A Kiss for a Highlander (5 page)

“Far be it from me to interrupt this exchange of pleasantries,” Tom said, in the voice of a long-suffering parent who has been forced to intervene between squabbling offspring. “But might I suggest we postpone this conversation until Mr. Delacourt has been consulted? Any delay in deciding what action to take next might well bring the king’s soldiers a step closer to the door. I for one am quite fond of the idea of keeping my head attached to my spine, if at all possible.”

Martha bit her lip. “Very well,” she said coldly, turning her head away from the Scotsman’s glare.

“Aye, ’tis good sense you’re talking.” Fraser nodded, straightening his stance. He returned to his seat and to what appeared to be the more important matter of filling his belly.

Mr. Delacourt, when summoned to be formally introduced to his houseguest, regarded Jack thoughtfully. “Might you be related to the Lindsey family who reside in the county of Northumberland?”

“I am amazed at your wide knowledge, sir,” Jack admitted. “I am indeed of that family.”

His host viewed him over the top of his spectacles. “Then you are, in fact, the Earl of St. Anton.”

Martha tensed at the mention of the title. A glance around at her companions confirmed that no one had noticed her sudden rapt attention to everything Jack had to say.

“At your service, sir.”

Mr. Delacourt’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the families of the British nobility never failed to impress his acquaintance, and he greatly enjoyed showing it off. “I know your uncle a little, although we have very opposite views when it comes to politics. You are welcome to stay here, my lord,” he said. “At least until you are fully recovered from your injuries and able to travel. Tom tells me that may take some time, since you have lost a considerable amount of blood and are likely to suffer some loss of use of your injured arm.”

Jack struggled then to raise himself on one elbow. He failed miserably, a fact that seemed to illustrate Mr. Delacourt’s words, and gave up the effort. “Sir, I cannot thank you enough for your help. Believe me when I tell you that I will not stay here a moment longer than is necessary. I would not, for the entire world, place you and your family in danger.”

“Your sentiments do you credit, Lord St. Anton. But if we can come up with a creditable story, I believe you will be safe here. The focus of attention has shifted back across the border once again.” He proceeded to fill Jack in on the prince’s retreat from Derby, the details of which he had gleaned from his newspaper. “A few troops remain nearby. Their task is to round up any deserters or stragglers, and our object must be to do all we can to shield your identity from them.”

At that moment, Fraser strolled into the room eating an apple. “The big feller, Tom, he kens a thing or two, but I was right about yon wee peely-wally lass.” He nodded in Martha’s direction. “What she needs is a good skelp about her backside.”

Shaken to the core by the revelation about Jack’s identity, Martha scarcely registered the insult. Mr. Delacourt, on the other hand, was so startled at the sight of the large Scotsman that he raised his brows in alarm. “I fear that our task may be somewhat harder than I had originally anticipated.”

This comment struck Jack as hugely entertaining, and he gave a shout of laughter that left him weak and gasping. When he had recovered, the conversation among the four men became serious and focussed on the dilemma facing them.

“It seems that you and I are here as bystanders,” Martha murmured to Rosie. A plain blue dimity gown with a high neck had replaced the dress Fraser had torn, and her light-brown hair was pinned up in its usual neat style. She hoped a casual observer might believe that her natural serenity had been restored.

“The whole point of bringing Jack to the old dower house instead of to Delacourt Grange was that there is a priest hole here in which he can hide should the need arise,” Tom explained.

“The problem with that plan would appear to be the fact that his lordship’s injuries leave him too incapacitated to move with any ease. He would have great difficulty getting into the priest hole at all. It is a very narrow space,” Mr. Delacourt replied.

“Aye, but only let Elector George’s men come close enough, and I’ll know how to deal with them.” Fraser’s hand strayed to the hilt of his dirk. Martha felt her lip curl. Must he take every opportunity to demonstrate his virility?

“No.” Jack shook his head. “You would bring the whole regiment down upon us within minutes that way. I’ll not have Mr. Delacourt and his family placed in danger. What do you propose, sir?”

