Текст книги "A Kiss For a Highlander"

Автор книги: Jane Godman

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter Seventeen

The stench of the bog and of death was overwhelming. Dead men and horses, and discarded and broken weapons lay strewn around him. The weight of the bodies pinning Fraser to the ground was too great to shift, and it was tempting to simply close his eyes and let death take him. The fog of memory cleared, and he remembered bellowing at his men to break ranks and charge, for the love of God and Scotland! He had swung his claymore left and right, just as he had practised on the ramparts of Castle Lachlan only days before. Blood had filled his vision, stinging his eyes and burning his nostrils. Sweat had soaked his skin. He had roared and howled while lunging and thrusting at the oncoming redcoats. He had been closing the distance, moving ever closer to the hated figure of the Duke of Cumberland when, on the periphery of his vision, Lord Jack, clad in the Lachlan tartan of his clansmen, fell beneath the outstretched sword of a red-coated dragoon.

The memory was enough to bring Fraser to his feet again. Clutching his side where the redcoat’s sword had pierced deep into his own flesh, he thrust aside the dead Jacobite who lay on top of him and staggered over the uneven ground. Blood ran in rivulets down his forehead, and he had no energy left with which to wipe it away. He used his sword as a crutch, leaning heavily on it while trying to breathe through lungs that burned with every indrawn breath. His vision was fading then clearing as though he walked through a low highland mist. The big, strong body that had always served him so well was failing now. Weak and shaking from a combination of loss of blood and grief, he stumbled to his knees at the point where he had seen Lord Jack fall. His friend was not there. Dark spots crowded Fraser’s vision once more, and the hateful, noxious ground of Drumossie Muir rose up to meet him.

Rough hands grabbed him, turning him face up and refusing to allow him the welcome release of unconsciousness. He tried to cry out at them to leave him be, but no sound left his lips. A shout went up, and a group of youths clustered around him. He felt himself being hoisted unceremoniously up and then carried on some sort of makeshift stretcher. It was too much trouble to tell them to stop jolting him, so he closed his eyes and let peace envelop him.

Dark images of battle came back to Fraser through a disjointed fog. Tantalising rays of brightness briefly encroached, dispelling the horror of his thoughts. He tried to reach for the light, grasping on to the shining beams. Some instinct told him there was that within the light that he needed. The face of a young woman intruded into his memories of the battle, soothing him and causing the terror to recede. Her hair fell in shining curls about her shoulders. Fraser tried to smile at her. For some reason he needed to tell her he liked her hair that way, but he couldn’t remember why it should matter so much. Concern shone in the luminous depths of her light-blue eyes as she studied his face. This vision—the one that was preventing him from sinking back into the embrace of the darkness—had porcelain-pale skin with a dusting of freckles. She pushed her spectacles further up her upturned nose, and he tried to lift his hand to tell her to stop doing that, but the movement was too much effort. Even in his dream, the delicate, soothing scent of flowers hung about her. He could not hear the words she spoke, but her calm voice unaccountably reassured him. She wanted him to do something, but he was not sure what it was. He knew only that he must wake from his nightmare of violence, pain and fear so that he could find out.

“Praise be to God, my lady.” Cora’s lips trembled as she studied the battered and bloodstained body on the bed. She had finally been induced to stop weeping and lamenting so that she could help Martha to clean the wounded man. Martha, in contrast to the emotion of those around her, felt oddly serene and detached from the scene. When they had carried him over the threshold, when she had seen that it was really him, a curious sort of calm had descended upon her. At first, she assumed he was dead. That they were bringing him home for a chieftain’s burial. There were no signs of life, and there did not seem to be any part of his body that wasn’t a beaten and bloodied pulp.

“He was in a ditch, to one side of where the front rank of the king’s men had lined up,” Rab said, as Martha knelt beside the stretcher. “As if he was going after Cumberland himself.”

“Knowing you, my Scotsman, that is exactly what your plan was,” she murmured, low enough that no-one else could hear words. Beneath its mask of mud and gore, Fraser’s face was marble-still. Like the effigies in the church at Bamburgh where her family had worshipped when she was a child. At the sound of her voice, however, his eyelids twitched, and for the briefest of moments, she glimpsed the hazel gleam of his eyes.

