Текст книги "A Kiss For a Highlander"

Автор книги: Jane Godman

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter Five

Half an hour later, Martha hardly recognised the tall, powerfully built man who strode into her kitchen through the open back door. It was only the bandage on his head and his badly cut hair that alerted her to his identity. Somehow, the severely cut breeches, shirt and jerkin Tom had lent him only accentuated the breadth of Fraser’s shoulders and the strong muscles of his thighs. It was plain from his expression, however, that he did not approve of his new attire.

He plucked at the cloth of his breeches with distaste. “I look like a cursed lowlander. ’Tis unmanly and a reproach to my heritage for me to appear in public without my sporran, kilt and dirk.”

Privately deciding that Fraser had far too much manliness for any garment, Martha disregarded this comment. “Sit here while I cut your hair and shave you,” she said, indicating a seat at the kitchen table.

He regarded her with suspicion. “Must I present my throat to you while you’ve a blade in your hand, wee crabbit one?”

“Yes, and I do wish you’d stop calling me that. I lived in Northumberland until ten years ago. I know exactly what it means.”

“Aye, ill-tempered, unpleasant and all-round disagreeable.” He grinned, a gleam of genuine humour in his eyes. “It suits you just fine.”

Ignoring the look she threw at him, he took a seat and, leaning his elbows on the table, made no further comment while she removed his bandages and trimmed his hair into a semblance of order. The red-gold curls clustered close into the nape of his neck and over his ears, and Martha concentrated on her task rather than his proximity. He smelled of masculinity. It was a warm, earthy, musky scent that was out of place in her kitchen. Whenever she moved into the line of his vision, she was conscious of his unwavering stare on her face.

“Northumberland was once a part of the kingdom of Scotland,” Fraser said. Martha gritted her teeth and did not respond. “Aye, and is it not true that the Northumbrians are known for their wild and revolutionary ways? Before the stabilising influence of a Scottish king on the English throne, was it not known as the most lawless county in the land?”

“At least we know who our enemies are, unlike the highland clansmen who seem determined to annihilate each other,” she said.

His jaw tensed at that, and he lapsed into silence so that the only sound for several minutes was the click of Martha’s scissor blades.

“How old are you?” he asked. The question was so unexpected that the scissors made a jumpy arc that came perilously close to his ear before Martha got them back under control.

“That has nothing to do with you,” she said in her best teacher’s voice. He waited, and eventually she capitulated. After all, what did it matter? “I am six and twenty.”

“Past the marriageable age, ’tis true, but not quite at your last prayers. Why is it that you try so hard to appear older?”

That was going too far. No-one had ever spoken to her that way before. Ignoring the peculiar lump his words brought to her throat, she attempted to change the subject. “Where are your other clothes?”

“Why?” He leaned back slightly, watching her now that she had finished her task.

“They will give your identity away. I don’t want them to be discovered.”

A savage fire blazed gold in the hazel depths of his eyes. “That’s right. They are my identity. I’ll not let you dispose of the only things I have left of my name, my pride and my honour.”

“I was going to offer to wash them and store them safely until you are able to wear them again,” Martha said placidly. “Believe it or not, I do know the significance of the kilt and the tartan to your countrymen.”

The fierce look faded slightly. “You grew up on Lord Jack’s estate, at St. Anton?”

“Yes, on the northern part of the estate, close to Bamburgh. My father had land there and farmed cattle.” She didn’t need to explain what that meant. Although Fraser was a highlander and, therefore, hailed from an area far to the north of the border between England and Scotland, he would know and understand the practice of reiving. Conflict between the kingdoms of England and Scotland was as ancient as the lands themselves, and cross-border conflict was bloody, brutal and relentless. Families living on either side of Hadrian’s Wall existed in the certain knowledge that bloodshed, treachery and grief would come their way. The border traditions, passed down through generations, did not die out when King James I, great-great-grandfather of Bonnie Prince Charlie, to whom Fraser had sworn allegiance, united the two crowns. Reiving—raiding for cattle, sheep and anything else that could be transported—was a way of life that continued unabated. But theft was the lesser evil of reiving. Murder, rape and kidnap were all part of daily life on the border.

