Текст книги "A Kiss For a Highlander"
Автор книги: Jane Godman
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
Chapter Thirteen
Martha’s bedchamber was a small, comfortable room on the third floor of the Tower House. Cora, on showing her to this apartment, had seemed inclined to linger and eager to gossip about the reason for the presence of two English women in the castle, but Martha had been so tired she could barely speak. The garrulous little housekeeper had reluctantly left her alone.
Dinner that night had passed in a blur of courses and noise. Martha had barely seen Fraser, who, at the head of the table, had been much in demand. On returning to her room, she had tumbled gratefully into the comfort of her four-poster bed and into a sound sleep. When a knock on the door roused her, she had no idea of the hour. Although the sky outside the casement window was fully light, indicating that it must be morning, it was quiet as though the castle had not yet come to life.
Martha slid from beneath the warmth of the bedclothes, shivering slightly as the chill air touched her flesh. Snatching up a shawl, she draped it around her shoulders and hurried to the door. Her heart constricted, as if squeezed by an invisible hand, when she opened the door to find Fraser leaning against the frame. He smiled down at her and the tightness in her chest loosened. Only he, it seemed, had this unique and remarkable power to melt her insides.
“Will ye no ask me in, crabbit one?”
“You are the laird.” She stepped aside so that he could pass her. “Surely you can do anything you want within these walls. You need no invitation from me.” She wondered why he was here. With her. As chieftain of this vast castle, he must surely have so many women willing to do his bidding. Why would he choose the least prepossessing?
He closed the door behind him, a frown descending on his brow at her words. “I may be the laird, but I’ve never been one to take that which is not willingly offered to me, Martha. I thought you knew me better. Was I wrong then to come to ye? Have things changed so much between us?”
His words answered her unspoken question. He already knew she was willing. Wildly, wantonly so. There was no danger of scandal here. No raised expectations. No courting or promises necessary. And, as soon as she looked into those golden eyes, she was wet and throbbing with lust, wanting him as much as he wanted her.
She went to him and slid a hand behind his neck, drawing his head down so that she could trace his lips with her tongue. “No, you were not wrong to come to me.”
Fraser’s hand tangled in the soft curls of her hair. “Since I’m the laird, and you are mine to command, din’nae pin it up so prim and tight while you are under my roof. Wear it looser as a private sign to me that you want me…always.”
He pulled her closer with his hands on her hips, then moved one around to squeeze her backside, drawing her up against him. His tongue rolled over hers in a leisurely sweep, then dove deep, staking and claiming, branding her as his all over again. She could feel his erection already beginning to stir, hardening and lengthening as she pressed herself eagerly against him.
His long fingers slid between her slender ones, entwining with them. For Martha, the mere act of staying upright was becoming a physical pain. He raised her hand and pressed a light kiss into her palm, then slid it down between the swell of her breasts, over her flat stomach, bringing it to rest at the apex of her sex. He used her own hand beneath his to cup her possessively.
“This is where I need to be. Right now. I thought of little else on the long ride here except getting myself inside you. ’Tis a spell you’ve cast on me,” he said in a whisper that was close to a groan. “So get that nightgown off, English witch, and get that skinny, crabbit arse of yours into bed.”
Martha’s heart hammered as she obeyed. Heat pricked her nipples and pooled between her legs. From beneath her lashes, she watched Fraser as he undressed. He moved so swiftly that he was on the bed with her and between her legs before she had time to fully enjoy his masculine beauty. The press of his hips as his cock swelled pushed him right where she needed to feel him. The desperate heat and moisture of her need welcomed him. When he moved with just the slightest tilt of his hips, his cock slid hard against her and her eyes widened at the delicious friction. She drew in air between her clenched teeth and squirmed to deepen the feeling. He laughed and moved himself back and forth over her sex again.
His hand slid up over her belly and cupped her breast. Martha’s head fell back as his fingers played with her nipple. His touch varied between gentle strokes and squeezes to a continual roll of her nipple between his thumb and finger, sending sparks of pleasure shimmering through her nerve endings. At the same time, he continued to rub the head of his cock over the bud of her clitoris. Martha wanted to cry out. How did I live before this—without Fraser—in my life?