“Well, in your case the task is made easier by the fact that you are a gentleman and so well spoken—” he cast a brief, apologetic look in Fraser’s direction, “—I think that we should move you to Delacourt Grange after all and pass you off as a distant kinsman. No-one need know the nature of your illness. We will say that you were travelling the country when you were struck down by a sudden bout of stomach trouble. That will account for your lack of colour and general weakness. As good fortune would have it, you were close to my home and naturally you have come to stay with me to convalesce.”

“You are very good to agree to such a deception on my behalf, sir,” Jack said.

“That still leaves us with one very large problem.” Tom eyed Fraser who, with his muddied and bloodstained clothing, bandaged head and badly shorn hair, dominated the room.

“Fraser must remain here in the old dower house—”

“No!” Martha exclaimed, startled out of her composure. She was even more annoyed when Fraser’s voice chimed with hers in an identical chorus of horror.
What reason did he have to be outraged at the suggestion?
“Cousin Henry, you cannot seriously expect me—an unmarried woman—to allow a
man
to live under my roof? It would be unseemly.”

“Worry not, crabbit one. I’ve no designs on you. I’d as soon lie with the auld heifer I saw in yon field.” Fraser paused and studied her ramrod-straight figure. “Sooner,” he added.

“Martha has a point,” Tom said. “Apart from the proprieties, it would appear most odd and cause some talk in the neighbourhood, which is surely contrary to what we wish to achieve?”

“Not if we allow it to be known that Fraser here is Martha’s brother.”

“But he is
Scottish
.” Martha’s protest was partly drowned out by Fraser’s derisive shout of laughter.

“People hereabouts know that you are from the border lands, my dear, although you have resided here in Derbyshire for many years. If Fraser could perhaps make an effort to tone down his accent…?” Mr. Delacourt paused delicately.

“I shall do my level best, old chap,” Fraser said, with a mocking bow.

“Thank you. A passable, although not quite perfect attempt. I venture to think we shall contrive to muddle through until Jack here is able to travel across the border and rejoin the prince.”

“Will it not appear too much of a coincidence that we have two visitors, both of them strangers to the area, and both arriving so soon after the Jacobite invasion?” Martha asked, desperately casting around for reasons why the plan would not work. “We generally live a very quiet existence.”

“It may excite some comment, but we must stick to our story. If any soldiers do come, I think it wise for Fraser to take to the priest hole. Lord St. Anton, on the other hand—”

“I do beg your pardon, Cousin Henry, but…” Martha, unable to contain her emotions any longer, committed the crowning social solecism of interrupting. She stepped forward and addressed Jack directly. “Are you indeed Lord St. Anton?”

He smiled, and in spite of his pallor and fatigue, she thought how captivating he was and how hard it was going to be to protect Rosie from his charm. “So I have always been led to believe. Why do you ask?”

“I’m sorry. I must appear dreadfully rude. You see, until he died, my father was a tenant on the St. Anton estate.” Martha did her best to hide the sudden sorrow the memory provoked, but she was horribly afraid that her voice hitched on the words.

“What is your name?” The gentleness of his tone confirmed her worst fears. She had betrayed her emotion in front of all these people. Worst of all, she had shown her feelings in front of the Scotsman.

“Wantage. Martha Wantage.”

“Ah.” Recognition dawned on his face. She wanted to beg him not to show her any sympathy. Not here. Not now. It seemed he understood the plea in her eyes. “Your father was a good man,” he said quietly.

Mr. Delacourt cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “As I was saying, if the king’s men do come, Jack here should remain in full view and play the part of my young relative. The first job, I think, will be to find Fraser some suitable clothing. Tom, you must be a similar size. And perhaps, Martha my dear, you could do something about his hair?”

Martha, glad to have a semblance of normality restored, eyed her prospective houseguest with dislike. He gave her a bland, tawny stare in return. Jack and Mr. Delacourt thrashed out a few final details of the plan, and then Tom took Fraser off to find some less-obvious garb. Before long, Mr. Delacourt succumbed to the call of his books and returned to Delacourt Grange. Rosie brought a glass of water and supported Jack to raise his head in order to help him drink it.

“Why do you frown so?” She scanned his face. Concern darkened the silver-grey depths of her eyes.

He sighed. “I feel so helpless. It does not suit my code of honour that you should be forced to wait on me while I lie here like a feeble child.”

Rosie smiled and, as if she was unable to resist the temptation to touch him, smoothed a stray lock of hair back from his forehead.

