Текст книги "A Kiss For a Highlander"
Автор книги: Jane Godman
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A passion that burns away centuries of hate…
The Georgian Rebel Series, Book 1
Stranded in the heart of England after Bonnie Prince Charlie’s hasty retreat, highlander Fraser Lachlan has sworn to stay by his injured friend’s side. But when a kindly English family takes Jack in to be cared for by the governess and healer at their Derbyshire estate, Fraser can only watch helplessly.
It’s just a matter of time before Jack is turned over to the Crown as a traitor, but Fraser’s attempt to rescue his friend is met with the blunt end of a candlestick.
Martha Wantage wears every reason she hates the Scots on her body—in the scars from a violent, fiery attack that killed her family. Now she has not only one unconscious Jacobite rebel at her mercy, but two. And she can’t resist cursing her enemy with the “kiss of hate”.
That kiss unleashes a storm of passion that rages quickly out of control. But with the legacy of Martha’s scars weighing heavy on her mind, and Fraser’s duty calling him to battle at Culloden, it may be too late to explore whether theirs is a desire born of hate…or love.
Warning: Contains a very sexy, masterful highlander and a demure, but defiant, governess who discovers the hard—very hard—way exactly what a Scotsman keeps under his kilt.
A Kiss for a Highlander
Jane Godman
Dedication
For my husband, Stewart.
Chapter One
Lord Jack was close to death. Even the stolen horse seemed to sense it, and it took every ounce of Fraser Lachlan’s considerable strength to urge the flea-bitten animal onward. At first the reluctant steed had valiantly borne the weight of both men away from the battle. Then, after a long, gruelling ride, when the animal could no longer bear the strain, Fraser had dismounted. He didn’t know how far he had walked since then, but his aching feet told him the miles they had covered were many. Deliberately skirting the open roads, he led—or, more often it now seemed, dragged—the stubborn mount with Lord Jack’s unconscious form slumped across the saddle. He had no idea where they were as they stumbled together along a broad farm track bordered by dense forest. A smattering of snow lay on the ground, and the bruised sky threatened more to come.
Fraser’s mind raced as he considered the possibilities. His lips twisted into a bitter smile. Impossibilities, more like! His task was simple. Get Lord Jack to safety in this unsafe land, with not a copper coin in his own sporran or in his lordship’s coat pockets. All he had was this bag-of-bones excuse for a horse and his faithful dirk, one of which he would trade for a hot meal, the other he would wield to fight his way out of a problem. Even Lord Jack’s fine French sword had been lost in the skirmish.
Just then, the horse gave a weary lurch. Lord Jack slid from his precarious position in the saddle, crying out briefly before hitting the iron-hard ground as if dead indeed. Fraser turned to tend him, and the exhausted horse stood still for a moment, its bony flanks heaving. Sensing an opportunity, it gave a defiant toss of its head before wandering away into the woodland. Now all they had was Fraser’s dirk.
“Leave me here, my friend.” It was little more than a sigh from Lord Jack’s lips.
“Aye, I’m thinking ’twould be no more than you deserve,” Fraser said, with a nod.
A soft laugh greeted his words. “I mean it, you fool. You wear the tartan. If the redcoats capture you, you’ll swing from the king’s gibbet.”
Fraser snorted, his expression hardening into a frown. “They can try to fasten King George’s noose around my neck. I like not their chances of success.” He leaned closer, unsure if Lord Jack was still conscious. “I need to see what lies over yon ridge, my lord.”
There was no reply.
Fraser swore under his breath, the Gaelic curses fluent and all-encompassing. The English deserved damnation. Always. That went without saying. One or two choice phrases were reserved specifically for the Hanoverian king—the one known to the Jacobites as Elector George—and his son the Duke of Cumberland, the wily commander brought back from the Continent and charged with leading the redcoats in the fight against the rebels. But Fraser’s expletives now embraced his own general, the Stuart prince welcomed only months earlier by the Jacobites as their saviour. Bonnie Prince Charlie. The charismatic leader who, having lured the brave highlanders from their homeland across this hated border with his fine words and promises, had unexpectedly turned tail and run without a fight. The worst of Fraser’s recriminations, however, he reserved for himself. He was to blame for their current plight. His must be the responsibility of finding sanctuary for Lord Jack before leading him safe home across the border once more.
