Текст книги "A Kiss For a Highlander"

Автор книги: Jane Godman

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Chapter Two

Martha watched her young cousin carefully. It was obvious from her pallor that the next hour tried every ounce of Rosie’s fortitude, but she bore up well. At the end of it, Tom had removed the musket ball, after digging and probing deep into the flesh with a fiendishly long, thin knife. He then relinquished his place at the bedside to Martha. Once Mr. Delacourt had made his feelings known, she, along with every other member of the household, accepted his decision without demur. The rebel would receive the very best care she could give him. First, she stemmed the fresh flow of blood produced by Tom’s ministrations and then began to bathe the wound with a pungent solution.

“What is that?” Rosie, leaning over her shoulder, wrinkled her nose at the smell.

“It is a mix of thyme, sage, rosemary and lavender soaked in vinegar to cleanse the wound and keep away any pus or rottenness which might prevent it healing. Until it does heal, the wound must be swabbed with this solution twice a day.” Rosie nodded as though making a mental note. Martha’s lips twitched slightly. She refrained from commenting on the fact that Rosie had never before shown the slightest interest in what she and her brother Harry called Martha’s Potions.

“What next?”

“Next, we apply a soothing salve made from some of the same herbs suspended in animal fat and honey. This also has nettles which promote healing in a deep wound and St. John’s wort which helps with pain.” Martha’s deft fingers applied the sticky mixture to the injured flesh as she spoke. “This must be covered—” she made a pad from a cloth and placed it over the wound, “—and held securely in place.”

Expertly, she bandaged their patient’s wound. As she worked, Tom lit a fire in the grate and pronounced there was little more they could do that night. While she washed her hands, he whispered to Martha that, with the amount of blood the rebel had lost, it was most unlikely the man would last until morning.

“Do not repeat those thoughts in her hearing, if you please,” Martha murmured in return, indicating Rosie’s absorbed expression.

“We can only wait and pray,” Tom said more loudly, as they gathered up the bloodstained cloths and clothing in preparation for burning.

“Tell me he will live, Tom,” Rosie pleaded, without looking up from the bed.

Tom shrugged. “He must be strong, Miss Rosie, to have survived thus far and to have travelled all the way here from Swarkestone Bridge with a bullet in him. If he can fight off any fever that comes his way, no doubt he’ll pull through. He’ll likely not come round again tonight. Best get some sleep.”

Rosie smoothed the coverlet that she had placed back on the bed. Martha had pretended not to notice the slightly defiant action. “I’ll stay here and watch over him,” Rosie said, her voice quietly determined.

“It really is not necessary—” Martha began. Seeing the suddenly fierce light in the usually mild grey eyes, she broke off. “If you insist, however, I will leave you to your task. You may fetch me if you need me.”

Martha made an effort to infuse more gentleness into her tone this time than she had previously shown. She still had grave doubts about the wisdom of sheltering the rebel, but she also recognised that Rosie’s instant preoccupation with him would need careful handling. Mr. Delacourt was right when he said a chaperone would be needed, more to guard Rosie from her own feelings than from any ill intent from the Jacobite. As if to confirm these thoughts, Rosie nodded in response to Martha’s words, but did not raise her eyes from the pale face on the pillows. Martha followed Tom from the room, holding her candle aloft as she accompanied him down the stairs.

“I question the wisdom of leaving the care of a handsome hero to an impressionable and very softhearted young lady,” she said. “Indeed, this man has the power to turn our lives upside down before he even opens his eyes. What happened at Swarkestone Bridge, Tom? The rumours are plentiful, but I cannot for the life of me pluck the grains of truth from the make-believe.”

“It’s the speed of the advance that has us all in shock. The prince was on his way to London, prepared to take the crown. It is said that King George had his bags packed and was ready to flee back to Hanover. Swarkestone Bridge is the main crossing over the Trent and onward to the south, into London town itself. Once the Jacobites were across it, nothing could stop them. The king’s men had been ordered to blow up Swarkestone, but the prince sent an advance party of highlanders to seize it. A battle ensued and the highlanders held the bridge.”

“Yet the prince did not cross, even though his way was clear?”

