A Kiss for a Highlander (3 page)

The task was more difficult than she had envisaged. The highlander was indeed a big man, and in his current state, he might as well have been a carcass at the local meat market. By each taking a wool-encased ankle, they were able to haul him to the cellar door. The effort required to achieve this left them both breathless. The cellar stairs proved even more fraught with problems. In the end, Martha went first, supporting the highlander’s ankles, while Rosie attempted to slow his descent by holding on to his shoulders. This ploy was unsuccessful, and they lost control of their burden halfway down the stairs. The three of them ended in an ungainly heap on the cellar floor.

“Well at least he broke our fall,” Martha said, clambering off the highlander’s body and shaking out her nightdress.

“Oh.” Rosie’s face was a picture of shock as, with rounded eyes, she turned to her cousin and then looked back at the man. In the tumble down the stairs, his kilt had ridden up to his waist, revealing the fact that he was naked beneath its rough plaid folds. “He’s very—” Rosie paused, “—muscular, isn’t he?”

“Rosie!” Martha, following the direction of her gaze, hurried to rearrange his clothing.

“Well, it’s very difficult
not
to notice something like that. I had heard that they didn’t wear anything beneath their kilts, but I didn’t think it could really be true.”

“He must be very hardy. It gets awfully cold in Scotland during the winter,” Martha said, her practical mind taking over. Then, realising that the conversation had taken a most inappropriate turn, she became purposeful again. “I think we’re going to have to tie him up. If we don’t, he may be able to break down the door. I’m sure there’s some rope down here.”

“Have you ever tied anyone up?” Rosie asked in a doubtful voice, when Martha finally unearthed a coil of heavy twine.

“No, but how difficult can it be? If we wind it round and round his body so that his arms are trapped at his sides, that should hold him. Anyway, he may not wake up for a good, long while.”

“He may not wake up at all. You hit him very hard.”

Martha bit her lip. She’d never hit anyone in her life before, and she
had
hit him very hard. She tried out a defiant tone of voice. “Well, he shouldn’t have been in my kitchen, and I dread to think what he might have done to you if I had
not
hit him when I did.”

With much panting and manoeuvring, they completed their task, by which time they were even more breathless and very red faced. Their captive resembled a large trussed turkey lying on his side on the hard-packed earth of the cellar floor. Martha surveyed him critically.

“Let us go back to our beds, Rosie. If he survives the night, we can decide in the morning what we should do with him,” Martha said, as they made their way back up the stairs. Rosie, perhaps predictably, insisted on returning to watch over her patient.

Sleep eluded Martha. Small wonder, she thought, given the events of the day. But, surprisingly, it was not the thought of the danger posed by the presence of two fugitives under her roof that drove her slumber away. Much as it shamed her to admit it, her mind persisted in returning to the strong thighs and buttocks she had glimpsed beneath the highlander’s kilt. Her pale cheeks flamed at the memory of the way her eyes had insisted on lingering on the more private parts of his body before she had righted his clothing. Did all men’s—her mind fumbled for a suitable word—
things
look like that?

She gave a sudden snort of laughter and buried her face in her pillows to hide it. It had been bigger than she expected and was an unexpected reddish-purple colour, lying thick and flaccid against his thigh. Her attention had been held by the blatant masculinity of his flesh, evident even in his helplessness. She excused her curiosity on the basis that it had been driven by a patriotic desire to snatch up her sharpest kitchen knife and liberate the globes that nestled in their thatch of reddish-brown hair from his scrotum before flinging them into the trough that contained the pig’s food. Regretfully, she had not taken the opportunity, when it was presented to her, to rid the world of the reproductive abilities of this particular Scotsman. “You are a cowardly, squeamish old spinster,” she told herself crossly.

Determinedly, she turned her thoughts in a different direction. One that had been troubling her more and more often lately. Rosie’s words, spoken in temper, had stung, but they were true.
Martha might live here, but it is your house, Papa.
Martha felt a tug of emotion so strong it shocked her.
What will I do when I am forced to leave?
Thoughts of injured rebels and vengeful soldiers paled into insignificance in comparison with the fear and sadness which gripped her at the prospect.