Reluctantly leaving Lord Jack slumped against a tree trunk, Fraser made his way to the top of the wooded incline and scanned the rolling countryside below. Derbyshire proudly unfolded her finest winter landscape before his critical eye. Fraser, used to a grander scene, was interested only in what human activity he could glimpse. In the valley beyond the forest ridge, a large, golden manor house slumbered. It was set like a jewel in the middle of the snowy blanket that covered the surrounding farmland. A scattering of farmworkers’ cottages lay about half a mile distant. Another house—smaller than the manor, but larger than the cottages, half-timbered in Elizabethan black and white and with a thatched roof—was even closer to where he stood. In miniature because of his elevated position, this building was surrounded by laurel hedges and was joined to the manor by means of a tree-lined path. Fraser’s keen eyes noted extensive stables and, more interestingly, an outbuilding to one side of the smaller house. Thin plumes of smoke rising from their chimneys indicated that both properties were occupied.
The path Fraser had followed to reach this point clung closely to the line of tall pine trees as it dipped into the valley. Fraser contemplated this route down to the lower land thoughtfully. Taking the open path would be a risk, exposing his distinctive garb to any chance observer. On the other hand, the late-afternoon light was poor and the trees would provide shelter as he made his way into the valley. It was fortunate that the predominant colours of the Lachlan tartan were dark green and blue. And it was a chance he would have to take.
When Fraser returned to him, Lord Jack had not regained consciousness. Even as Fraser hoisted him roughly over his shoulder, grunting under the strain of settling his lordship’s weight onto his own broad frame, there was no response. Tottering slightly as he carried his burden, Fraser commenced a slow, tortuous descent. Intense weariness threatened to overwhelm him, and Fraser tried to remember when he had last slept. He failed. It wasn’t meant to be this way. The bitter bile of defeat rose in his gullet, and no amount of Scots pride could wash it away this day. Now was not the time to wallow, but soon he would have to face up to a harsh reality. Once again he had allowed the English to bring harm to one he loved. Last time he had lost his battle to save lives, this time he was determined the outcome would be different.
After several halts to catch his breath and shift Lord Jack’s weight, Fraser finally felt his feet touch level ground. He couldn’t have known at the time that a boyhood spent hunting barefoot in the Great Glen of Scotland, carrying his catch homeward in the evening light, would stand him in good stead for a venture such as this. The thought brought a tight, sharp pain to his chest and, determinedly, he turned his thoughts away from home and back to his present surroundings.
“Still ’tis a dram or two ye’ll owe me when we’re done here, my lord,” he told the leaden form he carried.
Finally, he reached the laurel hedge he had seen from the hillside. This bordered the Elizabethan property. The bushes would have been at shoulder height for most men, but for Fraser it was easy to see over their leafy barrier. All was quiet and he assumed this was because of the late hour—the lengthening shadows suggested dinnertime was nigh—and the inclement weather. The main entrance to the manor house was some distance away to his right, along a sweeping drive, so he had judged his arrival as planned at the rear of the property. On the whole, he seemed to be on the edge of a small, well-kept country estate. The layout was not ideal. Given his choice, Fraser would have preferred a secluded cottage or farmhouse with only one entrance to watch. He was hardly in a position to be nitpicking over details, however. This would have to do. Approaching the outbuilding, he discovered it was, as he had hoped, used as a barn. It was also empty. Uttering a sound midway between a groan and a sigh, he lowered Lord Jack carefully onto the mound of hay that filled about a quarter of the space. With relief Fraser noted a flicker briefly cross the marble stillness of Lord Jack’s closed eyelids.
Straightening his aching back, Fraser took stock of his surroundings. There was a half-loft above his head and a ladder resting against the wall leading to it. He weighed up the possibility of carrying Lord Jack up there to better conceal him from prying eyes. Although his shoulder muscles throbbed in protest at the thought, he climbed the ladder. It was worth checking what was up there. It was clean and dry, with fresh straw piled high. The ideal hiding place.
Water was the most pressing need right now. Then, if he could tend Lord Jack’s wound and scavenge some food, perhaps they could rest here for a day or two before setting off for the border in the prince’s wake. Fraser’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a girlish voice uplifted in song. With a muttered curse, he moved stealthily to the edge of the half loft so that he could look down on the lower floor of the barn. A neat, grey mare came into view just outside the doors. It was horribly cold now, and the December sky beyond the barn had grown ominously darker.