“What a muttonheaded idea. And you a grand gentleman…an earl, forsooth. Do stop fretting and try to get some sleep.”

Jack chuckled at her indulgent tone. “Yes, nurse.” He returned her smile, joining in the ready laughter which bubbled on her lips.

Martha, observing this little scene, could not help but be touched at the tenderness that had sprung up so quickly between them. At the same time, a sense of misgiving gripped her. This fledgling romance was not destined to end well.

Chapter Five

Half an hour later, Martha hardly recognised the tall, powerfully built man who strode into her kitchen through the open back door. It was only the bandage on his head and his badly cut hair that alerted her to his identity. Somehow, the severely cut breeches, shirt and jerkin Tom had lent him only accentuated the breadth of Fraser’s shoulders and the strong muscles of his thighs. It was plain from his expression, however, that he did not approve of his new attire.

He plucked at the cloth of his breeches with distaste. “I look like a cursed lowlander. ’Tis unmanly and a reproach to my heritage for me to appear in public without my sporran, kilt and dirk.”

Privately deciding that Fraser had far too much manliness for any garment, Martha disregarded this comment. “Sit here while I cut your hair and shave you,” she said, indicating a seat at the kitchen table.

He regarded her with suspicion. “Must I present my throat to you while you’ve a blade in your hand, wee crabbit one?”

“Yes, and I do wish you’d stop calling me that. I lived in Northumberland until ten years ago. I know exactly what it means.”

“Aye, ill-tempered, unpleasant and all-round disagreeable.” He grinned, a gleam of genuine humour in his eyes. “It suits you just fine.”

Ignoring the look she threw at him, he took a seat and, leaning his elbows on the table, made no further comment while she removed his bandages and trimmed his hair into a semblance of order. The red-gold curls clustered close into the nape of his neck and over his ears, and Martha concentrated on her task rather than his proximity. He smelled of masculinity. It was a warm, earthy, musky scent that was out of place in her kitchen. Whenever she moved into the line of his vision, she was conscious of his unwavering stare on her face.

“Northumberland was once a part of the kingdom of Scotland,” Fraser said. Martha gritted her teeth and did not respond. “Aye, and is it not true that the Northumbrians are known for their wild and revolutionary ways? Before the stabilising influence of a Scottish king on the English throne, was it not known as the most lawless county in the land?”

“At least we know who our enemies are, unlike the highland clansmen who seem determined to annihilate each other,” she said.

His jaw tensed at that, and he lapsed into silence so that the only sound for several minutes was the click of Martha’s scissor blades.

“How old are you?” he asked. The question was so unexpected that the scissors made a jumpy arc that came perilously close to his ear before Martha got them back under control.

“That has nothing to do with you,” she said in her best teacher’s voice. He waited, and eventually she capitulated. After all, what did it matter? “I am six and twenty.”

“Past the marriageable age, ’tis true, but not quite at your last prayers. Why is it that you try so hard to appear older?”

That was going too far. No-one had ever spoken to her that way before. Ignoring the peculiar lump his words brought to her throat, she attempted to change the subject. “Where are your other clothes?”

“Why?” He leaned back slightly, watching her now that she had finished her task.

“They will give your identity away. I don’t want them to be discovered.”

A savage fire blazed gold in the hazel depths of his eyes. “That’s right. They are my identity. I’ll not let you dispose of the only things I have left of my name, my pride and my honour.”

“I was going to offer to wash them and store them safely until you are able to wear them again,” Martha said placidly. “Believe it or not, I do know the significance of the kilt and the tartan to your countrymen.”

The fierce look faded slightly. “You grew up on Lord Jack’s estate, at St. Anton?”

“Yes, on the northern part of the estate, close to Bamburgh. My father had land there and farmed cattle.” She didn’t need to explain what that meant. Although Fraser was a highlander and, therefore, hailed from an area far to the north of the border between England and Scotland, he would know and understand the practice of reiving. Conflict between the kingdoms of England and Scotland was as ancient as the lands themselves, and cross-border conflict was bloody, brutal and relentless. Families living on either side of Hadrian’s Wall existed in the certain knowledge that bloodshed, treachery and grief would come their way. The border traditions, passed down through generations, did not die out when King James I, great-great-grandfather of Bonnie Prince Charlie, to whom Fraser had sworn allegiance, united the two crowns. Reiving—raiding for cattle, sheep and anything else that could be transported—was a way of life that continued unabated. But theft was the lesser evil of reiving. Murder, rape and kidnap were all part of daily life on the border.