“Tell me about the reivers who hurt you.” His voice held more compassion than she would have imagined possible. What had wrought this odd change in his approach? Never trust a Scotsman. Her father’s words rang in her ears. It was sound advice, and yet Fraser seemed genuinely interested. He had a knack of triggering a chain of warring emotions in her breast. It was most unnerving.

Martha bent her head, unable to speak. Instead of trying, she busied herself by picking up the knife in preparation for shaving him, but her hand shook so hard that the blade was a silver blur. Fraser watched her thoughtfully, then reached out and clasped her wrist. Carefully, he removed the knife from her grasp.

“On second thoughts, perhaps it might be best if I do that myself?”

Tom, assisted by Fraser, undertook to transport Jack to Delacourt Grange in the farm cart later that afternoon. The two large, muscular men seemed to feel the ease with which they accomplished this task was a matter for some congratulation. Jack, who was tired and in considerable pain after being lifted and jolted, told them in no uncertain terms what he thought of their nursing skills and sent them packing so that he could sleep.

Fraser dawdled on his way back to the old dower house. The air was chill and rapid, with fleeing clouds threatening more snow to come. The beauty of the rolling Derbyshire countryside was not lost on him, but his heart yearned for the soaring grandeur of his homeland glens. It was hard to believe that it was only days since the Jacobites had marched behind the prince, glad of heart and certain that he would fulfil his promises to restore the Stuarts to the throne. It seemed that, at every turn, the highlanders must be the people to bear the weight of this ancient conflict, the ones who suffered the wrath of their more powerful neighbours.

This deception, this role he was being forced to play, did not sit comfortably on Fraser’s proud shoulders. His way was to face his enemy in combat, to look his foe in the eye. Even worse was the fact that he should be compelled into such indignity in this hated land. To be obliged to stoop and play the part of an Englishman! To forsake his tartan and have to share a roof with the woman who had humiliated him. It was the ultimate dishonour. His head told him all nations had their heroes as well as their villains. His heart, conditioned by his upbringing, told him England was populated by demons.

Fifty-three years had passed since the murders at Glencoe, but to the Lachlan clan—kinsmen of the MacDonalds—the atrocity might have happened yesterday. The history behind the awful tragedy was ingrained into Fraser’s being. It was part of who he was. When William of Orange ousted King James II, the last Stuart king, and claimed the throne for himself, Scotland became a nation rent in two. The old divisions resurfaced and redoubled, with the lowlanders largely loyal to King William while the highlanders clung stubbornly, and often fiercely, to the Stuart cause. The image of wild highlanders bearing down upon his forces, flailing their claymores and screaming retribution, had caused King William more than a few sleepless nights, and determined to quell their rebellious ways, he insisted all highlander chieftains must take an oath of fealty to the crown.

Accounts of the events leading up to Glencoe varied according to the viewpoint of the storyteller. The MacDonald chieftain had either not signed the oath of fealty or had signed it too late to placate the king. Soon after the deadline for signature, the MacDonalds were visited in their Glencoe home by members of the Campbell clan and a contingent of their highland mercenaries. The two chieftains were related by marriage, and it was said that the clans were on friendly terms at the time of the meeting. There was much drinking, feasting, dancing and harmony. What the MacDonald clan did not know was that the Campbells were working for the king. In the middle of one night, the guests rose and systematically slaughtered their hosts. The men were murdered outright, the women raped and beaten before being left to die. The mercenaries had bitten the married women’s fingers off to remove their wedding rings. Fraser’s grandmother, a MacDonald, had been visiting her family in Glencoe at the time and had perished in the massacre along with nearly forty others.