“Don’t leave me, my love.” At her whispered plea, his hand lifted very slightly toward her and then dropped back to his side. It was signal enough. He had heard. He had come back to her.

“He is alive.” She took a moment to blink back the tears that stung her eyelids. “Take him up to his room. I will tend his wounds there.”

“Was the laird the only one you found?” Rosie’s voice held a pathetic little note of hope.

“The only one alive, my lady,” Rab said and his rough voice was oddly gentle.

“And Lord Jack?”

“We could’nae even find his body to bring back to you for burial, my lady.” He shook his head regretfully. “I scoured every inch of the battlefield myself in search of him. But some of the clansmen had already set fires on the battlefield, and many of the bodies were burned to save them from looters or Cumberland’s atrocities.”

With a sob, Rosie clasped her hands over her mouth and whirled away. Martha watched her for a moment, torn briefly between her needs and Fraser’s.

“I have a recipe for a potion that will heal his wounds, my lady,” Cora said, becoming alarmingly brisk now that her initial tears were dried. “Firstly, we must crush together juniper berries with the wild heather that grows on the high moors. These must be mixed with extract of wormwood and heated together in a cup of whisky, to be taken twice daily.”

Martha pursed her lips. She couldn’t see anything in Cora’s suggestion to cause Fraser any harm, nor could she perceive anything in the proposed potion that might conceivably help to cure him. “While you gather and prepare those items, send Rab to me so that we can remove his clothing and bathe him. And, Cora—” the little woman paused in the doorway, “—while you are about it, take a dram to Miss Rosie and tell her I will wait on her shortly.” It was going to be a long night.

“There is an Englishman at the castle entrance.” Rab seemed to have conferred upon Martha the status of honorary Scot, but his expression betrayed, in no uncertain terms, his feelings toward unannounced Englishmen.

Martha was only mildly distracted by this information. It had been three days since the battle of Drumossie Muir. Three long days and nights during which she and death had fought tirelessly for possession of Fraser. She was winning at last…but only just. When they had finally finished cleaning Fraser and Martha had been able to examine his injuries, she had felt sick with shock and fear. In addition to the fact that every inch of his flesh appeared to have been beaten, he had a deep gash across his forehead, and his left wrist was broken. It was the wound in his left side, however, that caused the world to swim out of focus when Martha first saw it. It was a ragged gash that ran in a line from beneath Fraser’s arm to just above his hipbone. It looked deep enough for Martha to have slid her hand inside. She could tell, from the shocked expressions on their faces, that Cora and Rab shared her fears. How could he survive this?

“You must,” she had told his unconscious form firmly. “You have to.” She then set about giving instructions for the gathering of the herbs she would need.

There had followed a treadmill of nursing so intensive that each hour blended seamlessly into the next. Cora and Rab had done what they could to help—even Rosie, in spite of her grief, had offered her help—but Martha would not leave Fraser’s side. It was as if her presence was a talisman, that she could somehow will him, through her very determination, to live. She had snatched a few short hours’ sleep in the chair next to his bed, dashing away to bathe and change her clothes and dash back again within minutes. She must have eaten but could not remember what or when.

Her constant vigilance and attention were paying off. He was improving. It wasn’t just her imagination. Fraser’s wounds were beginning to look better. Once or twice he had opened his eyes and looked directly at her. This morning, she had been sure she had even seen a hint of a smile in his eyes.

“Who is this Englishman?” she asked now, raising her eyes from Fraser’s face with an effort.

“Name of Tom Drury, or so he says. He asked for Mistress Rosie—” Rab broke off in surprise as Martha jumped up.

“Stay here. See if you can get him to take some water. I will be no more than ten minutes.”

Martha lightly descended the staircase, pausing halfway down the last flight to study the familiar figure in the great hall below her. It was indeed Tom Drury. He was standing with his back to her, prodding the logs in the fireplace with one booted foot.

“Good day, Tom,” Martha said, coming forward into the room.

Tom swung around at the sound of her voice, surprise settling over his features as he studied her face. “Martha, I barely recognised you. Scotland has been kind to you, I think. Although the tales I have heard of events over the past few days would suggest otherwise.”