“Oh, do let us hurry, Cleo. I am so dreadfully late already.” The girl’s exclamation carried on the ice-laden air to Fraser. She dismounted and urged her mount into the barn. The horse gave a startled whinny, throwing up its dappled nose in alarm.
The girl peered further into the barn to see what had startled the horse. Although the hood of her cloak was drawn up, Fraser, trapped in his role of observer, could see her face clearly as she turned her head his way. He saw the look of shock that crossed her pretty features when she noticed Lord Jack. It was understandable. An unconscious man in the hay barn was not, after all, an everyday sight. She bit her lip nervously and glanced around her, clearly wondering what to do next. Hesitantly, she knelt on the floor beside Lord Jack.
“Miss Rosie.” A man’s voice rang out. “What are you thinking of, sneaking Cleo in here instead of bringing her around to the stables?”
“Hell and the devil confound it!” Fraser managed to bite back the curse that sprang to his lips so that it came out as a mutter instead of the shout it wanted to be. The big man who strode into the barn carried a lantern. Fraser slid quickly back from the edge of the loft floor, away from its beam. So much for his plan to find a peaceful place in which to hide out. It seemed he had stumbled instead across a bustling thoroughfare.
“I didn’t want Papa to know I had been out riding. He forbade it after he heard of the invasion—” She broke off. From the angle of his unique vantage point, Fraser could see that her features were white and strained as she looked over her shoulder. “The reason matters not any more, Tom. There are more pressing matters to attend to.”
“There are indeed.” The man, apparently unsurprised by the sight before him, cast a critical eye over Lord Jack. “Is he dead?”
The girl looked at him from her kneeling position and shook her head. “Not yet, but he needs care urgently.”
“Who is he?”
“I know not. As you can see he is quite young and—” even from a distance, Fraser could see the blush that tinged her cheeks, “—very handsome. See how he wears his hair confined at the nape of his neck by this black velvet ribbon? His nails are neatly manicured, and his clothing, although stained with the dust of travel, is very fine. He wears this ring too, which looks like an eagle with its wings outstretched in flight. It is made of gold and the stones that make up the bird’s eyes are rubies, I think. All of these things must denote his status as a gentleman, don’t you agree? But the left shoulder of his coat, here—” she pointed, “—is black with dried blood, and there is a hole in the cloth, which is charred at the edges.” She paused, regarding the man she had called Tom thoughtfully. She had not pointed out the obvious. Although it was now splattered with his blood, Lord Jack wore the white cockade of the Jacobites pinned to his chest.
Aye, Fraser thought, with a touch of savagery. ’Tis not so very hard to guess my lord’s secret, is it, wee lassie? It seemed fair to assume that the events of the last few days were enough to make everyone in the county of Derbyshire view their friends, neighbours, even close family members through new and suspicious eyes. Although many English people supported the Jacobite cause, it was not safe to do so openly. The white cockade, a common sight in the highlands, could have led to imprisonment for the wearer in England any time these last fifty years. Now, it spelled certain death on either side of the border.
“No need to hush up on my account, miss. This here gentleman will have been with the young chevalier, the one they call Bonnie Prince Charlie, and his highland brigade at Swarkestone Bridge, or my name’s not Tom Drury. A Jacobite battle here in the very heart of England—who would have thought such a thing possible? There’ll be a hefty price on this man’s fine head now that the prince is in retreat and headed back over the border. We must get him hidden away.”
Fraser’s hand clenched on the handle of his dirk. So that was the game. “But ye’ll not live to claim that price, big man.” The words were a promise uttered under his breath.
On the barn floor below him, Rosie gave Tom a look of glowing gratitude. “Can you carry him to Delacourt Grange?”
“Aye, I could do that easy enough. But I’m thinking that would be a certain way to bring all of us—this gentleman, you, me, your father and brother, and probably all of the servants as well—to the gibbet and the end of a noose before the week’s out. No, what we need is somewhere to hide him while his injuries are properly tended and he has time to recover away from prying eyes.”
Their eyes met and held. It seemed to Fraser, watching them carefully from his bird’s-eye viewpoint, that they had one thought that was shared between them but which neither wanted to voice. It hung oddly in the icy air. In the end, it was Rosie who spoke. “There is a priest hole in the old dower house. And there is also one there who is gifted in the art of healing.”
