker
? Menace seemed to hang in the very dust motes of the air. Somehow the enormity of the situation appeared greater now, and she almost stepped back and called for Tom. Giving herself a mental scold, she trod carefully down the steep stairs, raising her candle high so that she could view the figure on the floor. He had not moved, and that troubled Martha more than any threats or recriminations might have done. He
should
have come round by now. Hated Scotsman or not, the idea that it was her hand that had struck the blow that left him incapacitated—or worse, had killed him—set her nerves jangling.

As Martha knelt beside him, placing her candle on the floor, the highlander’s eyes opened. Too late, she realised her mistake. He had tricked her. Thrusting the blanket aside, he sprang to his feet before she could even move. For such a giant of a man, his movements were surprisingly lithe. With a hand that easily encircled her upper arm, he hauled her upright and jerked her hard against his body.

“Well now—” his breath was warm on her cheek as he held her close in the half-light, “—it seems ’tis my turn to be the captor. My chance to pay you back for your treatment of me. What shall it be first? Will I take up the scissors as you did and rid you of these fine locks?”

He caught his other hand in her hair, loosening its pins and jerking her head back at a painful angle. His eyes were scornful as they scanned her face. Martha bit her lip. Not for all the world would she attempt to explain herself or beg for mercy. Not from a Scotsman.

“Or will I just clout you over the back of the head with that candleholder and leave you to lie in your own blood? Maybe I’ll tie you all around with rope so that you can’t move, so that your arms and legs go numb and the cold from the cellar floor seeps into your very bones. And once I’ve got you tied just as I want you, will I then kiss your vile English lips and whisper how much I hate you in return?”

Martha felt the blood flame into her cheeks.
He had been conscious when she kissed him!
She squirmed in his grip in an effort to get loose, but it was like trying to break free from manacles of iron. Inexorably, he drew her closer, bending his head so that their mouths were a mere inch apart.

Martha lifted her chin defiantly. Life had taught her the hard way how to hide her fear. She wasn’t about to start displaying it now. “Is that what you will do to me, Scotsman? Then what? Will you rape me? Isn’t that what your kind do to the women of the enemy?”

She felt his whole body stiffen with anger. His mouth—the beautiful mouth that had prompted her touch—thinned into a hard line. When he spoke, his voice was as cold and remote as the mountains of his homeland. “I’d not take you, Englishwoman, neither in rage nor in wanting. Not if my life depended on it.”

His words should have reassured her, but to her chagrin, Martha felt the blush deepen.
What did you expect, Martha Wantage?
The insidious whisper sneered inside her head. Y
ou are so plain that you can repulse even a depraved, undiscerning Scot.
Although “plain” was too generous, the demon of self-hatred in her mind decided. “Ugly” perhaps, or “hideous” suited her better.

The highlander was speaking again, drawing her attention back to him. “Lucky for you, I’ve no time to waste on banter. I’ve no wish to spend a minute longer than I need on this hated soil. And being a more considerate jailer than you, I’m going to bind you to that chair over there, rather than leave you to take your chances on the floor with the cold and the rats.”

“Rats?” The word came out on a squeak, and she cast a quick glance around into the darker reaches of the cellar.

He laughed. “Aye, rats. You are English so you should feel at home among them.”

He carried her over to the chair as easily as if she had been a child and thrust her down onto it, holding her in place with one huge palm flat against her shoulder. Swiftly and adeptly, he looped the rope around her waist, securing her firmly to the chair, with her arms at her sides. Unlike her own clumsy attempts of the previous night, Martha decided it was obvious that he
had
done this before.

“Hold still, wench,” he said, as she started to struggle. The hand at her shoulder clamped down harder just as she jerked back. Martha flinched at the sound of her gown tearing under the grip of his strong fingers. She was looking up into at his face so that, even in the dim light, she saw the shock register on his features as he stared at her damaged flesh.