“I have bad news on that score.” She gestured for him to be seated. “Jack was killed in the battle at Drumossie Muir.”

“Ah, no!” Tom shook his head. “He was a fine man. And Fraser?”

“So badly injured he may as well have been dead. But there is hope for him yet.”

“With you nursing him, Martha, he stands a better chance than most. Miss Rosie will have taken Jack’s death hard.”

“Very hard,” Martha agreed. “They were very much in love. It is good to see you again, Tom. Your arrival will cheer her.”

“I doubt you will say so when you know the reason for my coming,” he said, his expression serious once more. “I bring bad tidings. Mr. Delacourt is unwell. It is his heart, I am afraid. It appears he sustained a severe shock, but he has not been able to relay the nature of what happened to anyone, so sickly has he been.”

“Was it to do with the battle here? It must have been a shock to have learned of it.”

“We had not learned of the battle when he was taken ill. I only heard the news myself when I arrived at Inverness. No, he was taken ill immediately after a visit from Sir Clive Sheridan. After Sir Clive departed, I found Mr. Delacourt in a state of collapse in his study. I have a suspicion that Harry may know more about what has happened than he is letting on. The lad has been uncharacteristically quiet and looks like a rabbit caught in the light of a hunter’s torch of late. I have left Mr. Delacourt in his and Mrs. Glover’s care, but I confess I made this journey in the hope that I might find Miss Rosie already wed and you able to return to Delacourt Grange to be able to nurse him. ’Tis long-term care he needs, I fear.” Tom sighed. “But I see that events here have overtaken me.”

“Yes, indeed.” Martha filled him in on some of the detail of the battle and its aftermath, including just how serious Fraser’s injuries were. He listened in silence. In turn, he told her that upon their departure from Derbyshire, Fraser’s plan had worked. Although the young sergeant had continued to insist that Captain Overton had been shot by a woman, the family’s story that neither Rosie nor Martha had been at home at the time and that a fierce highlander had been holding them hostage had won the day. The local magistrate had pronounced that the captain had been murdered by this desperate rogue who had then fled back across the border. Both women would be safe to return home to Delacourt Grange with no fear of reprisals for the events of that night.

“And how fares Miss Rosie in all of this?” Tom asked.

“Not good, as you would expect,” Martha said. “And I am caught up in caring for Fraser so that I feel I have not enough time to spare for her.”

“Perhaps it would be as well if I took her back to Derbyshire with me so that she can undertake the care of her father? ’Twould occupy her mind and get her away from this place which must hold only bad memories for her now.”

When this plan was put to Rosie later, she nodded her agreement, her eyes brightening with a rush of tears. “Yes, I would like to go home. To be with my father and Harry again and have my familiar things around me.” Martha thought sadly that she had grown up too suddenly. The carefree girl was gone—probably for good—and a solemn young woman had, overnight, taken her place. “But what of you, Martha? If we leave you here alone, how will you find your way back to us again once Fraser is fully recovered?”

“From what Tom has said, it seems that your father’s health must be our first priority. You must go to him without delay,” Martha said. “But there is no-one here who has any inkling about how to care for their injured laird. If I leave him to them, they will no doubt attempt to boil him in oil or apply bat droppings to his head by the light of a full moon. I will stay until he is out of danger and then I will make some plans.” She was deliberately vague, but she saw understanding in Rosie’s eyes. Drumossie had changed all their lives. Martha’s plans would be whatever Fraser wanted of her.

When she returned to the laird’s bedchamber, Rab hailed her with something that, in another man, might almost have been called pleasure. “Even though he did’nae open his eyes, he’s been muttering and moaning the whole time ye were away.”

“’Twas as if he sensed ye’d gone, my lady,” Cora added.

Martha sat on the bed next to Fraser, taking one of his hands in hers. With her other palm, she felt his brow. It was cool, and she allowed herself a sigh of relief. In his enfeebled state, a fever would be the worst thing. He immediately became calm under her touch.

“’Tis like a miracle,” Cora sighed.

“Whist now, woman. ’Tis nought of the kind,” Rab said. “The laird knows his lady.”