“’Tis a plan indeed, but one she won’t like.” There was a definite edge of trepidation in Tom’s deep voice. “You know she hates all men, Miss Rosie. And she hates Scotsmen most of all.”
“Leave her to me.” Despite the bravado of her words, Rosie’s voice shook slightly. Tom seemed inclined to dispute the matter, but she had already turned back to Lord Jack. With a shrug of resignation, Tom bent and swung the injured man up into his strong arms.
We will look back on this, Fraser thought, and laugh about this day and how you were carried about like a sack of grain or an obstinate child, my lord. Pray God, we will.
From his hiding place, Fraser watched as the girl ran toward the Elizabethan house, the big man lumbering in her wake. That was where they were taking Lord Jack. To this gifted healer they had talked of. From what he had overheard, they were about to hand a high-ranking Jacobite rebel over to an English witch who hated the Scots. Was there nothing about this day to give a highlander stranded in this hated country even a glimmer of hope?
Stealthily, Fraser left the seclusion of the barn. Keeping well back and using the shelter of the laurels to avoid being seen, he followed them.
Martha Wantage stood on the doorstep of the old dower house with her arms folded across her chest. Her foot tapped out a staccato beat on the stone surface. Tom Drury stood a few feet away from her, his eyes sliding warily away each time they encountered the fire in hers. An observer might infer it was rage that stiffened her slight figure and belligerence that held her spine straight as a ramrod. And perhaps that was partly true. After all, didn’t she, and every other right-minded woman in Derbyshire, have reason to be fearful and enraged at the news that thousands of Scottish barbarians had invaded the peace of their beautiful county? The silent impasse between Martha and Tom was broken abruptly as Rosie dashed around the corner of the laurel hedge, dragging her father behind her. At Mr. Delacourt’s approach, Martha pushed her spectacles back up her nose and turned to him with relief softening her features slightly.
“Cousin Henry! Thank goodness for someone with a modicum of sense. Do tell Rosie she can’t possibly keep this—” she floundered for a moment, seeking the right words, “—ne’er-do-well here.”
“He is not a ne’er-do-well. Father, please explain to Martha—”
Mr. Delacourt held up a hand. Rosie bit her lip and Martha clenched her fists at her sides. Both ladies lapsed into a reluctant silence.
“I have been roused from my library, where I was engaging in my favourite occupation,” Mr. Delacourt said, in a tone of mild complaint, “reading a most enjoyable account of the English peerage in the twelfth century, to come and settle this matter. Rosie has told me a remarkable story. Do remind me what it was you told me, child?”
“Papa, you know what it was. I found an injured Jacobite rebel in the old barn. He is close to death, but Tom says we may yet be able to save him if he can get the bullet out of his shoulder. I will nurse him myself, since others have refused to do so—” the frown she directed at Martha spoke volumes about her opinion of the unnamed others, “—and when he is well enough to travel, he can rejoin the prince in Scotland. Until then, we must hide him and keep his identity secret. But we cannot do that.” Her voice shook with the effort of containing her emotions. “Because of Martha.”
“Martha will not allow you to keep his identity secret?” Mr. Delacourt said in a voice of confusion.
“Martha is refusing to let him be carried over the doorstep of the dower house. And that is doubly unfair because Martha is the one person who could make the poor man better, if she chose. But she is being horribly stubborn.” She turned reproachful eyes to Martha. “You are, Martha. You know it. Anyway, Martha might live here, but it is your house, Papa. You must be the one to decide.”
Martha remained silent as a statue on the doorstep. Although Rosie’s words cut knife deep, she could never explain her sentiments to her young cousin. Or anyone else. She would rather have them think her cold and hard than make the attempt.
“Where is this man now?” Mr. Delacourt asked.
“Here, sir.” Tom spoke now from the lowering gloom at the side of the doorstep. When Martha had refused to allow him to carry the rebel over her doorstep, he had placed the injured man in the rear of an old farm cart. This vehicle was kept at the side of the house and was used by Martha as transport to and from market.
Going over to the cart, Mr. Delacourt studied the limp form thoughtfully. “Is there anything that can be done for him, do you think, Tom?”
“I need to get that musket ball out of him first, sir. Only then will I be able to see how bad the damage is.”