Thick and granite hard, the feel of him just entering her sent a ripple of pleasure, like warm honey, coursing through her bloodstream. He let her do the work this time. She moved her hips upward with aching slowness, drawing him fully into her, exulting in the sound of him whispering her name. His patience didn’t last long. Fraser’s movements soon grew urgent. Tame and tender were long forgotten now. Wildly, he drove himself in and out of her body, stretching her, using his muscular buttocks to power each frantic hip thrust. Pangs of raw, primal lust spurred Martha on as well. She jerked her hips up to him, meeting and matching his lunges over and over.
Fraser gave a low moan, a sound that began somewhere in the centre of his chest and blew soft breath over her heated face. “I love that you want me as much as I want you. I love watching your face when you finally succumb…like ye are about to do now.”
Martha cried out as her body bucked and ground uncontrollably beneath him. She could feel Fraser’s cock beginning to jerk with his own release. “Being inside you feels so good, Martha. Dear God, how can I want you all over again even while I’m still coming?”
Martha slowly lifted her head to look into his face. Rolling onto his side, Fraser pulled her close to him, throwing his leg over her thigh to pin her to the bed, keeping her where he wanted her. It felt right. Martha’s chest fluttered with something that was so much more than lust. He was in her heart now, her big, beautiful Scotsman. She couldn’t reason him away. Whatever happened in the coming days and weeks, she would be content with this. To be here when he needed her.
The hills on the south side of Loch Ness subsided at the lower end of the loch into a long, smooth swelling ridge, which gradually declined to the east near the town of Nairn. This ridge formed a gravel coastline, which extended through Inverness, Nairn and the Moray shires. The surface was very gently rolling and not quite level, with slight depressions where the water collected and rendered the ground wet and spongy. The view of the Moray and Beauly Firths and of the mountains along the Great Glen was truly magnificent. It was here that the Jacobite army was drawn up near Culloden House, where the prince had taken up residence.
Culloden House was the home of Duncan Forbes, the Lord Chief Justice of Scotland. Its proximity to Inverness, the main Jacobite base in the campaign, made it a natural choice of residence for Charles Edward Louis John Casimir Sylvester Severino Maria Stuart. This was the man whose birth in Rome in 1720 had been the cause of much Jacobite rejoicing. Here, it seemed, was the boy who would restore their fortunes and take his rightful place as a Stuart king on the united English and Scottish thrones. Throughout his life he would be known by many names. To the Hanoverians he was the Young Pretender, he was Tearlach—the Gaelic form of Charles—to the Scots, Carluso to his mother and Carluccio to his father. To his devoted followers, however—because of his handsome face, ease of manner and way of charming those around him into following his wishes—he was Bonnie Prince Charlie.
He was brought up to see himself as the saviour of the Jacobite cause, the man who would remove the dour Hanoverians from the throne they had stolen. He was a restless, tireless man who sometimes forgot to go to bed, a man who had joined the Spanish army at the age of fourteen, gaining experience for the day when he would embark on his quest to regain his birthright. Landing in Scotland with limited resources and no idea of his reception, he had secured the support of many of the highlanders through the sheer force of his magnetic personality. But there was a darker side to his nature, and as the tide turned against him at Derby and he found himself hunted through the highlands, he became sulky and petulant. He was also drinking heavily and had been unwell for some time. News that the Duke of Cumberland was bearing relentlessly down on him, setting fire to whatever was in his path, did nothing to improve the prince’s mood.
“This is not the place to face the might of the king’s forces, sire.” Fraser’s words to the prince echoed the thoughts of the other men about the table. The difference was that none of the others had the nerve to say them aloud.
“You are saying I should keep running like a wounded dog with my cousin Cumberland snapping at my heels?” the prince asked. His face as he regarded Fraser was haughty.
