A Kiss for a Highlander (7 page)

Harry, however, with the sixth sense that seemed to characterise him in such matters, was nowhere to be found when she arrived at Delacourt Grange. Jack, when informed of her mission, laughed. “He cannot have gone hunting in this weather, but I’m sure he has found somewhere to hide away from you. Dare I confess, I employed some similar tactics at his age?”

Martha sighed. “I don’t suppose you would care to speak to him about the importance of his studies? He might listen to you where he does not heed me.”

Jack held his hands up with a look of horror on his face. “Acquit me of that task, if you will, Miss Wantage. I was not the scholar in my family.”

Leaving strict messages for Harry to come to the old dower house as soon as he returned, Martha set off again to navigate the icy path once more. She was within sight of the old dower house when, as Fraser had predicted, her feet skittered wildly on a patch of ice and her ankle turned sharply beneath her. For a moment, her arms windmilled wildly. Then she lost her balance and fell, landing hard on the stony surface of the path. After she had glanced around quickly to check that nobody had witnessed this undignified performance, Martha tried to rise. A sharp cry of pain left her lips. Her ankle would not support her, and she subsided onto the snowy ground, grinding her teeth against the pangs that shot through the afflicted joint.

“Ah, din’nae greet, lass.” Appearing as if from nowhere, Fraser was beside her. In an instant, he had one arm around her waist and the other beneath her knees as he lifted her easily into his arms. He drew her close against the comforting warmth of his chest. “I was watching from yon window and saw you take a tumble.”

“I’m not greeting,” Martha mumbled. It was quite nice, despite the pain in her ankle, to be carried so easily. She decided to enjoy it and rested her head on Fraser’s shoulder. It was a position that allowed her to feel the rumble of laughter that started deep in his chest.

“No, of course you’re not, crabbit one. God forbid that you should show weakness, even when you’re hurting woeful badly.” He touched his finger to her cheek and held it up to show her the moisture there. “This’ll not be a tear, will it?”

Once inside the old dower house, Fraser carried Martha into the parlour and placed her on the settle near the fire. Kneeling before her and ignoring her protests, he removed her boots and woollen stockings, untying her garters with a dexterity that made her blush. His fingers were so nimble they must surely have undertaken the same task a few times before. Perhaps for different reasons. She regarded her feet in dismay. While Martha’s left ankle remained as pale and slender as ever, the right was swollen to twice its normal size and was already turning an interesting variety of colours. With a gentleness that astonished her, Fraser cupped her heel in the palm of one large hand and lifted her foot, placing a cushion beneath it. He brought her a dram of Mr. Delacourt’s whisky and stood over her as, shuddering, she sipped it.

“You’re the healer,” he said. “Tell me what else I must do for you.”

“Oh, goodness! It’s nothing. I’ll rest a while and be up and about in no time.”

“Martha.” Fraser leaned over her, planting one hand either side of her shoulders on the back of the settle. She looked up into the tawny, determined depths of his eyes, and her heart gave a nervous little thud. “If you so much as move from here without asking me first, I will carry out my threat to take the palm of my hand to your backside. It will pain you far more than that ankle when I’m done with you. Do I make myself clear?”

Martha thought about protesting. She really
should
challenge him when he talked to her that way. Maybe it was the shock of the fall, or maybe it was Fraser’s proximity, but the oddest thing was happening to her. Not only did she find she actually enjoyed him speaking to her in such a masterful way, she also liked the thought of those big, warm hands on her buttocks. It would probably be a good idea to steer clear of the whisky in future.

“Yes, Fraser, you have made yourself perfectly clear,” she said meekly, leaning back against the cushions. “How did you come to see me fall?”

“I was watching out for you.”

Martha was glad he straightened up and turned away because she was quite sure that, in that moment, her expression did betray the feelings his words provoked. There was some sort of alchemy at work when Fraser was close to her. With just a word or a look, he could make her insides tremble.
Take care, Martha. He was only watching for you the same way he would watch out for a maiden aunt or other infirm spinster foolish enough to venture out in the snow. This is not about you. This is because—Scotsman or not—he is a kind and chivalrous man.

As she lectured herself sternly, the glow of the firelight flickered across Fraser’s rugged profile. Seeming to become aware of her scrutiny, he turned and smiled at her. The room lit up, as if the snow clouds had finally parted to allow the sunlight to peek through.
Oh, dear,
Martha thought. Her self-imposed lecture hadn’t worked. As she returned his smile, her heart gave a funny, hopeful little flutter.