At the king of England’s written command, Fraser reminded himself now. A king of England who was a Dutchman. A king of England who had deposed the rightful Stuart heir—descendant of Scots kings. And the murders at Glencoe resonated in the echoing atrocity that had so recently torn apart his own life and placed his feet upon this path. Foul murder in the name of this fair land, he thought as, rounding a neat box bordered walkway, he looked up at the charming Elizabethan house. His hand automatically reached for the comforting solidity of his dirk handle, and he muttered a curse at the realisation it wasn’t there. He had left it with his kilt.

“Who goes there?”

Fraser halted abruptly as the words were flung at him. A figure emerged from the bushes, and it took all Fraser’s strength to stop himself from hurtling forward and wrapping his hands around the challenger’s throat. After a moment in which to reflect, he was heartily glad of his own restraint. The words were spoken by a mere lad, Fraser observed in surprise. He clenched his fists at his sides and drew a deep breath.

“Well, who are you?” The boy had unruly dark hair and an earnest expression that was marred by a frown. He had a look of the pretty little lass, the one who was a daughter of the house. The lad appeared nervous and was clearly trying to hide it behind a front of arrogance. Fraser judged him to be about twelve years of age. A large golden dog followed him out of the undergrowth and clung close to his heels. This animal rolled its eyes at Fraser in an almost apologetic manner.

Remembering his English accent was the easy part. “Fraser—” he broke off. The flaw in their carefully laid plans dawned on him. He was meant to be her brother, but he hadn’t paid attention to the most important detail of all. What the devil was the wretched woman’s name? She looked like a Mary or a Jane. Plain, dull and infinitely forgettable.

“Harry, what on earth are you doing?” As if on cue, the Englishwoman appeared on the doorstep, and the boy glanced around at her with a combination of guilt and relief.

“Well, I don’t know who he is. He could be a rebel or a looter. Or both. What do they call them up on the border? Reivers?”

Briefly, Fraser’s eyes met the woman’s over the lad’s head. He remembered her words. You are a Scotsman. It is the same thing. He wished he could summon up her name as easily. “Harry, this is my brother Fraser. He has come to stay with me.”

Harry looked from one to the other. His thoughts were written all over his face as his gaze took in her delicate frame compared to Fraser’s muscles and the contrast between her mousy pallor and his bold, tawny colouring. “I didn’t know you had a brother, Cousin Martha,” he said eventually.

That was it. Martha. Dull and uninspiring, just like her. “We have been estranged for many years.” Fraser decided it was time to try out the accent. It sounded reasonable.

“We are half brother and sister,” Martha added. “We were not brought up together—” She broke off and Fraser knew what she was thinking. There was a danger of saying too much if she continued.

“Why are you here now?” Harry, regarding Fraser with continuing suspicion, was clearly not convinced.

“Because I heard that the Jacobites had invaded Derbyshire and I wanted to make sure my sister was safe. Is that acceptable to you, young ’un?”

“Oh.” Harry looked rather crestfallen, and in other circumstances, Fraser might almost have felt sorry for the lad. He threw Martha a look as though gauging her reaction. “How long will you stay?”

Fraser laughed. “As long as my sweet sister will have me,” he said, enjoying the way Martha’s eyes flashed at the words. She was forced to hold her tongue because of the boy’s presence, of course, but he suspected he would be upbraided for his impudence later.

“It is an odd coincidence, but a distant cousin of my father’s has also just arrived for a visit.” The boy was no fool.

“I take it his arrival was not expected?” Martha said.

“No. His name is Jack Brown and he was taken ill while travelling. Fortunately, he was quite close by, and he made his way here so that he could recover under my father’s roof.”

“Fortunate indeed,” Fraser said.

“I expect you will meet him soon, if you are to spend any time here.” Harry clicked his fingers, and the dog, who had been sniffing at the trunk of a tree with great interest, came back to his side. “Oh, and Mr. Wantage—” He paused.

Fraser, who had not responded to Harry’s words, gradually realised that Martha was staring frantically at him, her big eyes trying to convey a message. Too late he understood what it was. Hell and damnation! The lad was talking to him—addressing him by what he thought was his name—and he was still waiting for him to respond.