“A souvenir from your countrymen,” she said, surprised at the calm tone of her own voice. His expression was inscrutable. Something that could have been disgust, but might have been pity, flickered in the hazel depths of his eyes. Given a choice, she’d have preferred disgust. “I was fifteen years old when a party of reivers pinned me down and set fire to me.”

“I am no reiver.”

“You are a Scotsman. It is the same thing.” She kept her gaze steady on his.

For a moment she thought he wanted to say more. With a muttered curse, he turned back to the task of securing the restraints. “With any luck your friends will find you before you starve to death.” He turned back at the top of the cellar stairs. “Although ’tis hard to tell with one as skinny and pale as you are, Englishwoman. You would appear to be halfway there already.”

White teeth flashed in a grin that held no humour. Then he was gone and she was plunged into darkness.

“The wound appears free from any infection.” Fraser heard Tom’s voice as he paused outside the bedchamber with his ear to the door. Deciding that now was as good a time as any to make his presence known, he pushed the door wide and strode into the room.

“What the devil…?” Tom spun round from his position beside the bed, where he was examining Lord Jack’s injury and changing his bandages. Strolling forward in an unhurried manner, Fraser placed a forearm like the trunk of a young tree around Tom’s throat and jerked it tight. At the same time, he pressed the tip of his dirk under the other man’s chin. Tom’s face instantly went a deep shade of beetroot. Rosie gave a little shriek and started forward, but Tom held up a warning hand and she stepped back. Glancing over her shoulder, she looked to Fraser as if she was weighing up the option of escaping to get help.

“Stay where you are, lassie. You’ll not get another chance to find a sleekit wee witch to bash me on the head and lock me away.” Fraser pushed the blade deeper and a thin trickle of blood tracked down Tom’s neck and onto his shirt.

“Fraser.” The voice from the bed was quiet, cultured and very English. Fraser turned to stare at Lord Jack, a combination of surprise and joy flooding through his veins. He loosened his stranglehold slightly and felt Tom draw a shuddering breath. “Do let my rescuer go, there’s a good fellow. You’ll have these fine people thinking we are desperate ruffians who have forgotten our manners.”

“Lord Jack, my God! I thought ye were close to death.” Almost absent-mindedly, Fraser released Tom.

Although Lord Jack was alert and lucid, his fine features were deathly pale and etched with pain. He held out a hand toward Rosie, saying in formal tones, “I should kiss your hands and feet in thanks for rescuing me, sweetheart. Unfortunately, my current incapacity prevents me from doing so. I am Jack Lindsey and I will forever be your most humble servant. I must also apologise for the conduct of my friend here. He can be somewhat overexuberant at times.”

Echoing his formality, Rosie placed her hand in his. “I am enchanted to meet you too, sir. My name is Rosie Delacourt.”

A twinkle lit the blue depths of his eyes. “You are so beautiful that I thought you must be a dream, Miss Delacourt.”

“Aye, it’s all very well starting one of your flirtations, my lord,” Fraser said, unimpressed with these formalities. He cast a frowning look at Tom and then allowed his gaze to travel over Rosie’s blushing features. “But who’s to say they’re not on the side of the German Elector? Or looking to get a reward for placing our heads in a noose?”

“If they were after the reward, they’d have handed me over to the redcoats as soon as they found me. If they were for the king, they’d have done likewise or left me to die. They are on our side, man.”

Reluctantly, Fraser was forced to acknowledge the reason of this argument. He was tired of this place. Weariness and hunger assailed him. His head throbbed, and all he wanted now was to feel the soil of Scotland beneath his feet once more. “Well in that case, we can go. The prince is barely four days’ ride ahead of us.” He turned to Tom. “If Lord Jack is right and you follow the true cause, then ye’ll give us horses and food for the journey?”

“I daresay my master might give you any assistance he can render,” Tom agreed. “But Jack here cannot ride. Even if he could use his arm, he has lost so much blood that his recovery will take some time.”

“Is it the truth he speaks, my lord?” Fraser felt the frown crease his brow. Surely fate could not be so unkind as to trap them here indefinitely?