Fraser decided to deal with the increasing turmoil of his emotions by keeping busy. Under yellow-grey skies, he chopped and stacked enough wood to keep a small village stocked for the whole winter. He worked until his biceps and shoulder muscles ached in protest and the sweat soaked his hair and ran down his back. Even when he had to remove his shirt because it clung to him like a damp second skin, he carried on mindlessly raising and lowering the axe.

He was not a barbarian. When he fought, it was for honourable reasons. For Scotland and its rightful king. Martha had likened him to a reiver, and those words she had thrown at him so cruelly cut him to the core. Reivers were thieves, murderers and rapists. When Fraser killed, he killed in battle. He faced his enemy, sword in hand. He would not condone reiving in the name of the Jacobite cause. His men knew his rules, and the punishment for breaking the Lachlan code was death. Do no harm to innocents, that was Fraser’s way.

His way was honourable. He had never taken a woman against her will, and he never would. What if the woman was willing, yet with absolutely no experience of men? Wouldn’t it be almost as bad as forcing her if a man—any man—charmed his way into her bed? It would certainly not be honourable. The axe blows rained down harder and woodchips flew wildly around him.

Fraser couldn’t think of a single reason to be attracted to Martha Wantage. At the same time, all he could think about was bedding her. It had become an obsession. There must be something wrong with him. There was nothing about her that should appeal to him. He liked women who were full-bosomed, curvaceous and softly welcoming to their man. Martha’s straight, slender figure ought to repulse him. So why had his dreams been filled just lately with images of his trembling hands loosening her bodice before he took one of her small, high breasts completely into his mouth?

“What on earth are you doing?” For a second he thought Martha’s question was part of his fantasy. Then, looking up, he saw her framed in the kitchen doorway. Darkness was descending, and with it a new, light fall of snow had commenced.

“I thought I told you not to get up?”

“I was worried. You’ve been out here for hours.” Her feet were bare and she was shivering slightly. Picking up his discarded shirt, he used it to wipe some of the sweat from his face and chest and came over to her. As he paused beside her in the doorway, she looked shyly up at him. “Please don’t skelp my backside.”

She had no idea what those words did to him. If she had, she would not have dared utter them. An image of doing just that until she cried out for mercy—and more—made the blood pound in his temples and in other, more basic parts of his anatomy. He felt the frown on his face deepen. Martha’s answering expression was questioning, and he glimpsed the sudden nervousness that darkened the depths of her eyes. Nevertheless, she attempted a smile. She had a particularly beautiful smile, made more so because of its rarity. He experienced a quite urgent desire to take her in his arms and lick the fine powdering of snow from her nose, her cheeks and her lips. His voice was gruff when he replied. “’Twould be no less than you deserve, thrawn lassie.”

She made a noise that was midway between a gulp and a laugh, and he decided he had never heard a sound so sweet and infectious. Bloody hell, he had this bad. It just wasn’t healthy for a man to be cooped up in such close proximity with a woman—any woman, even one as prim and plain as Martha Wantage—without having any outlet for his natural desires. Perhaps that was all it was. He wanted to drive all of that starched-up primness out of her in the most shocking way he could imagine. He’d been without a woman for too long. This was not about Martha, this was simply nature telling him to do what his body needed.

Just as he had convinced himself, an annoying little voice of doubt piped up in his mind. If that were truly the case, why was it that he could look at Rosie, in all her dusky loveliness, with appreciation but without any of the thrumming urgency this shy, poker-backed virgin aroused in him? Was it because he sensed that, beneath those tightly laced, high-necked bodices she wore, there was something more than decorum? Drawing his mind determinedly away from such dangerous territory, he decided the reason for his aberrant cravings didn’t matter. He would fight them anyway. He wasn’t an animal.

“Ye’ll freeze to death, ye wee, foolish wench,” he murmured, scooping her up into his arms. He didn’t know what he had done to give rise to the sudden rush of embarrassment that quite obviously seized her as he held her against his naked chest and carried her back to the fireside, but he watched in fascination as pink colour stained her cheeks. The little indrawn breath she took lodged itself somewhere deep inside his chest. He lowered her onto the settle, covering her legs with a woollen blanket. Martha whispered a word of thanks. Her eyelids fluttered, and that fascinating little pulse at the tender base of her throat drew and held his attention. It was as he had feared all along. He was entranced by her, caught in the grip of an attraction as intense as it was unexpected. And that was going to be so much harder to fight than mere lust.