“Sire, no-one would suggest that.” It was Jack who spoke up this time. “Our forces are depleted and supplies are low. Morale among the highlanders is as low as it can get. Cumberland has had time to strengthen his ranks so that he now outnumbers us. Our Jacobite strength lies in our fearsome highland charge, and given the right terrain, we might yet defeat him, even with his superior numbers. What Fraser is saying is correct, however. This is not the right terrain.”
“What is your proposal?” The prince turned back to Fraser, his handsome face downcast.
“We harangue Cumberland’s forces with dawn raids and night attacks. Weaken them by stealing their weapons, supplies and horses. Wear them out with lack of sleep and demoralise them before we face them. Give the highlanders a chance to bring them down with their famous charge.” Most of the men around the table nodded and muttered their agreement with Fraser’s plan.
“No, I will lead my men into battle. Here.” The prince turned away, hunching his shoulder moodily. His face was set in stubborn lines.
“Then you will lead us into carnage, sire.” With a bow, Fraser walked out of the room. Behind him, he heard the collective gasp of the other men.
All her life, Martha had been brought up to fear the Scots. After the attack on her family and on her person, she had even more reason to view these people as tartan-clad demons. Now she was living among them. Eating with them, talking to them, working alongside them. Making mad, glorious love with one of them. And they were—her mind searched for a suitable word and found several—ordinary, humorous, likable and scared. Scared because they didn’t know what the gathering red-coated forces meant for their traditional way of life. Scared because they sensed that their chieftains were not happy with the prince’s battle plans. Scared because right and wrong seemed to have been lost somewhere and replaced instead by a battle of wills between two power-hungry princes.
She was shocked to hear stories of the casual brutality of her countrymen. It seemed the clansmen were viewed by the soldiers as savages who did not deserve to be treated with anything approaching humanity. Whole communities were victimised as a matter of routine. The English swept the glens, scavenging and thieving, subduing the spirited highlanders by beating the men and raping the women. All with the blessing of their commanders, all done to break the spirit of the clansmen. Fraser, she learned to her horror, had been subjected to an ongoing campaign of savagery since his father’s death. Fraser had inherited the title in his late teens, and since then, the English generals at Fort William had made a concerted effort to break the spirit of the young laird. He had been repeatedly imprisoned, beaten and threatened. But the men who had tried to intimidate him had not broken Fraser’s spirit.
“Aye, the Laird of Lachlan is a strong man. Stronger by far than most,” Rab told her, as he showed her around the inner court of the castle. “The English can’nae understand a will that is toughened by adversity. Although—” his brow furrowed with sadness, “—no man should have to face the sorrow that was wrought upon him.”
They had been standing in a quiet corner of the castle garden, and Martha had followed Rab’s eyes to a spot where, under the sheltering umbrella of a willow tree, there were two graves. Both were marked by simple crosses, and the scrubby grass grew overlong around them. Nearby, a small rose garden that might have been planted for remembrance had been allowed to become a wilderness.
“When did they die?” she asked quietly.
“Three summers gone. Since then it has pained the laird’s heart to return here.”
Martha was surprised at how quickly she had been accepted by Rab, who performed all the old, feudal functions of a castle steward, and Cora, who, it turned out, was his wife. Martha could not have surmised this interesting piece of information about their relationship from their dealings with each other. On the surface, they appeared to dislike each other intensely and spent much of their time in each trying to score points over the other with Fraser. She only knew they were husband and wife because one of the kitchen maids told her, and then, when she studied them more closely, she could detect no sign of affection, or even tolerance, in their behaviour toward each other.
Any fears she might have had that the inhabitants of the castle would view the arrival of two Englishwomen in their midst with suspicion were soon put to rout. Rosie was greeted with delight for her decorative value alone. Martha, with her quiet reserve, was initially regarded with less enthusiasm. Her natural aptitude for management soon asserted itself, however. Since Castle Lachlan had no mistress and a long-absent master, there was very little routine and a great deal of chaos in the prevailing approach to the running of the household. This did not suit Martha at all, and she calmly set about doing something to rectify the situation. Cora, bristling slightly at the arrival of a small, stiff-backed whirlwind in her kitchen, soon allowed herself to be carried along upon a tide of gentle orders and quiet reproof.
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.