Rosie had long ceased to need a governess, and her younger brother, Harry, was destined to leave home and go to Eton College soon.
I will not be a poor relation, dependent on my benevolent Cousin Henry for my every crust.
Martha’s fierce pride had already made that decision for her. She would go—seek out a new post in a new place—long before she became a burden. But the thought of leaving here terrified her. The only other place she had ever thought of as home had been taken from her in the cruellest manner imaginable.
It is all the fault of that highland devil.
Memories that had lain dormant for so long had been brought storming back to life by the sight of him.

As dawn began to tint the sky with pastel hues, Martha rose. She had always known that the Scots brought no good in their wake. A mere day ago, the most serious concern she’d had was that her best chicken wasn’t laying any eggs. Now, she might be facing this new day as a murderess.

Chapter Three

Cautiously, Martha made her way down the cellar steps. Because there were no windows, she carried a branch of candles into the dark space with her, holding it at shoulder height. She was able to view the whole of the cellar in the flickering light. Several centuries’ worth of clutter accumulated by the Delacourt family crowded the area. Broken or discarded furniture, old chests and stacks of picture frames lined the walls. To one as organised as Martha, the cellar had always been the cause of much tongue-clucking. But for Mr. Delacourt, it was next summer’s job, and because out of sight was out of mind, she too had let it be. Now that it needed to do double duty as a prison cell, she viewed it afresh and found it most unsatisfactory.

Her prisoner had not been obliging enough to die in the night, although he continued to lie still and quiet. Exactly as she had left him. A jolt of compassion—unexpected and unwanted—shot through her. It was one thing to kill him outright in the heat of the moment as, having broken into the house, he was in the act of attacking Rosie. It would be quite another to leave him to die like an injured animal on the dusty floor of the cellar. Even if he was a Scotsman. The wound to the back of his head, encrusted now with dried blood, was vicious. In the gloom of the candlelight, his strong features appeared lifeless. Pursing her lips, Martha considered him for a moment and then went away to fetch what she needed.

On her return, she set about cleaning the blood from the gash the candlestick had made in the back of his skull. Her task was hampered by the poor light, the fact that she had to kneel on the cellar floor, and the length and thickness of his red-gold hair. When she had completed this undertaking to her satisfaction, she sat back and surveyed her handiwork grimly. Having never been called upon to hit anyone over the head before, it had been difficult to judge the amount of force required. In the cold light of day, it would appear she had been somewhat heavy-handed. The injury was severe, and when he recovered—if he recovered—he would have a nasty headache and a lasting scar.

“It is quite your own fault for invading other people’s countries and then breaking into their houses,” she told the figure on the floor. It was the same voice she used to scold young Harry for his youthful transgressions.

She uncorked the little bottle of ointment that she made herself from an old recipe of her mother’s, using a mix of honey, rosemary, arnica and other herbs in differing quantities. Since the highlander’s shoulder-length hair was going to seriously hamper her efforts to apply this salve to his wound, she took up her scissors and hacked at the thickly waving locks until she was satisfied. Carefully, she pressed the sticky, scented mixture in and around the laceration. Finally, she placed a torn strip of cloth over the wound and bound another, longer strip, around his head. This she tied in place to hold the whole secure.

The cellar was chilly, and she covered the long, well-muscled figure with the blanket she had brought with her, tucking it neatly around and underneath him. A bitter smile touched her lips as she recalled her childhood in the border town of Bamburgh.
Thank the Lord my father is not here to see me take such tender care of a hated Scotsman!

Mindful of the need to give him water, Martha dipped a cotton pad into the jug she had brought with her and wiped it around and inside the man’s lips. She couldn’t help noticing that his face was very handsome, with finely crafted features and a strong, square jaw. His mouth was particularly beautiful, carved as though modelled on a painting by a grand master, with a lower lip that was just slightly fuller than perfection demanded. Without pausing to consider what she was doing or why she was doing it, she allowed her thumb to trace the plump cushion of that lip. It felt like silk against her skin. Succumbing to another overwhelming impulse, she leaned over and pressed her lips to his.

“Better a wound in love from a friend than a kiss in hate from an enemy.” It was her father’s version of the Bible verse. The wound she had bestowed on him had not been one of love or of friendship. “And, oh, how I hate you, Scots bastard.” The words were a barely whispered breath into the warmth of that near-perfect mouth. The kiss of hate she gave now was for him, his kin and his countrymen. The men who had destroyed her family and left her own body scarred and grotesque. The men who had condemned her forever to her lonely spinsterhood.