Chapter Seven

“I’ve brought your young scamp to you,” Jack said, entering the parlour of the old dower house with a shamefaced Harry in his wake. Martha, whose ankle was almost healed, was conscious of a moment’s annoyance at the interruption. She had become used to a peaceful existence that consisted of just her and Fraser. Ashamed of such an uncharitable thought, she rose to greet her visitors.

“Ye look more rightful.” Fraser studied Jack’s face. “But too peely-wally for my liking.”

“What does that mean?” Harry asked.

“It means ‘pale’,” Martha said, with a warning look at Fraser. “We use these Scots sayings all the time up in Northumberland. Don’t we, brother dear?”

“What’s that?” He directed a confused frown at her. Then her meaning dawned on him and he grinned ruefully. “Oh, aye. Indeed we do.”

“Jack said you are a fisherman.” Harry looked up at Fraser with a touch of bashfulness.

“I am that, lad. But ye’ll no be catching much at this time of year.” Harry’s eager face fell with disappointment. “Unless ’tis a bit of carp you fancy? I reckon we could take our rods out and try our luck wi’ that?”

“You could, of course,” Martha said firmly. “Once Harry has completed the Latin exercises Mr. Dewson has set for him.”

“I don’t understand them,” Harry said, his expression a mixture of defiance and embarrassment. He held out the book that the parson had provided and showed Martha his scrawled attempts to complete the work. “Jack said I should come clean and confess.”

Martha bit her lip. She really didn’t have enough knowledge of Latin to help Harry, and Mr. Dewson himself had gone away for two months. Mr. Delacourt knew the language, of course, but he was so vague he would never be able to concentrate for long enough to explain even the basics to his son.

“Could you help Harry?” she asked Jack. “If he applies himself to his studies with you, his reward can be a day’s fishing with Fraser.”

“To my lasting regret, I was the most dreadfully inattentive student as a boy,” Jack said. “The intricacies of Latin escape me. But you are most fortunate, Miss Wantage. You already have a scholar under your roof, you know.” With a smile to Martha and a nod to Fraser, he turned and left them.

Martha’s cheeks burned. She could barely look in Fraser’s direction. How could she have made such a dreadful assumption about him?

“Is that true? Can you help me?” Harry asked.

Fraser picked up one of the books and thumbed through the first few pages. “Aye, it looks straightforward enough to me. No time like the present, lad. Let’s have a look at these first few grammar exercises. Then, if the weather holds, we’ll take a line out and see if those carp are biting on the morn.”

Several hours passed while the two heads, one dark and the other red-gold, bent over the books that were spread out on the kitchen table. Martha, meanwhile, went about preparing the evening meal and marvelled at Fraser’s patience. She could almost see the burden lifting from Harry’s shoulders as Fraser explained how to conjugate verbs.

“Thank you,” Harry said with heartfelt gratitude as he left for Delacourt Grange at dinnertime. He turned back with a mischievous smile. “By the way, if you are still trying to pretend that Martha is your sister, you should try and act in a more brotherly way toward her.”

“What the devil did the young imp mean by that?” Fraser asked, watching Harry’s retreating form with surprise. When Martha didn’t answer, he walked over to her and slid his hand under her chin, scanning her face.

“Perhaps he meant this sort of thing.” She removed his hand.

“Is that what troubles you, lass?”

“No. I made an assumption about you based on how you look.”

“Did ye now? Because I’m big and brawny and I speak with the tongue of a highlander, you thought I’d no have learned my lessons as well as that finely spoken feller called Lord Jack?”

Martha nodded. “Yes, and I’m sorry for it.”

“Well, I would’nae worry. I’ve been guilty of making a few assumptions of my own about you, Miss Martha Wantage.” She risked looking up at him, and the smile in his eyes nearly stripped the skin from her face with its heat. Luckily, he changed the subject. “Now we’ve the place back to ourselves at last, can we eat?”

“You put Harry at his ease so well. You clearly have a way with children,” Martha remarked as they finished their meal. “Are you used to being around them?”

The expression that crossed his face was so bleak it almost made her cry out in alarm. It was gone as quickly as it appeared. His handsome features settled back into a neutral aspect.