“Tell me about the reivers who hurt you.” His voice held more compassion than she would have imagined possible. What had wrought this odd change in his approach?
Never trust a Scotsman.
Her father’s words rang in her ears. It was sound advice, and yet Fraser seemed genuinely interested. He had a knack of triggering a chain of warring emotions in her breast. It was most unnerving.

Martha bent her head, unable to speak. Instead of trying, she busied herself by picking up the knife in preparation for shaving him, but her hand shook so hard that the blade was a silver blur. Fraser watched her thoughtfully, then reached out and clasped her wrist. Carefully, he removed the knife from her grasp.

“On second thoughts, perhaps it might be best if I do that myself?”

Tom, assisted by Fraser, undertook to transport Jack to Delacourt Grange in the farm cart later that afternoon. The two large, muscular men seemed to feel the ease with which they accomplished this task was a matter for some congratulation. Jack, who was tired and in considerable pain after being lifted and jolted, told them in no uncertain terms what he thought of their nursing skills and sent them packing so that he could sleep.

Fraser dawdled on his way back to the old dower house. The air was chill and rapid, with fleeing clouds threatening more snow to come. The beauty of the rolling Derbyshire countryside was not lost on him, but his heart yearned for the soaring grandeur of his homeland glens. It was hard to believe that it was only days since the Jacobites had marched behind the prince, glad of heart and certain that he would fulfil his promises to restore the Stuarts to the throne. It seemed that, at every turn, the highlanders must be the people to bear the weight of this ancient conflict, the ones who suffered the wrath of their more powerful neighbours.

This deception, this role he was being forced to play, did not sit comfortably on Fraser’s proud shoulders. His way was to face his enemy in combat, to look his foe in the eye. Even worse was the fact that he should be compelled into such indignity in this hated land. To be obliged to stoop and play the part of an Englishman! To forsake his tartan and have to share a roof with the woman who had humiliated him. It was the ultimate dishonour. His head told him all nations had their heroes as well as their villains. His heart, conditioned by his upbringing, told him England was populated by demons.

Fifty-three years had passed since the murders at Glencoe, but to the Lachlan clan—kinsmen of the MacDonalds—the atrocity might have happened yesterday. The history behind the awful tragedy was ingrained into Fraser’s being. It was part of who he was. When William of Orange ousted King James II, the last Stuart king, and claimed the throne for himself, Scotland became a nation rent in two. The old divisions resurfaced and redoubled, with the lowlanders largely loyal to King William while the highlanders clung stubbornly, and often fiercely, to the Stuart cause. The image of wild highlanders bearing down upon his forces, flailing their claymores and screaming retribution, had caused King William more than a few sleepless nights, and determined to quell their rebellious ways, he insisted all highlander chieftains must take an oath of fealty to the crown.

Accounts of the events leading up to Glencoe varied according to the viewpoint of the storyteller. The MacDonald chieftain had either not signed the oath of fealty or had signed it too late to placate the king. Soon after the deadline for signature, the MacDonalds were visited in their Glencoe home by members of the Campbell clan and a contingent of their highland mercenaries. The two chieftains were related by marriage, and it was said that the clans were on friendly terms at the time of the meeting. There was much drinking, feasting, dancing and harmony. What the MacDonald clan did not know was that the Campbells were working for the king. In the middle of one night, the guests rose and systematically slaughtered their hosts. The men were murdered outright, the women raped and beaten before being left to die. The mercenaries had bitten the married women’s fingers off to remove their wedding rings. Fraser’s grandmother, a MacDonald, had been visiting her family in Glencoe at the time and had perished in the massacre along with nearly forty others.

At the king of England’s written command, Fraser reminded himself now. A king of England who was a Dutchman. A king of England who had deposed the rightful Stuart heir—descendant of Scots kings. And the murders at Glencoe resonated in the echoing atrocity that had so recently torn apart his own life and placed his feet upon this path. Foul murder in the name of this fair land, he thought as, rounding a neat box bordered walkway, he looked up at the charming Elizabethan house. His hand automatically reached for the comforting solidity of his dirk handle, and he muttered a curse at the realisation it wasn’t there. He had left it with his kilt.

