Текст книги "A Kiss For a Highlander"
Автор книги: Jane Godman
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
Chapter Seven
“I’ve brought your young scamp to you,” Jack said, entering the parlour of the old dower house with a shamefaced Harry in his wake. Martha, whose ankle was almost healed, was conscious of a moment’s annoyance at the interruption. She had become used to a peaceful existence that consisted of just her and Fraser. Ashamed of such an uncharitable thought, she rose to greet her visitors.
“Ye look more rightful.” Fraser studied Jack’s face. “But too peely-wally for my liking.”
“What does that mean?” Harry asked.
“It means ‘pale’,” Martha said, with a warning look at Fraser. “We use these Scots sayings all the time up in Northumberland. Don’t we, brother dear?”
“What’s that?” He directed a confused frown at her. Then her meaning dawned on him and he grinned ruefully. “Oh, aye. Indeed we do.”
“Jack said you are a fisherman.” Harry looked up at Fraser with a touch of bashfulness.
“I am that, lad. But ye’ll no be catching much at this time of year.” Harry’s eager face fell with disappointment. “Unless ’tis a bit of carp you fancy? I reckon we could take our rods out and try our luck wi’ that?”
“You could, of course,” Martha said firmly. “Once Harry has completed the Latin exercises Mr. Dewson has set for him.”
“I don’t understand them,” Harry said, his expression a mixture of defiance and embarrassment. He held out the book that the parson had provided and showed Martha his scrawled attempts to complete the work. “Jack said I should come clean and confess.”
Martha bit her lip. She really didn’t have enough knowledge of Latin to help Harry, and Mr. Dewson himself had gone away for two months. Mr. Delacourt knew the language, of course, but he was so vague he would never be able to concentrate for long enough to explain even the basics to his son.
“Could you help Harry?” she asked Jack. “If he applies himself to his studies with you, his reward can be a day’s fishing with Fraser.”
“To my lasting regret, I was the most dreadfully inattentive student as a boy,” Jack said. “The intricacies of Latin escape me. But you are most fortunate, Miss Wantage. You already have a scholar under your roof, you know.” With a smile to Martha and a nod to Fraser, he turned and left them.
Martha’s cheeks burned. She could barely look in Fraser’s direction. How could she have made such a dreadful assumption about him?
“Is that true? Can you help me?” Harry asked.
Fraser picked up one of the books and thumbed through the first few pages. “Aye, it looks straightforward enough to me. No time like the present, lad. Let’s have a look at these first few grammar exercises. Then, if the weather holds, we’ll take a line out and see if those carp are biting on the morn.”
Several hours passed while the two heads, one dark and the other red-gold, bent over the books that were spread out on the kitchen table. Martha, meanwhile, went about preparing the evening meal and marvelled at Fraser’s patience. She could almost see the burden lifting from Harry’s shoulders as Fraser explained how to conjugate verbs.
“Thank you,” Harry said with heartfelt gratitude as he left for Delacourt Grange at dinnertime. He turned back with a mischievous smile. “By the way, if you are still trying to pretend that Martha is your sister, you should try and act in a more brotherly way toward her.”
“What the devil did the young imp mean by that?” Fraser asked, watching Harry’s retreating form with surprise. When Martha didn’t answer, he walked over to her and slid his hand under her chin, scanning her face.
“Perhaps he meant this sort of thing.” She removed his hand.
“Is that what troubles you, lass?”
“No. I made an assumption about you based on how you look.”
“Did ye now? Because I’m big and brawny and I speak with the tongue of a highlander, you thought I’d no have learned my lessons as well as that finely spoken feller called Lord Jack?”
Martha nodded. “Yes, and I’m sorry for it.”
“Well, I would’nae worry. I’ve been guilty of making a few assumptions of my own about you, Miss Martha Wantage.” She risked looking up at him, and the smile in his eyes nearly stripped the skin from her face with its heat. Luckily, he changed the subject. “Now we’ve the place back to ourselves at last, can we eat?”
“You put Harry at his ease so well. You clearly have a way with children,” Martha remarked as they finished their meal. “Are you used to being around them?”
The expression that crossed his face was so bleak it almost made her cry out in alarm. It was gone as quickly as it appeared. His handsome features settled back into a neutral aspect.
“Aye, you might say that,” he said, before lapsing into silence.
The temperature had been rising gradually for several days. The unspoken fear in Martha’s heart—in all their hearts—was that the thaw would bring the soldiers in its wake.
“Ye’d best show me this priest hole,” Fraser said one morning, as weak sunlight stole in through the kitchen window, warming the scene. He looked up in concern at the sound of dishes clattering to the floor and breaking. “Are you all right, lass?”
Martha nodded, unable to speak because she had placed her thumb in her mouth to stop the bleeding. She stared in consternation at the broken crockery. Fraser had startled her by mentioning the priest hole. It was a stark reminder of the danger that was lurking. That was all it was. That was the only reason her heart had plummeted so violently. It was nothing to do with the thought of him leaving.
Fraser helped her to clear up the mess, and then she led him through to the hall. “The house was built in 1588,” she explained.
“The year after Mary, Queen of Scots, was executed by Elizabeth I of England,” Fraser said. It was another reminder, if any were needed, of the chasm that existed between them.