Martha refrained from sharing her opinion, which was that, even in his semiconscious state, Fraser probably recognised competence and was fearful when deprived of it. Instead, she set about explaining that Rosie would be leaving the next day and asked Cora to organise a room for Tom for the night. Rab went away at the same time as his wife, explaining that he wanted to make sure that their visitor’s horse was safely stabled.

Left alone with Fraser, Martha felt suddenly, achingly tired. The events of the last days and weeks crowded in on her in a rush, and tears of exhaustion stung her eyelids.

“Sleep,” she murmured. “That’s all I need. Just five minutes.”

Removing her shoes and taking care not to disturb him, she slipped under the coverlet next to Fraser. Within minutes, she felt the welcome embrace of sleep claim her.

Through the inky darkness of unconsciousness, Fraser opened his eyes. His whole body ached and his left side was on fire. He lay still, trying to make sense of his surroundings and to understand the debilitating feebleness of his limbs. The swirling fog gradually receded, and the events at Culloden came back to him clearly. Was he really here—in his own bed—or was this another cruel trick of his weakened mind?

Gradually, the realisation that not only was he in truth back at Castle Lachlan, but that he was not alone in his bed intruded on his thoughts. Turning his head, her scent informed him that either he was in the grip of slumber or Martha was lying next to him. Fraser could just make out her shape in the gloom of a dimly lit afternoon. She lay curled on her side, fully clothed, facing away from him. Although the movement caused exquisite agony to tear through him, he slowly edged toward her and closed the gap so that he could fit his body into the curve of hers. Pressing his face to the silken skin at the nape of her neck, he inhaled her familiar fragrance. She was as sweet and warm as honey. Comforted by her nearness, he sank at last into a sleep that included no nightmares. This time, he dreamed only of Martha.

The next morning, after a restless night, Fraser thrashed from side to side in the bed, his face red and his skin burning. He muttered incoherently and groaned every now and then as though consumed by pure agony.

“He has a fever.” Martha studied his face. This had been her worst fear. He was a strong man, but his injuries were devastating. He would need every ounce of his strength to fight this.

“He should be bled. We need the leeches, my lady.” Cora compressed her lips in a stubborn expression.

“Let us do it my way first,” Martha said firmly. Although bleeding was commonly used, her mother had not held with it as a means of reducing fever, and Martha did not agree with it either. “If he shows no signs of improvement by nightfall, you may use the leeches with my blessing.”

To Cora’s consternation, she pulled back the bedclothes and stripped Fraser of all his clothing except for a fine linen shirt. Throwing wide the casement windows, she extinguished the fire in the room. Finally, she set about bathing his long, sinewy limbs with cool water.

“What we need to do is induce him to start sweating. That will break the fever and release him from its grip,” she explained to Cora. “There are herbs that will bring on sweats. If you bring me angelica, elderberry and rosemary, I can make an infusion from them. The difficulty will be to get him to drink it while he is in this state.”

Martha spent the remainder of the day alternately sponging Fraser’s body or bathing his face with cool water or painstakingly feeding him small amounts of the herbal infusion from a spoon. As evening fell, she could see no discernible difference in his condition, and Cora was beginning to mutter more loudly about the leeches.

Fraser gripped her hand, and the heat from his fingers startled her. He muttered something incomprehensible, and Martha wanted only to soothe and reassure him that she was there. “Get well, my love.” She leaned over and pressed her mouth to his burning lips. “I love you, my Scotsman.”

His eyes fluttered open and he stared up at her. For a moment there was no recognition in his eyes, then comprehension dawned. “Oh ’tis you, Englishwoman.” The tender look she knew so well was gone. His lips—the lips she loved, the lips that had anointed every part of her body—twisted into a cruel sneer. “Another kiss of hate, is it? But it has been repaid in full, has it not? I’d heard it said that vengeance was worth the wait. Now I know ’tis true. To hear you say that you love me, that this Scotsman is your master, that was worth biding my time for.” His eyes rolled up, showing the whites, and he turned his head on the pillows.

Could that really be it? Had her worst fears just been realised? She had heard that venom in Fraser’s voice once before…when they first met. Shock numbed her emotions at hearing it again. Without warning, feeling came flooding back, tearing into her heart and causing her to gasp at the intensity of the pain she felt.