“It is. I’m as weak as a kitten.” Jack’s eyes, when he lifted them to Fraser’s face, were full of regret.

“How long then? Days? A week? Speak out, man.” Fraser turned his frustration on Tom, grinding the words out impatiently.

“Weeks, at least. I can’t say for sure, but you’ll see the new year arrive here in Derbyshire, my lord. February may well have made its appearance before you have enough strength to ride any distance.”

Fraser swore long and low under his breath.

“There is a lady present,” Jack reminded him.

“Oh, aye. Your pardon, miss.” He nodded at Rosie. “But we can’nae wait that long. No, we must be away tonight. The morrow at the latest. I’ll care for you on the road. They’ll be looking for you, my lord. I told you ’twas folly for you to show your face at Swarkestone.”

“So you did. How nice for you to be proved right.” Jack bit his lip. “You must go, Fraser, but I’ll not endanger you by coming with you and slowing you down.”

“And I’ll not go without you. We fight together and we fall together. That has ever been our way.” Raw emotion throbbed through each syllable. How could Lord Jack think he would abandon him here? “I’ll not leave this place without you. Even though yon crabbit wifie tried to loosen my brains from my head when I came only to see how you were faring.”

Frowning as she tried to follow the meaning of his words, Rosie exclaimed in sudden dismay, “Oh, dear Lord. Martha! What have you done to her, you hateful man?”

Fraser felt his brow darken once more. He touched the back of his head reminiscently. “Aye, hateful, is it? I did no more to her than she did to me. Less, if truth be told.”

“Where is she?”

He remained stubbornly silent under her accusatory stare. Then, with a glance at Jack’s taut face, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Cellar.” As Tom and Rosie both made for the door, he halted them with a question. “Och, can ye no just leave her there? Gi’ us all some peace?”

Martha tensed when the cellar door opened and a man’s large silhouette filled the frame. Why would the highlander come back so soon? He had been outraged by the kiss she had bestowed on him while he was bound and helpless. Had he changed his mind about taking his revenge? Memories of her home in flames, the bodies of her family scattered like discarded dolls on the beloved grass of her homeland and the scent of her own burning flesh crowded in on her. The edges of her vision darkened, and she sagged weakly against the rope that held her upright.

“Oh, quickly, Tom.” Rosie’s voice came to Martha as though from a distance. “These ropes are so tight, I cannot loosen them.”

It seemed to take an age for Tom to free her, and when Martha did emerge from the cellar, clinging to Tom’s arm and blinking at the overbright light, she was greeted by the sight of the highlander. He was seated with his muddy, booted feet up on her spotlessly clean kitchen table, cutting himself a second slice of the bread he had taken from her pantry. This, it seemed, was required to go with the hunk of her cheese that he was eating. The sight of him was exactly what she needed to restore the steel to her backbone.

“Get that Scots devil out of my house,” she said in a tone of sharpened flint. Releasing her hold on Tom, she clutched the torn edges of her dress together over her shoulder with one hand while trying to repair the damage to her hair with the other.

“We might have a bit of a problem there.” Tom guided her to a chair. “He is refusing to go anywhere until the injured man—who has regained consciousness and is a nobleman called Jack Lindsey—is well enough to leave with him.”

“How dare you?” Martha’s voice shook as she addressed the highlander. The object of her fury continued with his repast without response. He appeared to be oblivious to the storm of emotion he was provoking within her. “You think you can break into my house, molest my cousin, lock me in my own cellar and then demand the right to remain under my roof at your leisure?”

“Whisht now, woman. Hush your mouth.” His hazel gaze, when it flickered over her, held no interest. She might as well have been part of the furniture.

Martha quivered with outrage. “I will not be spoken to in such a way, in my own home…”

“Choose then. Will it be the door or the window by which you take your leave? Because I’ll be happy to help you on your way out of either.” Fraser rose to his feet, planting his hands on the table as he loomed over her. From his expression, she knew he was serious.