A Kiss for a Highlander (14 page)

At Martha’s instigation, the castle came alive with activity. Stone floors were brushed and then washed to remove all trace of excess dirt, wooden panels were polished with beeswax and the privies were cleaned before being freshly limed, even though Cora protested at such extravagance. The larders were stocked and the bedding darned and laundered. Rugs were taken up and tapestries down, and each was beaten until the clouds of dust sent the young maids scurrying inside to wash the dust from their hands and faces. Dried lavender was strewn among the new rushes on the floor, and old dog bones were prised from between the disgruntled jaws of the hounds and thrown unceremoniously away. New candles were set in every stand, and the sconces were checked to ensure that every gloomy corridor and dark corner was lit.

“Cora must have grown better at household management in my absence,” Fraser said to Martha, as they lay in her bed one night. “I’ve never known her go to so much effort to make the old place look good.” He had tilted her face up to his then so that he could study her expression more closely. “Why the secretive little smile, crabbit Martha?”

“Maybe because I am feeling happy,” she said, following the centre line of his sculpted chest muscles with one fingertip before moving lower to track across the hard plane of his abdomen. She had become quite adept at distracting him.

Although sunlight was climbing the mountain crags beyond the loch, the air that ruffled Fraser’s hair and touched his cheek felt like sharpened ice. But the sight of those two simple, lonely graves might have been more to blame for the shiver that ran through his broad frame than any highland breeze. He kept his head bent and tried to still his mind so that his thoughts were only of them. Of his wife Kirsty and his boy Ewan, who both lay cold beneath this bare, ungrateful soil.

Fraser clenched his fists at his sides as the familiar rush of twin emotions hit him head-on. It was always the same. Heartbreaking sadness came hand in hand with crippling guilt. His punishment for haranguing the English had been the death of these two innocents.

“Sign it.” He could remember the note of boredom in the cultured tones of the English captain who had held the quill out to him. He would never forget the man’s name. Augustus Hendry. It was engraved on Fraser’s heart.

Fraser had remained as straight and unmoving as the bruises inflicted by his captors had allowed. The document before him was an oath of fealty to King George II, and the signature of the proud Laird of Lachlan was something the English commander of the Fort William garrison was determined to secure. To be able to claim the distinction of having paraded such a document before the other Scots barbarians would earn him his place in history. Hendry’s attempts to break Fraser’s will had so far, however, proved tiresomely ineffective.

“Very well. Since it appears you positively thrive on the beatings my men administer, we will try another approach at persuasion. A troop of soldiers has been posted at the entrance to the Great Glen. No provisions or visitors will be allowed into your castle until your signature is on this pledge.”

Fraser had not been unduly concerned at that. Castle Lachlan was fairly self-sufficient, and he knew that the English would not dare keep him imprisoned for too long. To do so would be to risk inflaming all of the chieftains of the Great Glen and provoking an uprising with which, at that time, the garrison had been ill-equipped to deal. Hendry was toying with him. They had both known it.

Over a week later, Fraser, his wrists and ankles manacled, had been brought before the captain again. This time he sensed a change in Hendry’s demeanour. He seemed to be gloating. “The blockade is going well,” the captain told him, in a conversational tone. “But I have some bad news. There has been an outbreak of smallpox in the castle.”

“The physician…” Shock prompted Fraser to break his silence.

“A blockade is a blockade, old fellow. No-one has been allowed to get through.”

Fraser had lunged at him then, but the chains brought him up short so that he stumbled and fell to his knees on the cold stone floor. “I’ll sign,” he said, through lips that were stiff with fear and fury.

“What’s that you say? Oh, you mean you’ll sign the oath of fealty. A wise decision. Now, where did I put the damned thing?” The black-hearted villain had made a great pretence of searching for it. “Do you know, I think we shall have another drawn up? I’ll send for you, old chap, when it’s ready for your signature. Might take a few days…”

There had followed another agonising week of waiting in his cell, alternating between wild bouts of fury and gut-wrenching wretchedness. At last, he had penned his signature on the hated oath, left Fort William and headed on foot across the Great Glen to Lachlan. He had found the castle in mourning and these sad graves all that remained of his family. Immediately, he had turned and left again, heading back to Fort William. Before he killed the captain, Fraser had ripped up the signed oath and made the English bastard swallow it, piece by piece. Since then, he had found it hard to come back here, and he was aware that his absences had been getting longer and more frequent. Lachlan deserved better than a laird who could not bear the sight of his ancestral home.