“Aye, you might say that,” he said, before lapsing into silence.

The temperature had been rising gradually for several days. The unspoken fear in Martha’s heart—in all their hearts—was that the thaw would bring the soldiers in its wake.

“Ye’d best show me this priest hole,” Fraser said one morning, as weak sunlight stole in through the kitchen window, warming the scene. He looked up in concern at the sound of dishes clattering to the floor and breaking. “Are you all right, lass?”

Martha nodded, unable to speak because she had placed her thumb in her mouth to stop the bleeding. She stared in consternation at the broken crockery. Fraser had startled her by mentioning the priest hole. It was a stark reminder of the danger that was lurking. That was all it was. That was the only reason her heart had plummeted so violently. It was nothing to do with the thought of him leaving.

Fraser helped her to clear up the mess, and then she led him through to the hall. “The house was built in 1588,” she explained.

“The year after Mary, Queen of Scots, was executed by Elizabeth I of England,” Fraser said. It was another reminder, if any were needed, of the chasm that existed between them.

“Yes, and Elizabeth then embarked on a mission to restore Protestantism to the land. But the Delacourt family were Catholics. The priest hole is located here, under the slats of the stairway.” She demonstrated by lifting a step to show him. Two of the stairs were linked by a hidden hinge that allowed them to be easily raised. “Apparently, the logic behind using the stairs in this way was a very sensible one, as there would often be guards stationed on them during a search. This made it a very safe place indeed for a priest to hide. No-one would suspect he was hiding beneath the very feet of the searchers.”

“Will I fit inside there?” Fraser looked doubtful.

“That’s the clever part. This isn’t the actual priest hole, it’s a decoy. Even if this secret compartment under the steps is discovered, it just reveals this small area that you see here. The family would hide a few treasures, or maybe some money, in this part. Behind this compartment, however, the real priest hole is concealed. It is reached through a secret panel, there.” She pointed into the darkness of the confined space where, if Fraser craned his neck, a wooden panel could be seen. “Those doing the search were unlikely to notice it since they were usually distracted by the hidden valuables. The second chamber is not huge, but it is larger than this and has a bench for the priest’s comfort, as he could be forced to spend hours, or even days, confined in there. I would imagine that most of the priests who were forced to hide here were smaller than you—” she turned her head to smile up at him, her eyes skimming over the width of his shoulders, “—so they could even lie down. I’m not sure you could manage to do so and be comfortable for very long.”

Horses’ hooves approaching the house made them both look up from their contemplation of the priest hole. Martha ran through to the parlour to look out of the window, her heart drumming out a panicky staccato beat. Horse and rider continued on past, clearly intent on reaching Delacourt Grange.

“It is Sir Clive Sheridan,” she said in accents of doom.

“Who is he?”

“A neighbour. I thought he was in London for the winter. He considers himself a suitor of Rosie’s. He is a thoroughly unpleasant man.”

Fraser’s hand strayed to the dirk that he now wore concealed in the waistband of his breeches. “Mayhap it is time to teach him to be a little more pleasant.”

“I beg you will do nothing of the sort. You must stay here. No, pray do not object.” She reached out and laid a restraining hand on the bare flesh of his forearm where his shirtsleeve was rolled up. They both looked down for a brief second at the connection between her slender fingers and his well-muscled flesh, before she quickly withdrew the touch. “He is a man who misses nothing. It is bad enough that he will encounter Jack up at the house. Both of you together will definitely arouse his suspicions. Let me go, and I will do all I can to deflect his attention.”

With a sound that might have been a grunt of agreement, Fraser watched as she snatched up her cloak and dashed out of the house. Sir Clive had taken a detour to leave his horse at the stables, so Martha was able to hurry along the path that joined the old dower house to Delacourt Grange and arrive at the main door at the same time as the visitor. She found him in a cheerful mood. He confirmed, in his usual pompous manner, that he had recently returned from a trip to London.

“When I heard the dreadful news of what had been afoot in my own home county, however, my conscience would not allow me to remain away, Miss Wantage. I returned at once to assure myself that all was well. I look forward to sharing the latest news from the capital, together with the military intelligence from Derby, with my good friend and neighbour, Mr. Delacourt.” His smile deepened. “And, of course, I relish the prospect of seeing the beautiful Miss Rosemary again.” It was a well-worn joke in the Delacourt household that Sir Clive had made up his mind. Rosie Delacourt was to become “my Lady Sheridan” so that his obsessive fantasies about her could be made reality. The prospect might cause Harry much hilarity, but something in Sir Clive’s eyes when he spoke Rosie’s name made Martha shudder. It reminded her of the way the reivers had looked at her.