“No, the Jacobites have retreated back toward Scotland with the king’s men in pursuit. The prince’s advisers were misled about the scale of support in London. The bridge was his, the road to London was his and the crown was his as well. But no-one could believe it was so easy. The prince lost the most important battle of all—the one with his own council. I doubt we’ll see the Stuarts back on the English throne again, Miss Martha.”

“Do you have any idea who this man, the one in my back bedchamber, may be?”

“I have not heard any specific stories. He is clearly noble and that worries me.”

“If it is known a nobleman was at Swarkestone, the soldiers will already be looking for him. The law will not deal kindly with these rebels.” Martha cast a wary glance up the staircase.

“He has managed to travel twenty-five miles from Swarkestone Bridge. How he accomplished that alone and with a bullet in him, I don’t know. But we must hope the redcoats will not look this far afield.”

“Do you place much dependence on that?” Martha asked.

“I don’t,” he said, with brutal honesty. “The king will be vindictive toward any who have gone over to the prince’s side. It is the highland Scots who will pay the heaviest price for this rebellion. Although the prince may yet win the next round of battles across the border.” His tone did not hold any great optimism about the chances of such an event. He opened the heavy, black-oak door. The night was wintry, and his breath plumed the next words out into the darkness ahead of him. “Lock your doors and windows. Word in the town is that several rebels have deserted the prince and still roam the area. They will be hungry, tired and desperate.”

“Thank you for those words of comfort, Tom. It appears I have one of the dangerous ruffians you describe ensconced in my back bedchamber. It’s just as well he is wounded since, with your departure, there will be only two defenceless women in the house.” Martha drew her shawl closer about her shoulders, although whether the chill that ran down her spine was due to the icy breeze or the fear of what was to come, she could not have said.

“There will be only two defenceless women in the house.”

Upon hearing those words, Fraser allowed himself a grim smile and resheathed his dirk. The lethal-looking weapon would not be needed after all. Having already been around the exterior of the house several times, he knew there were numerous places where he could easily gain entry. The big man called Tom would have presented him with no problem anyway. In size they were equal, but in a fight there were few men who could match Fraser Lachlan. No, overcoming Tom would have been child’s play—might even have been enjoyable—but he had gone now. And from the words they had just exchanged, he would not be back until morning. From his vantage point in the dark shadows of the laurel bush, Fraser watched as Tom walked away in the direction of the stables. This was going to be all too simple.

He heard the bolts grind as, obedient to Tom’s instructions, she locked the door. That was the sour-faced one. The one who looked like she had a spike permanently shoved up her skinny arse. Their so-called healer. Heaven help the English if she was the best they had! He hadn’t seen the other one—the young, pretty one who had found Lord Jack in the barn—since they’d taken his lordship inside earlier. That had been as afternoon was giving way to evening. Although Fraser had been forced to hide deeper in the trees as they’d gathered on the doorstep, he had nevertheless been able to observe the scene closely.

“No, I’ll not allow you to bring him in here,” she had said, shaking her head and folding her arms across her chest.

“Would you condemn him to die like a dog on your doorstep?” Fine words from the big man. In another time and place, Fraser might have warmed to him.

“Yes.” She had flashed the words back at him. Even from a distance, Fraser had seen the quiver that ran through her body. He had known a compulsion to burst from his hiding place and take that slender, white throat between his hands. “Can you doubt it, Tom? My father could have told you that the only good Scotsman is a dead one.”

At that point Rosie had dashed off and returned with her father. Mr. Delacourt’s intervention had signalled the start of a long vigil for Fraser. Ignoring the cold had been the hardest, although hunger, thirst and fatigue had all played their parts in his discomfort. Only the thought of what he owed Lord Jack had kept him upright.

Now there was flickering candlelight at two of the mullioned windows while the others were in darkness. A first-floor room at the back of the house had been lit constantly since darkness fell. Another, at the front, also on the first floor, had been black until a few minutes ago. It didn’t take much ingenuity to work it out. The pretty one was in the back bedroom. The sourpuss had gone up to the room at the front after seeing Tom, their protector, out of the house.

Fraser made his way around to the back. That was where he had seen a kitchen window that, if it could be opened from the outside, looked just about wide enough to permit a large-framed man to fit through.