Mr. Delacourt paused. “As fantastic as Rosie’s story first seemed, it appears now to be true. I can think of no other explanation for this man’s presence here than that he must indeed be a Jacobite fugitive. Which means that if he is captured by soldiers loyal to the king, he will either be killed outright or stand trial for treason.”
Martha watched her cousin’s face as he spoke his thoughts aloud. Mr. Delacourt was himself a staunch supporter of the Jacobite cause, who scorned the Hanoverian claim to the throne and denounced King George II as a usurper. He did this, however, in a quiet voice, in private and within the confines of his own home. Would his loyalties to the prince he called “the true king” run deep enough for him to risk giving shelter to a wanted man? These were no ordinary times.
Mr. Delacourt’s glance flickered over to Martha. She knew what he was thinking. To him and only him, her feelings in this matter must be written across her face. No-one else knew how strong, deep and well-founded Martha’s fears of the Scots were.
“Martha, my dear.” He spoke directly to her as if they were alone. “I cannot leave this man to die. Despite what you say, I suspect you could not do so either.”
A shuddering sigh escaped her. He was right, of course. Silently, Martha stepped away from the doorstep.
“What are we waiting for? Let us get him inside,” Mr. Delacourt said, with unusual briskness. He might be a quietly spoken, gentle-mannered man, but he was master of his own home. Once he had made up his mind, no-one, not even Martha, would dare protest. The scene bustled into life as Tom carried the rebel up the perilously narrow staircase to the back bedchamber. He placed him on the bed, the coverlet of which was promptly whisked away by Martha.
“I spent many hours embroidering it.” Her lips turned down in a sour expression. She might be forced into acquiescence. It didn’t mean she had to be docile. “I’ve no wish to see it ruined with the bloodstains of a murdering Scots cutthroat.”
She turned to watch Tom as he cut away the fine coat and removed the lawn shirt to expose the ugly bullet wound that had torn deep into the man’s shoulder. This had started to sluggishly bleed once more. A waxy pallor marred the aristocratic features. It did not seem possible that anyone could survive such a devastating injury.
“It may not appear so now, but he’s a lucky man. A few inches lower and it would have killed him outright,” Tom said, rolling up his sleeves. He paused, reaching for his patient’s wrist and feeling his pulse. Tom’s face was grave. “It may yet have done for him.”
“No. We will not let him die.” Rosie’s voice was determined as she joined him at the bedside. “Tell me what I must do to help you, Tom.”
Tom glanced up at his master for confirmation that this was acceptable. Mr. Delacourt nodded briefly. “Do what you can for him, Tom.”
“And I suppose you would like me to vacate my home while you turn it into a sanctuary for every passing criminal and vagabond?” Martha did her best to bite back the words, but they came in spite of her, dripping vinegar into the atmosphere.
Three pairs of eyes turned to her. Martha returned their stares, her own eyes narrowed, her lips pursed. It was her defensive expression, as natural to her as breathing. Mr. Delacourt eventually broke the silence. “No, cousin dear, I would not expect that of you. But Tom cannot be spared from his other duties, and it would be most improper for Rosie to remain here alone with this young man, incapacitated though he may be. She will need you over the next few days to act as her chaperone. With your skills as a healer at his disposal as well as her nursing, we must be even more hopeful that he will pull through.”
The understanding in his tone brought a hard, painful lump to Martha’s throat. She felt a faint blush stain her habitually pale cheeks. Her eyes flickered from the still features on her best guest pillows to the pleading grey eyes of her former pupil. “Very well. I will fetch cloths and water,” she said stiffly, and left the room.
Mr. Delacourt followed her. “Thank you, my dear. I knew I might rely on you.” He studied her face, which she kept carefully neutral. It was a difficult subject to broach, and Martha had never invited familiarity. Silently, she willed him not to say the words. “This must be painful for you, Martha. The memories…” He broke off as she turned her head away and made a little, pleading gesture for him to be silent. “Very well, I will say no more on the matter. I’ll leave you now, but I will return on the morrow to see how your patient fares. Then we will confer and decide what next must be done.”
They parted as she went to the kitchen, and with a final, worried glance back at her, he left through the front door. Once he had gone, Martha allowed her shaking knees to give way and lowered herself into a chair. She permitted herself the luxury of a few minutes to collect her thoughts before returning to join Tom and Rosie in the back bedchamber.