“My name isn’t Wantage, laddie. It’s Lachlan. As…my sister here has said, we are but half siblings. We had different fathers.”

“I’m sure you did. There is certainly no physical resemblance between you.” Harry turned to go. “And next time I see you, I expect you will have contrived to remember without any prompting that your sister’s first name is Martha.”

“That went well,” Fraser remarked as he stepped into the house. “I think we fooled him.” Martha smiled slightly at the sarcasm in his tone.

The scolding he had anticipated for not remembering her name did not materialise. On the contrary, her manner was indicative of her resignation at his memory lapse. It was as if she did not expect or deserve any acknowledgment from him or anyone. The thought disturbed him. He might not have any time for her—might even actively dislike her—but no human being should be made to feel that worthless.

Suddenly he felt tired to his very bones. Nothing else mattered. He tried again to remember the last time he’d slept in a bed. It felt like he had been marching forever. That made him think longingly of his highland home. Resolutely, he turned his thoughts away. Home was not the same place any more. Not since—well, not for a very long time.

“You look exhausted.” Martha’s voice was brisk, almost accusatory.

“Aye. I don’t know how it is, but I find having my head bashed in always makes me woeful sleepy.”

He watched in fascination as a blush tinged her pale cheeks with soft colour. “Dinner will be a few hours yet. You should go and get some sleep.”

“Am I hearing you right, crabbit one? Ye’ll not only feed me, you are also proposing to let me sleep somewhere other than your cellar floor? Such hospitality, and all for a beastly Scotsman, leaves me moved almost beyond words.”

The sourpuss expression returned and her lips thinned. “And yet the words keep coming, each of them more worthless than the last. I am doing this for Lord St. Anton, whose family were good to mine,” she said coldly. “If I had my way, you would be taking your chances with the king’s steel by now.”

She moved to let him pass her in the narrow hall, but he paused, looming over her briefly. Martha pushed her spectacles up her button nose in a nervous gesture, and he heard the click of her throat as she swallowed hard. She cast a scared, fleeting glance up at him, and he noticed again how hard she found it to look him in the eye. In spite of himself, Fraser was increasingly intrigued by this odd, damaged soul who, it seemed to him, was trying just a little too hard to convince the world that she had a lump of stone in place of a heart.

“Aye,” he said, stepping aside to allow her more space. He placed a foot on the first stair. “Sleep sounds like a very good plan just now.”

Hours later, Fraser’s eyes opened. It took him a long time to shake off the mists of a deep sleep and accustom himself to his surroundings. When memories of the last few days did return, he was conscious of a feeling of well-being that was disproportionate to his situation. He sat up, clearing the remnants of fog from his mind. The curtains of the bed were back and a fire raged in the grate. The room was warm and comfortable. Darkness had fallen, but someone had left a candle and tinderbox close at hand. By the fire’s golden glow, he saw that his kilt and shawl lay neatly folded on top of a wooden chest. His dirk had been placed on top of them. The realisation that he had slept so deeply that an Englishwoman who hated him with every fibre of her being had been able to enter the room with a knife in her hand struck him as worrying. At the same time, he found the fact that all she had actually done was lay out his clothes and light a fire to warm his rest oddly touching.

The smell of cooking filled his nostrils. His stomach gave an appreciative rumble, and he rose to investigate. Downstairs, he found the kitchen empty, but a large pot on the fire seemed to be the source of the delicious aroma. His linen shirt, the blood and mud washed away, was drying on a wooden pulley suspended above the flames. As he looked around him, drinking in the homely atmosphere, the door flew open and Martha struggled in. Her arms were full of logs, and the hood of her woollen cloak had fallen back. Huge snowflakes coated her hair and melted into moisture on her face.

“Here, lass, let me.”

Fraser hurried forward to take the logs from her, and she jumped back slightly as his hand touched hers. She bit her lip as though annoyed that she had betrayed her nervousness to him. While Fraser stacked the logs beside the fire, she removed her glasses, which had steamed up in the heat of the kitchen, and began to wipe them on the edge of her cloak. He watched her with interest.