The moon threw enough light on the scene for Fraser to study the window. The wrought-iron frame was divided into four casements, and looked to be hinged on the inside. If he broke the glass, he could easily reach inside and release the catch. But the sound would alert the two women to his presence. Fraser glanced around until he found what he needed. Picking up a large, pointed piece of slate, he came back to the window. Sliding the sharp edge of the stone under the corner of the window frame, he pressed down hard until he felt the catch inside give way. The window sprang open.

Although Fraser was an intruder, the homely atmosphere of the kitchen seemed to welcome him as he climbed over the ledge. Lingering smells of baking and beeswax greeted his appreciative nostrils, and the dying embers of the fire beckoned to him. Shards of moonlight stole through the open window, highlighting a long, scrubbed table in the centre of the room. A greedy moan escaped Fraser’s lips at the sight of half a loaf of bread, a wheel of cheese and a jug of water. Scooping up the jug, he gulped down most of its contents in one long swallow. Droplets clung to his beard, and he dashed them away impatiently. He was just tearing into the bread when the sound of light footsteps descending the stairs reached his ear.

“Is that you, Martha?” Candlelight flickered tentatively in the doorway as Rosie stepped into the kitchen. “I was hungry…”

She looked up from the table to where Fraser stood, her eyes widening in shock. He took a step forward, and she had a moment to assimilate his size. Her eyes lowered to take in the green-and-blue woollen kilt, muddied and bloodied linen shirt, knee-length gartered hose and laced leather shoes of the true clansman. Then Fraser had moved with lightning speed and seized her in a grip of iron. He clamped one hand firmly over her mouth.

“Softly now, pretty lassie,” he whispered as she began to struggle. “It’s not from any thought of doing harm to you that I’ve come here this night.” He had intended the words to reassure her, but panic filled her eyes as one possible, and very sinister, meaning for what he was saying occurred to her. Wildly, she attempted to lunge away from him. Her efforts to free herself were pathetic against his superior strength, but she did succeed in biting his fingers. Hard. With an exclamation, Fraser pulled his hand back. It was the ensuing combination of events—the trickle of blood from his hand coupled with a screech from Rosie that nearly deafened him—that meant he didn’t notice Martha until it was too late. She had already raised the candlestick above her head in both hands and slammed it with all her might into the back of Fraser’s skull before he even knew she was there.

With a thud, the highlander dropped to the floor, his long body stretched full length beside the kitchen table. An ominous puddle of blood was already forming on the stone tiles behind his head.

“Have you killed him?” Rosie asked.

Casting aside the candlestick with shaking hands, Martha dropped to her knees. She tugged aside the tartan shawl that was fastened across the intruder’s chest with a pewter brooch in the shape of a thistle. Unlacing his shirt, she pulled it wide to reveal muscles that appeared to have been hewn from bronze. Pressing her ear to the coppery hair that covered his broad chest, she listened carefully.

“No.” A frown furrowed her brow as she rose to her feet again.

“Well, surely that’s a good thing?” Rosie said.

“I don’t know. It would probably be easier to get rid of a dead body than a live Jacobite. And now we have two of them.” The shaky feeling in Martha’s limbs persisted.

“Must you be so horribly practical?”

“Yes, because one of us has to be. I know your head is stuffed with romantic notions about your heroic invalid, Rosie. At any moment, however, the king’s men could come knocking on the door. And when they do, I don’t know how I will begin to explain to the redcoats how it comes about that my little house is suddenly stuffed full of unconscious rebels.”

Sitting abruptly down in one of the chairs at the table, Rosie began to giggle uncontrollably. “Very well. Since we can’t do much about the rebel in the back bedroom, perhaps we should try and move the one on the floor?”

“He’ll have to go in the cellar. We can lock him in there, he won’t be able to get out, and at least that means he won’t be able to come after you again.” Martha regarded the immobile figure. She wondered whether he had been looking for food or valuables and decided to attack Rosie simply because she chanced to be there. Or had he broken into her house in search of a woman? The thought made her shiver. And why did he have to be so inconveniently large? “It will be impossible to carry him, even with two of us. But, between us, we should be able to drag him down the cellar stairs.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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