Fraser didn’t want her. Cruelly, he had been using her body for revenge. He had exploited her inexperience and her maidenly longing for him only as a means of repaying her for that kiss and for her words of hatred. He had made her love him only so that he could mock that love and throw it back at her as he had just done. In his fever he had spoken the truth at last.

Aware of Cora’s eyes on her face, curiosity burning through the little woman’s every pore, Martha straightened her spine. Pride forced her to hide her hurt. Mechanically, she smoothed the sheet to cover Fraser. Her hands busied themselves as she mopped his heated brow once more and redressed his wounds.

“Blessed Lord!” Cora pointed a shaking finger. Beads of sweat had finally broken out on Fraser’s brow.

Martha returned, many hours later, to her own room after she was sure that Fraser was finally sleeping peacefully and the fever was gone. Alone at last, she allowed herself to dwell on the words he had spoken.

“You fool,” she murmured, as part of her insisted on trying to reason away what she had heard. Because she so desperately wanted it not to be true, her mind snatched wildly at excuses for his words. Perhaps he had mistaken her for someone else? But no, he had called her “Englishwoman”. Did his words hide another meaning? She could almost have laughed aloud at that. There could be only one interpretation of what he had said.

Martha reached for the tinderbox, only to find that her hand was trembling so pitifully she could not light her candle. In spite of everything she had told herself, she realised now that she had permitted a glimmer of hope to peep through. The tenderness she had seen in Fraser’s eyes had fooled her into believing they might have a future. That she could have let herself, however briefly, cherish such an absurd dream added to her humiliation. She knew she was unlovable. How had she managed to persuade herself otherwise?

Resolution gave her the strength to do what was necessary. With a hand that was steadier, she lit her candle and gathered her belongings together. It was when she groped blindly for her bag and began to throw these items into it that she finally allowed the tears to fall.

“No, you tell him.”

“I’ll not tell him. I prefer to keep my skin attached to my back, thank you.”

The whispers just outside his bedchamber door were starting to annoy him.

“For the love of God, somebody tell me!” Fraser roared. “Is she sick, is that what it is? Is that why she’s not been near me these last two days or more?”

He had been asking for her. Over and over, but she had not come to him. The excuses had reached a level that was pitiful, and this morning, he had threatened to leave his bed and drag her from hers if someone did not provide him with a satisfactory answer to the simple question “Where is Martha Wantage?”

Several pairs of nervous eyes regarded him from the doorway. It was Cora who spoke up at last. “She is gone, my laird.”

“Gone? What the devil do you mean, woman? How can she just be gone?” He sat up straighter, wincing at the pain in his side.

“You should’nae—”

“Answer me, damn you!”

“She left three days since. It was just after the fever was high upon you.”

“No.” He shook his head. He knew Martha better than that. Didn’t he? “She would not leave me. And certainly not while I was still in danger. Not unless something very bad happened when I was in the grip of the fever. Did she get bad news from Derbyshire?” He glared around him. There was an anxious shuffling of feet. “What was it?”

Rab and Cora exchanged glances again. Once more Cora took on the role of bearer of bad tidings. “Well, she did seem woeful upset at something you said to her, my laird.”

“What did I say?” Fraser’s voice was dangerously quiet now.

“Something about the kiss of hate and how it was repaid in full at last.”

“Go on.” His eyes were fixed on her face.

“You said that she had finally admitted she loved a Scotsman and that you were her master. Oh, and that vengeance had been worth the wait. When you said those words to her, my lady looked as if her world had come to an end. She made sure you were comfortable and left me detailed instructions about how to care for you. She said on no account was I to use the leeches even if the fever came back. Then she went.”

“Went? How did she go?”

“She took the horse she came here on.” Cora twisted her hands together nervously.

“So she rode out all alone. Into the wilds of the Great Glen. With wild beasts and Cumberland’s men on the prowl. And not one of you tried to stop her?” Suddenly, his servants found it even more difficult to meet his eyes. “Did she say where she was going?”

Cora shook her head. “My lady thanked us for taking good care of her while she was here and said she would’nae be back. She did say that she would’nae be going to Derbyshire either.”

“Aye.” Fraser’s face was a picture of fury as he threw aside the bed covers. “Because she knew fine well that’s the first place I would go looking for her!”