This time, however, although the feelings and the memories came, they were less powerful and seemed to dissipate quickly, fading from bright shards to pale shadows. For the first time, Fraser felt in control of his grief instead of being a slave to it. He could look at their graves and remember their lives, could even smile slightly at the thought of young Ewan running around this very garden, his laughter echoing as Fraser chased him. For some reason, the memory didn’t hurt as much as it had in the past.

“Thank you for tending their graves and keeping the rose garden in order.” Fraser turned to Rab, who had been standing nearby.

The older man looked embarrassed. “I did’nae. It was the lady.”

“The lady?” Fraser was confused at his servant’s words.

“Aye, the English lady ye brought with ye. She made me bring the lads out here and trim the grass back from the graves. Then she got us to clean the stone of the crosses and tidy the rose garden.” A reminiscent frown touched his forehead. “She’s no the sort of lady who lets ye say her ‘nay’.”

Fraser laughed, acknowledging the truth of this pronouncement. When he went into the great hall, he found Martha deep in conversation with Cora. They didn’t notice him at first.

“The chieftains are all to gather here on the morrow for a grand feast,” Cora said. “Will ye help me decide what to serve them, lass?”

“Of course I will. But first you must set the maids the task of cleaning the brasses in the great hall. They are quite dreadfully dull. Then we need to get the tables scrubbed down and polished. Let us start by drawing up a list…”

Martha looked up and saw Fraser watching her. Her rare smile dawned, and he found himself responding instantly. Perhaps coming home was something he could begin to enjoy, after all.

“It will be the final gathering before the men go into battle,” Cora said, interrupting the pleasant bubble of his thoughts with a stark reminder of reality. He was sworn to fight for the Jacobites. But the truth was, he could no longer be certain the Jacobite cause was the highland cause. The only thing which was certain was that the battle, when it came, would be bloody and life-changing. The feeling of well-being was replaced by one of dread, and turning on his heel, he left Martha to her domestic conversation.

Word was that the Duke of Cumberland viewed the gathering of the Great Glen chieftains at Lachlan as a provocative action, but Fraser was dismissive of English sensitivities.

“’Tis a centuries-old tradition and not one I’ll be changing because some wee Hanoverian schoolboy has a poker up his arse about it.”

Throughout the day, the clans began to arrive and the castle was alive with different coloured tartans and Gaelic greetings. Traditional bagpipes played as the chieftains and their families gathered in the great hall, and Cora’s small army of maids distributed whisky, mead and oatcakes.

“Why are there so many young women here?” Rosie eyed the assembled company in surprise.

“The Laird of Lachlan is a widower.” Jack nodded to where Fraser stood near the fire, talking to another of the chieftains. All of the men were magnificent in their traditional dress, but Fraser stood out among them. His height and powerful frame would make him a commanding figure in any company, but in the setting of his own feudal home, his leonine looks and masculine arrogance drew every eye. “And the time is overdue for him to take himself a new bride. Any of these clansmen would be proud to ally themselves with Fraser through marriage to their daughters.”

Martha was aware of Rosie’s eyes on her face and, determinedly, she maintained a neutral expression. It was a difficult task since Jack’s words had just reached into her chest and ripped out her heart. Lately, however, Rosie had shown signs of suspecting that Martha might not be quite as cold as she would like everyone to believe where Fraser was concerned. A few days earlier, Rosie had noticed and approved of one particular change in Martha’s appearance.

“Oh, I do like your hair so much better that way!” Rosie had exclaimed, on seeing her cousin first thing that morning. “Those looser curls are so much more becoming than that tight, scraped-back style you usually wear.”

Martha had blushed and murmured something about not having time to pin it up properly. Later that day, in a brief exchange of glances, Fraser nodded at her hair and smiled slightly. Martha had seen the way Rosie’s sharp eyes widened as she took in the exchange.

“I see you have kept your hair in that new fashion instead of reverting back the tightly pinned style you used to favour. Mayhap I am not the only one to think it suits you better, Cousin Martha?” Rosie had commented some days later. The innocence of her tone had been belied by the mischief in her eyes, and Martha had silently cursed the blush that rose to her cheeks.