Sheridan Hall, Sir Clive’s family estate, was the largest property in the neighbourhood, and as its owner, he was known locally as “the Squire”. Mr. Delacourt, meanwhile, was by far the wealthiest gentleman in the neighbourhood, and it was well known that his daughter would have a generous dowry and an enviable inheritance. Sir Clive made no secret of his intentions and publicly almost licked his lips at the thought of the bounty that would enhance both his coffers and his bed when Rosie became his. He seemed not to notice that Rosie did not share his enthusiasm.

Mrs. Glover, who admitted them into the house, said that Mr. Delacourt was shut up in his study, but Miss Rosie and Mister Jack were in the drawing room. Sir Clive’s brows drew together at the mention of the hitherto unknown visitor, but he waved the housekeeper aside, assuring her that he knew his way. Martha could hear Rosie’s laughter as they approached the drawing room. Through the open door, it could be seen that she was seated at a small table and was engaged in a game of chess with Jack, who had his back to the door. Rosie was holding one of her opponent’s chess pieces in her hand, and he was admonishing her, in his softly spoken, cultured voice, to stop cheating and return it immediately.

Rosie promptly responded by smiling tauntingly before placing the piece inside her bodice. Martha was concerned at this unseemly display and the fact that Sir Clive had witnessed it. Before she could step forward and warn them of the visitor’s presence, however, Sir Clive had gestured her into silence.

Rosie got to her feet and danced away from the table, casting a roguish look over her shoulder as she did. Jack rose too, and Martha saw Sir Clive’s face fall as he noted the grace with which he carried himself, the sinewy strength apparent even in the ill-fitting clothes he wore. Jack followed Rosie, who allowed herself—without too much resistance, Martha noted with even more dismay—to be cornered in the window embrasure.

“Rosie, you little wretch.” Martha could sense Sir Clive bristling at the familiarity the words betrayed. Jack placed a hand against the wall either side of her shoulders, effectively encircling and imprisoning her. Rosie did not appear unduly perturbed at this action. In fact, from her sparkling expression, it might even be inferred that she was very much enjoying herself. “Do you think I won’t take it from you?”

Deciding that enough was enough, Martha entered the room, clearing her throat loudly. Jack and Rosie moved apart without surprise or embarrassment. On noticing their guest, Rosie came forward to greet Sir Clive in her usual friendly way. “Good morning, Cousin Martha, Sir Clive. Why, sir—” she dropped a slight curtsy and held out her hand, “— we have not seen you this age.”

Sir Clive bowed stiffly and saluted her hand briefly with his lips. “I must make you known to my cousin Jack, Sir Clive.” She smiled up at Jack, a remnant of their funning lingering in her expression. “Sir Clive is our neighbour.”

“Your cousin?” Sir Clive appeared to mentally review what he knew of her family. “I was not aware that Mr. Delacourt had any nieces or nephews.”

Jack bowed. “Rosie honours me with the title, sir,” he informed him. “Our connection is more distant and tenuous than she would have you believe. In fact we can at best be described as ‘kissing cousins’.”

Rosie gave a little choke of laughter and cast him a reproachful glance. Sir Clive’s frown deepened. “Please be seated, sir.” She gestured to a chair and made her way to sit on a sofa. Sir Clive promptly sat beside her and attempted to shut Jack out of the conversation, launching into a lengthy monologue about his trip to London. Jack, occupying the chair rejected by their guest, gave every appearance of being quite content to talk to Martha. He did, however, keep the interaction between Rosie and Sir Clive under keen observation.

“The man reminds me of a dog guarding a bone,” he said in an undertone to Martha. “Damn him.”

“You must be careful not to betray your feelings,” she rebuked him.

“Oh, fear not. I’ll not let on that I could happily choke the life out of the scowling dullard. And all because he can offer her everything that I cannot.”

Sir Clive stayed with them for an hour, at the end of which time Jack was openly yawning and even Rosie was struggling to maintain any semblance of interest in his discourse. He said he would not disturb Mr. Delacourt but would call again in the next few days.