“You should leave them off,” he said. “You look better.”

She promptly put them back on. “I can’t see without them.” She held her hands out to the fire. “The snow is coming down heavily now.”

“Good.” She raised her brows, and he elaborated. “’Twill slow the king’s men down in their hunt for any of the Jacobites daft enough in the heid to get themselves left behind.”

Removing her cloak and hanging it on a peg behind the door, she turned to the fire and to the pot. “I can’t offer you haggis.” She looked back over her shoulder at Fraser with a slight smile. “It’s only boiled mutton. But I have cooked neeps and tatties for you.” For a moment, the emotion provoked by her words threatened to overwhelm him, and Fraser had to clench his fist hard at his side. She had gone to the trouble of cooking traditional Scots food for him. How long had it been since someone—anyone—had thought just of him? Something in his face must have startled her because she added swiftly, “I thought it best to keep up the pretence that I am glad to have you here.”

He laughed, glad to be able to release the slight obstruction in his throat. “I hope there’s plenty, lass. It takes a lot to fill me.”

“That’s what I thought. You are very big.” The ready blush rose to her cheeks. She focused again on her task, stirring the pot and pushing her glasses back up as they slipped down her nose. Within minutes, she had set a steaming plate of food on the table in front of Fraser, together with several thick slices of bread.

“It’s a long time since I’ve tasted anything this good,” he said truthfully. Shyly, she cast her gaze down to her own plate and continued to eat, ignoring the words. He could tell she was pleased, however. “I suppose it’s too much to ask that you might also have a wee dram to wash it down with?”

“Oh, but I do.” Martha jumped up and went to the pantry that was set to one side of the fireplace. “I’d almost forgotten about it. My mother used to say—” She broke off, frowning slightly at the earthenware flagon that she withdrew from the shelves. “Well, there is nothing quite like a drop of whisky in hot water to keep a head cold at bay.”

“Will you no join me?” Fraser asked, when she had poured some of the amber liquid into a goblet and placed it before him.

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like the smell.”

“Lass! You wound me with your words. Ye are talking to a Scotsman. Don’t insult me, share a dram with me.”

Hesitantly, she agreed, holding her breath as she took a tiny sip of the fiery liquor. “Oh, my good Lord.” She spluttered, her eyes watering and her cheeks burning. Fraser’s laughter echoed around the room.

“Hits the spot, does it not?”

“It burns,” she said reproachfully. She raised her goblet to her lips once more, and her eyes met his over the rim. Fraser was fascinated at the gleam of mischief which lightened her habitually serious expression. “I don’t like the taste,” she explained as she took another sip, “but, my goodness, I do like the effect!”

Later, Fraser sat before the fire in the small parlour while Martha set tiny, neat stitches in his shirt, mending the tears that had happened as a result of the skirmish at Swarkestone Bridge. He kept his eyes on the hearth. The leaping flames within cast shifting shadows over his face, which he hoped masked his thoughts. Burning wood crackled, charred and split, sharing its sweet, woodsy warmth. Outside, the snow continued to swirl and dance, turning the rolling Derbyshire hills into an alien, impenetrable landscape that reminded him of home. Martha mustn’t know, or ever suspect, how much this scene of cosy domesticity—so unexpected and unlike his life in recent times—added to rather than soothed the ever-present ache in his chest. It was a hurt that even the finest Scotch whisky would never be able to assuage.

Before bed, he went out to the woodshed and brought in more logs. Martha waited in the open kitchen doorway with a lighted candle while he stomped the snow off his boots. She smiled her thanks and tentatively reached up to brush the melting snow from his broad shoulders. At her touch, Fraser felt like a man who had tamed a wild bird.

Later, in the still, cold night, he was wakened by a sound he could not place. It took him a few seconds to recognise that it was a woman sobbing. His throat tightened as he was forced to listen helplessly to Martha’s anguished dreams. He wished he could find a way to make the reiving bastards who gave all Scots men a bad name pay for their crimes.