Now, the look of sympathy in Rosie’s eyes burned almost as much as the shock of Jack’s words. Martha knew exactly what she was thinking. There was nothing in plain, staid Martha Wantage to attract handsome, charismatic Fraser Lachlan. Particularly when Martha seemed to do all she could to repel every man she met. And Rosie was right, of course. Martha couldn’t compete in this assembled company of dazzlingly pretty young maidens. Above their heads, the stained-glass windows, designed to take advantage of the scarce Scottish sunlight, captured the beams streaming through the glass. The rays of light playing upon the hues of the various silks and velvets turned the hall into a whirling rainbow of red, gold, blue and green. The air was thick and cloying as a dozen or more different scents vied for supremacy. Girlish laughter rang out regularly, and there was much fluttering and coquetry, most of it directed at the laird himself.

Even if he were not the laird, Martha decided, they would hover round him like so many pretty butterflies drawn to the sweetest flower. If he were the humblest servant in the room, he would still be the centre of attention because of his virile beauty.
But I am biased
, she thought sadly,
because I love him
. And, loving him, she would not stay and watch this display or see him make his choice. Quietly, while no-one was watching, she slipped out of the room.

Chapter Fourteen

The turn the festivities had taken was making Fraser feel uncomfortable. The gathering of the clans was indeed an ancient tradition, but this squealing, giggling pack of maidens all intent on vying for his attention was something he had not bargained on. Word must have travelled through the glens. It had somehow been decided for him. Three years was long enough for mourning. Time for the Lachlan laird to marry again. Well, to hell with them all if they thought he was the man to dance to
that
tune.

The devil of it was that he had to keep his fellow chieftains sweet, so he had to make a pretence, at least, of interest in all the determined flirting. He cast his eyes around the room for some saner company. His eyes encountered Jack’s amused blue gaze before taking in Rosie’s slightly troubled expression. Moving on, he tried to find Martha’s face in the crowd. She, at least, could be relied upon not to simper and coo. They would laugh about this nonsense later, when he held her in his arms…

When he was absolutely sure that she was not in the great hall, Fraser strode over to Rosie. “Where is Martha?”

“She was here earlier, but then she left. I didn’t see her go—” Rosie started to say, but she was left floundering as he turned abruptly on his heel.

Fraser stifled a curse before stomping out of the hall, leaving one or two eager young ladies gazing after him in disappointment. He didn’t have far to look for Martha, but his presence caused almost as much of a stir among the kitchen maids as it did among the maidens in the great hall. The difference was he didn’t have to pretend to be in a pleasant mood here. One or two of the serving wenches took a quick look at his scowling face and scurried quickly out of his way.

For some reason that only served to infuriate Fraser further. Martha had taken over the task of turning the spit that spanned the vast, open fire. Consequently she had her back to the room and didn’t seem to notice that a hush had fallen over the kitchen. She was unaware that Fraser was standing only inches behind her until he spoke.

“What are you doing?” His voice was dangerously low.

She turned her head and smiled up at him over her shoulder. Her usually pale face was pink from her exertions. “Making sure these fowl don’t burn while Lorna and Florrie help Cora—oh!”

He caught hold of her wrist, wrenching her to her feet. “You are not a servant.”

“No, but I offered to help Cora.” Martha peeped around him, taking in the interested stares of the kitchen staff. Lowering her voice, she said, “You are drawing attention to us.”

“I din’nae care about that. I want you out there with me.”

She scanned his face. “There are dozens of pretty young maidens in the great hall, all of them wanting
your
attention, my laird,” she said, keeping her voice quiet. “Don’t keep them waiting on my account.”

“Is that what this is about? Are ye jealous, lass?” He stared down at her incredulously for a moment. Hope flared briefly, trying to drive away his rage. If she was jealous… He fought off a sudden urge to pull her into his arms.

Something blazed in her eyes then, and she blinked rapidly as though trying to hide her emotions from him. When she spoke again, it was with her usual unruffled dignity. “I know jealousy is not something I have a right to where you are concerned. We have no claim on each other. I simply meant that you have so many guests, I’m sure you won’t miss one.” She made as if to return to her task, but he jerked her back to face him. His anger, after fading briefly, had flared into life stronger and hotter than ever.
We have no claim on each other?
So that was what she thought, was it?

“Don’t push me, Martha.” He glared down at her, his eyes raking the plain gown she wore. “We’ll talk about this more later, when the time is more suited to the discussion. For now, get yourself upstairs and into something more suitable. Wear the blue dress you wore at Christmas—” his expression softened slightly at the memory, “—when we danced. And then join me and my guests for the meal.”

“And if I choose not to?”