“Who goes there?”

Fraser halted abruptly as the words were flung at him. A figure emerged from the bushes, and it took all Fraser’s strength to stop himself from hurtling forward and wrapping his hands around the challenger’s throat. After a moment in which to reflect, he was heartily glad of his own restraint. The words were spoken by a mere lad, Fraser observed in surprise. He clenched his fists at his sides and drew a deep breath.

“Well, who are you?” The boy had unruly dark hair and an earnest expression that was marred by a frown. He had a look of the pretty little lass, the one who was a daughter of the house. The lad appeared nervous and was clearly trying to hide it behind a front of arrogance. Fraser judged him to be about twelve years of age. A large golden dog followed him out of the undergrowth and clung close to his heels. This animal rolled its eyes at Fraser in an almost apologetic manner.

Remembering his English accent was the easy part. “Fraser—” he broke off. The flaw in their carefully laid plans dawned on him. He was meant to be her brother, but he hadn’t paid attention to the most important detail of all. What the devil was the wretched woman’s name? She looked like a Mary or a Jane. Plain, dull and infinitely forgettable.

“Harry, what on earth are you doing?” As if on cue, the Englishwoman appeared on the doorstep, and the boy glanced around at her with a combination of guilt and relief.

“Well, I don’t know who he is. He could be a rebel or a looter. Or both. What do they call them up on the border? Reivers?”

Briefly, Fraser’s eyes met the woman’s over the lad’s head. He remembered her words.
You are a Scotsman. It is the same thing.
He wished he could summon up her name as easily. “Harry, this is my brother Fraser. He has come to stay with me.”

Harry looked from one to the other. His thoughts were written all over his face as his gaze took in her delicate frame compared to Fraser’s muscles and the contrast between her mousy pallor and his bold, tawny colouring. “I didn’t know you had a brother, Cousin Martha,” he said eventually.

That was it. Martha. Dull and uninspiring, just like her. “We have been estranged for many years.” Fraser decided it was time to try out the accent. It sounded reasonable.

“We are half brother and sister,” Martha added. “We were not brought up together—” She broke off and Fraser knew what she was thinking. There was a danger of saying too much if she continued.

“Why are you here now?” Harry, regarding Fraser with continuing suspicion, was clearly not convinced.

“Because I heard that the Jacobites had invaded Derbyshire and I wanted to make sure my sister was safe. Is that acceptable to you, young ’un?”

“Oh.” Harry looked rather crestfallen, and in other circumstances, Fraser might almost have felt sorry for the lad. He threw Martha a look as though gauging her reaction. “How long will you stay?”

Fraser laughed. “As long as my sweet sister will have me,” he said, enjoying the way Martha’s eyes flashed at the words. She was forced to hold her tongue because of the boy’s presence, of course, but he suspected he would be upbraided for his impudence later.

“It is an odd coincidence, but a distant cousin of my father’s has also just arrived for a visit.” The boy was no fool.

“I take it his arrival was not expected?” Martha said.

“No. His name is Jack Brown and he was taken ill while travelling. Fortunately, he was quite close by, and he made his way here so that he could recover under my father’s roof.”

“Fortunate indeed,” Fraser said.

“I expect you will meet him soon, if you are to spend any time here.” Harry clicked his fingers, and the dog, who had been sniffing at the trunk of a tree with great interest, came back to his side. “Oh, and Mr. Wantage—” He paused.

Fraser, who had not responded to Harry’s words, gradually realised that Martha was staring frantically at him, her big eyes trying to convey a message. Too late he understood what it was. Hell and damnation! The lad was talking to him—addressing him by what he
thought
was his name—and he was still waiting for him to respond.

“My name isn’t Wantage, laddie. It’s Lachlan. As…my sister here has said, we are but half siblings. We had different fathers.”

“I’m sure you did. There is certainly no physical resemblance between you.” Harry turned to go. “And next time I see you, I expect you will have contrived to remember without any prompting that your sister’s first name is Martha.”

“That went well,” Fraser remarked as he stepped into the house. “I think we fooled him.” Martha smiled slightly at the sarcasm in his tone.