Fraser waited until he heard the key grate in the lock before he opened his eyes again, although it was so dark he might just as well have kept them closed. Determinedly, he carried on with the task he had set himself before the Englishwoman interrupted him. It was a painful job, but he was slowly winning the battle against his restraints. The rope was loosening. The blanket with which she had covered him was a bonus. Next time the sly little bitch came sneaking down those stairs, she would get more than she bargained for. She’d not be kissing him again in a hurry. She’d be lucky if she was ever able to kiss anyone after he’d finished with her.

His mind sought a word bad enough to describe her. His mother’s word for evil treachery spurred him on. “Sleekit lips,” he muttered. He needed to shed his bonds so that he could free his hands and wipe the feel of her foul mouth away. He needed to remember that, soft and gentle though her lips had been as they briefly touched his, they were
English
lips.

Hate him, did she? Aye, that suited him just fine. She could not hate Fraser Lachlan more than he hated her. He had been raised on his hatred of the English, suckled it with his mother’s milk, learned it alongside his letters, hewn it in fire into the blade of his sword. It was the force that drove Fraser to be one of the first clansmen to swear allegiance to Charles Edward Stuart when the prince landed at Mallaig and declared his intention to retake the crown of England and Scotland for the true heirs. It was the burning emotion that kept him at the prince’s side as the man they called Bonnie Prince Charlie toured the length and breadth of Scotland, gathering supporters from among clan leaders who had followed his father thirty years earlier. It was the reason he was here now with a dent in his head and the crowning indignity of being at the mercy of a miserable, crab-apple-tempered excuse for a woman with no more meat on her than a butcher’s pencil.

His head throbbed unmercifully, but whatever she had done to him had eased the pain somewhat. And she had cut his hair. His face burned with the indignity of it. While she had him bound and helpless, she had toyed with him like a cat with a mouse. But she would pay. Oh,
how
she would pay.

The most important thing, of course, was to get Lord Jack away from this hellhole so that they could be on their way to the border. On their way back home. His mind, however, insisted on dwelling on the various ways in which he was going to wreak his revenge on the loathsome Englishwoman as well.

A grim smile fixed itself on his lips as he finally freed one hand from the rope that bound him.

Mr. Henry Delacourt was the wealthiest landowner in the area. His estate lay north of Derby, closer to the town of Matlock, and he was known locally as a kindly landlord and a charitable man. The fact that he was a capable and efficient farmer was entirely due to the fact that he employed Tom Drury to manage his extensive estate. Mr. Delacourt was an intellectual who found everyday life tiresome and distracting. Tom, who had been born on the Delacourt estate and started out as a farmhand, now occupied lodgings over the stable block. He had risen to his current position through hard work, honesty and a sound knowledge of the farmland and its surrounding area.

Mrs. Delacourt, a gentle, pretty lady, whose daughter Rosie greatly resembled her in looks, had died giving birth to Harry. Her husband had been genuinely bereft at her loss. He had also been distraught at the prospect of raising a newborn babe and a seven-year-old daughter on his own. A series of nurses for young Harry and governesses for Rosie had provided varying levels of satisfaction. It was his housekeeper, Mrs. Glover, who had set him thinking when, while watching ten-year-old Rosie play with her young brother, she had sighed fondly and said, “It’s family the young ’uns need around them, sir, and no mistake.”

Exerting himself, for once, to discover something about life beyond his own home and his ancient tomes, Mr. Delacourt had set about the task of finding a suitable family member to take on the duties of caring for his children. After sending and receiving a series of letters, he came to believe he might have found her in the form of his cousin’s daughter. Martha Wantage’s story had shocked and touched him. That such villains should still live in this day and age. Upon hearing that she had been taken in by a community of nuns who ran a refuge for the poor and needy near Bamburgh, he had wasted no time and set out for the border at once.

“She was not expected to live,” the kindly abbess who welcomed him into the convent of St. Justine had explained. “Even now, she is not strong. Although—” a wry smile touched her lips, “—I would not recommend you mention that fact to Martha herself.”