“Then I will come back here and strip that gown from your back.” A gasp from Cora informed him that his words had carried further than just Martha’s ears. “After that I will throw you over my shoulder, hoist you up that staircase and dress you in it myself. Do you doubt I will carry out my threat?”

There was an infinitesimal pause, during which he could have sworn she was weighing up her options. “No.”

“Then I suggest you get moving. You have worn my patience thin enough this night, Englishwoman.” Without a backward glance, he made his way out of the kitchen and back into the great hall.

When Martha took her seat next to Rosie in the great hall some ten minutes later, she was conscious of several interested pairs of eyes upon her. How much of the encounter in the kitchen Cora had managed to relay in so short a time, she could not be sure, but there was no doubt about it. Some of the story had already trickled out, and she was being viewed differently now. The rumour was clearly spreading around the great hall. The Englishwoman was the laird’s mistress. Fraser could not have made it any plainer if he had gone to the highest point on the battlements and shouted it across the loch. Surely the speculation was all about why he had chosen her. But they couldn’t know—and how could anyone else even begin to imagine?—what heat they could generate between them.

From that tiny spark of hatred in the cellar of the old dower house had grown something so powerful and all-consuming that it would be impossible to explain it to another person. Only Fraser understood. Because he was scorched by it as well. He whispered to her, over and over, as she lay in his arms, how it felt for him. How rare it was to find someone who could get into your blood so that your wanting them was a physical ache every minute of the day.

Oh, I can see you are all thinking I don’t know what will happen when he takes a bride or finds a younger, prettier lover.
She wanted to shout those words aloud in response to their curious stares.
But, you see, I never thought to have even this. So don’t judge me, or blame me, for my Jacobite winter of madness. For who knows what summer may bring?

No-one watching Martha as she calmly ate her meal, however, could possibly have known the restless thoughts that possessed her. Not Fraser, whose brooding eyes never left her face and who answered the comments of his fellow chieftains absent-mindedly during the remainder of the feast. Nor Rosie, who cast sidelong glances at her cousin’s serene expression and wondered if she had imagined the blaze of fury she had seen in Fraser’s eyes when he could not see Martha earlier. Even Cora, her keen eyes flitting between her master and the quiet, reserved—some might say “starched-up”—Englishwoman, could not find any clue in Martha’s conduct about her feelings.

After the feasting, the dancing began. The pipers ceased and musicians took up their instruments. The dancers wove in and out of the candlelight, thronging the glowing hall with colour and life. Men and women entwined, twirled and floated across the newly swept floor. As the host, Fraser was obliged to open the dance with the daughter of one of the neighbouring clansmen, and he rose, offering his hand to her with a slight bow. The girl, as pretty as a picture with golden tresses woven through with amber beads, trembled with pleasure at his touch. Martha, observing this exchange, seized her opportunity and slipped unobtrusively out of the room once more. Enough was enough. She had done as he asked.

Deciding against going to her own bedchamber, she made her way to the library on the second floor. Fraser was likely to be occupied with his duties as a host for some time, but he had ordered her to be present at the party, and he did not take kindly to having his will challenged. If it should suddenly cross his mind to seek her again, he would find her all too easily if she went to her own room. A welcoming fire roared in the grate in the library, and selecting a book, she curled up in a large wing chair, resigned to the fact that it would be several hours before she could safely make her way to bed.

I can’t even get away from his high-handed ways by just leaving this place
, she thought, frowning into the leaping flames of the fire.
I made Cousin Henry a promise that I would remain with Rosie until she is married.
Jack had spoken to a minister, and once the battle was over, all would be in readiness for the wedding. Of course, if the battle was lost, a flight to France would be necessary, and she would have to cross the Channel with the betrothed couple. Either way, Martha would not desert her cousin until Rosie was the Countess of St. Anton. And Martha was honest enough to admit, at least to herself, that she had no real wish to leave Fraser. Whatever it was that had possessed him to start acting like her lord and master didn’t change anything. She sighed.
Who am I trying to fool anyway? He
is
my lord and master. It is just that he must never know it.

She must have dozed, because the fire had died somewhat and the candles flickered in their sconces when she was roused by voices from the courtyard below. Rising from her seat, she went to the window and looked out to see those guests who were not spending the night at Lachlan leaving. With a sigh of relief, she tiptoed out of the room and made her way to her own bedchamber, shielding her candle against the draughts that plagued the castle corridors.

“Where the devil have you been?” She jumped slightly as she closed her bedchamber door behind her. Turning slowly, she was greeted by the prospect of a very large highlander seated on her bed. There was no way for her to know how long Fraser had been there, but he was clearly not happy. She placed her candle on the dresser before responding.

“In the library.” She remained by the door, her eyes on his face.

“Even though I told you I wanted you among my guests?”

“I ate my meal with your guests, as you requested,” she said quietly.

“You disobeyed me.”

“You don’t own me, Fraser. You are not my master.” There, she had said it aloud.

“That is not true.” His voice cracked out like a gunshot. “When I look into your eyes, when I am inside you…we both know you belong to me.”

“Then. In that instant. Not for all time.”

“By God, I will not be defied by you, Englishwoman.”

Martha lifted her chin. “You may as well get used to it, Scotsman.”

He rose then, his presence filling the small chamber. The expression on his face was not conciliatory, and Martha experienced a brief moment of nervousness. She had a feeling the effect would be the same if she had twitched a highland wildcat by its tail in a confined space. When he spoke, his voice was deceptively silky. “I will have obedience from you. Come here.”

She stood her ground. “I will not. Please leave my bedchamber.”

Fraser smiled, but the genial expression did not reach his eyes. “No.”

“Very well. Since you insist that you are the master here, I will be the one to go. I will join Rosie in her room.” She opened the door. “Oh!”

With lightning reflexes, Fraser had crossed the room and slammed the door shut, imprisoning her against it, with his hands either side of her head. The smile that wasn’t a smile at all deepened further. He leaned into her, using his superior strength to push her body up against the door. “You are not going anywhere. We are not finished.”

“You can’t keep me prisoner here.”

“I am the laird, Martha. I can do anything I want.” He threw her own words back at her.

“You said you would never take a woman by force.”

“And I never will. But you, Miss Martha Wantage, need to be taught a lesson in obedience. First, you will shortly be begging me to chastise you.” She started to protest, and he placed a finger over her lips. He leaned closer, his breath stroking her cheek. “Then, when you are sore and stinging—” he gazed deep into her eyes, “—and throbbing from your punishment, I will ask you again if you belong to me. And you will give me a different answer next time.”

She could feel the familiar moisture gathering between her legs. Despite her determination to remain aloof, her treacherous body was already responding to his words and the look in his eyes. Determined not to surrender, she kept her eyes on his and threw his challenge back at him. “I will not.”

Before the words had fully left her lips, he lifted her off her feet and threw her onto the bed, driving the breath from her body. Martha tried to bounce back up again, but he was on top of her, pinning her to the bed with one leg thrown over her as he held her arms above her head. With his free hand, Fraser jerked the laces at the front of her bodice undone, while she squirmed and struggled to be free of him. Twice, she managed to kick herself out from under him, but he calmly seized her, once by her upper arm and then by her ankle, and dragged her back to him. Martha was shaking now with fury and—she was outraged to discover—with an equal measure of desire. Catching him unawares, she was able to land a punch on his jaw that rocked his head back. Undeterred, he laughed and pressed his whole body harder against hers. Martha barely had space to breathe, let alone fight.

Using his hand to circle her neck, he turned her head, tilting her chin so that she was forced to look up at him. Slowly, he ran his tongue along the exposed length of her neck. “Still pretending this is about anger, Martha?”

He crushed his lips to hers, demanding her surrender. Jerking upward in an attempt to buck him off, Martha bit his lip. Hard. Beneath the rough cloth of his kilt, his cock hardened and quivered and another soft laugh escaped him. Lifting his head, he licked away a thin trickle of blood from his lower lip. Pulling her head back with his fist in her hair, he took his time as he slowly pulled her bodice and shift down over her shoulders, exposing her breasts to his gaze.

“I am not begging you,” she said stubbornly.

“Not with your lips. Not yet. But your eyes are telling me a different story. They are telling me the truth.” He smiled, bending his head to lick and then nip each nipple in turn. Heat and raging excitement flooded through Martha’s abdomen. She bit her lip in an attempt to stifle the involuntary moan that was lodged somewhere deep in her throat, but was doing its best to escape. As his mouth closed on hers, and his lips parted hers, she wanted to melt into his strong arms. She didn’t want to think about what it meant to give in to him, she only wanted this moment. Her tongue tentatively met his and joined in the wild action of taste and dance. Fraser’s fingers took hold of her nipple and teased, making her back arch.