Mr. Delacourt had formed no very clear idea of what to expect, but the sorry creature who stepped into the room some minutes later had not once featured in his imaginings. Martha Wantage had been sixteen years old at that, their first meeting, but she was so small and waiflike that she was scarcely bigger than his daughter. Her light-brown hair was thin and lifeless, her pale skin stretched tight across her bones, giving her face a skeletal appearance and exaggerating the size of her upturned nose and generous mouth. She had a nervous air about her, and Mr. Delacourt, the gentlest of men, found her inability to make eye contact with him heartbreaking. Her curtsy was gauche, and her hand shook pitifully when he took it between his. Any thought he may have had that this sad excuse for a girl could take care of his children fled his mind in that instant. But, having found her, his conscience would not allow him to then abandon her.

“I was very sorry to hear about your parents, my dear. Your father and I were close as children, although we grew apart when he married your mother and came here to the North-East to live. I have only just learned of the dreadful circumstances…”

Although her light-blue eyes shone with unshed tears, she had snatched her hand away from his. “I neither want nor need your pity.”

“Martha! You must apologise at once for your rudeness…” The abbess had hurried forward to remonstrate, but Mr. Delacourt held up his hand.

“It is I who should say sorry for wounding you with my crass words, child. As your nearest relative, I have come to take you home to live with me alongside my own children.”

“I’ll not accept charity, sir. From you or anyone else. Sister Mary—” her eyes flickered over to the nun who stood to one side, watching their interaction anxiously, “—told me you seek a governess for your daughter. I am well educated. I believe I can fulfil your requirements.”

Her pride, although sadly misplaced, was touching nonetheless. “Then I have indeed come to the right place. It is my belief we will deal well together, my dear.” The profound sigh of relief uttered by the abbess was audible and left Mr. Delacourt wondering just what his family’s future might hold once this strange girl became part of it.

Their journey south had begun the next day, and they had arrived at Delacourt Grange as evening was falling over the beautiful Derbyshire countryside six days later. Martha, alighting from the carriage, had viewed in silence the warm, golden manor house with its curtain of honeysuckle draped lovingly around the door. As she gazed at this idyll, Rosie came tumbling out of the open front door, closely followed by a tearful Harry.

“Papa, oh, Papa! Do come quickly. The most dreadful thing… Harry was climbing on the bookshelves in your study, and when I tried to lift him down, we both fell backward and we knocked over the inkwell and ink has spilled out all over your new books.”

Before Mr. Delacourt could summon up an answer to this catastrophe, Martha responded in brisk tones. “We will have to go and clear up the mess in your papa’s study, of course. First of all, let me fix your sash, which is sadly awry, and straighten your hair. Good heavens, it looks like you have been playing in a hedge. You have? Well that explains the matter. There, that looks so much better. Now, you must be Rosie. I am your cousin Martha, and this—” she turned to address the stout, ink-and-tear-stained little figure on the doorstep, “—is Master Harry, I presume?”

Mr. Delacourt watched in some bemusement as his children went, with unaccustomed decorum, hand in hand with the new arrival back into the house. Some ten minutes later, there had been a knock on the parlour door. At Mr. Delacourt’s command, Martha entered.

“The children wish to see you, sir. If that is convenient?”

A subdued, and considerably neater, Rosie had led her brother into the room. “We are very sorry, Papa, for going into your study without your permission. It will never happen again.” She cast a quick look at Martha, who nodded encouragingly. “Oh, and Cousin Martha cleaned up the mess and there is no damage to your books, although Harry’s shirt is quite ruined.”

“Shall I speak to Mrs. Glover about the children’s dinner now, sir? Do they spend some time with you before their bedtime or do they follow a different routine?” Mr. Delacourt realised then that, until the descent upon it of this odd, taciturn girl, his household had no fixed routine. But Martha’s arrival changed that. Order had arrived at Delacourt Grange.

During the intervening ten years, he had won some battles. They stood out in his memory because they were rare. Martha now called him “Cousin Henry” instead of “sir”. She could look him and a few of the men she knew well—like Tom Drury—in the eye, although she continued to flinch nervously away from strangers. He had been amazed at the beauty of her shy smile the first time he saw it tremble into life in response to Harry’s silliness. He had even heard her laugh once or twice. She had filled out a little and, although still very slender, had lost the gaunt, haggard look that used to worry him.