“Yes, and Elizabeth then embarked on a mission to restore Protestantism to the land. But the Delacourt family were Catholics. The priest hole is located here, under the slats of the stairway.” She demonstrated by lifting a step to show him. Two of the stairs were linked by a hidden hinge that allowed them to be easily raised. “Apparently, the logic behind using the stairs in this way was a very sensible one, as there would often be guards stationed on them during a search. This made it a very safe place indeed for a priest to hide. No-one would suspect he was hiding beneath the very feet of the searchers.”
“Will I fit inside there?” Fraser looked doubtful.
“That’s the clever part. This isn’t the actual priest hole, it’s a decoy. Even if this secret compartment under the steps is discovered, it just reveals this small area that you see here. The family would hide a few treasures, or maybe some money, in this part. Behind this compartment, however, the real priest hole is concealed. It is reached through a secret panel, there.” She pointed into the darkness of the confined space where, if Fraser craned his neck, a wooden panel could be seen. “Those doing the search were unlikely to notice it since they were usually distracted by the hidden valuables. The second chamber is not huge, but it is larger than this and has a bench for the priest’s comfort, as he could be forced to spend hours, or even days, confined in there. I would imagine that most of the priests who were forced to hide here were smaller than you—” she turned her head to smile up at him, her eyes skimming over the width of his shoulders, “—so they could even lie down. I’m not sure you could manage to do so and be comfortable for very long.”
Horses’ hooves approaching the house made them both look up from their contemplation of the priest hole. Martha ran through to the parlour to look out of the window, her heart drumming out a panicky staccato beat. Horse and rider continued on past, clearly intent on reaching Delacourt Grange.
“It is Sir Clive Sheridan,” she said in accents of doom.
“Who is he?”
“A neighbour. I thought he was in London for the winter. He considers himself a suitor of Rosie’s. He is a thoroughly unpleasant man.”
Fraser’s hand strayed to the dirk that he now wore concealed in the waistband of his breeches. “Mayhap it is time to teach him to be a little more pleasant.”
“I beg you will do nothing of the sort. You must stay here. No, pray do not object.” She reached out and laid a restraining hand on the bare flesh of his forearm where his shirtsleeve was rolled up. They both looked down for a brief second at the connection between her slender fingers and his well-muscled flesh, before she quickly withdrew the touch. “He is a man who misses nothing. It is bad enough that he will encounter Jack up at the house. Both of you together will definitely arouse his suspicions. Let me go, and I will do all I can to deflect his attention.”
With a sound that might have been a grunt of agreement, Fraser watched as she snatched up her cloak and dashed out of the house. Sir Clive had taken a detour to leave his horse at the stables, so Martha was able to hurry along the path that joined the old dower house to Delacourt Grange and arrive at the main door at the same time as the visitor. She found him in a cheerful mood. He confirmed, in his usual pompous manner, that he had recently returned from a trip to London.
“When I heard the dreadful news of what had been afoot in my own home county, however, my conscience would not allow me to remain away, Miss Wantage. I returned at once to assure myself that all was well. I look forward to sharing the latest news from the capital, together with the military intelligence from Derby, with my good friend and neighbour, Mr. Delacourt.” His smile deepened. “And, of course, I relish the prospect of seeing the beautiful Miss Rosemary again.” It was a well-worn joke in the Delacourt household that Sir Clive had made up his mind. Rosie Delacourt was to become “my Lady Sheridan” so that his obsessive fantasies about her could be made reality. The prospect might cause Harry much hilarity, but something in Sir Clive’s eyes when he spoke Rosie’s name made Martha shudder. It reminded her of the way the reivers had looked at her.
Sheridan Hall, Sir Clive’s family estate, was the largest property in the neighbourhood, and as its owner, he was known locally as “the Squire”. Mr. Delacourt, meanwhile, was by far the wealthiest gentleman in the neighbourhood, and it was well known that his daughter would have a generous dowry and an enviable inheritance. Sir Clive made no secret of his intentions and publicly almost licked his lips at the thought of the bounty that would enhance both his coffers and his bed when Rosie became his. He seemed not to notice that Rosie did not share his enthusiasm.
Mrs. Glover, who admitted them into the house, said that Mr. Delacourt was shut up in his study, but Miss Rosie and Mister Jack were in the drawing room. Sir Clive’s brows drew together at the mention of the hitherto unknown visitor, but he waved the housekeeper aside, assuring her that he knew his way. Martha could hear Rosie’s laughter as they approached the drawing room. Through the open door, it could be seen that she was seated at a small table and was engaged in a game of chess with Jack, who had his back to the door. Rosie was holding one of her opponent’s chess pieces in her hand, and he was admonishing her, in his softly spoken, cultured voice, to stop cheating and return it immediately.
Rosie promptly responded by smiling tauntingly before placing the piece inside her bodice. Martha was concerned at this unseemly display and the fact that Sir Clive had witnessed it. Before she could step forward and warn them of the visitor’s presence, however, Sir Clive had gestured her into silence.
Rosie got to her feet and danced away from the table, casting a roguish look over her shoulder as she did. Jack rose too, and Martha saw Sir Clive’s face fall as he noted the grace with which he carried himself, the sinewy strength apparent even in the ill-fitting clothes he wore. Jack followed Rosie, who allowed herself—without too much resistance, Martha noted with even more dismay—to be cornered in the window embrasure.
“Rosie, you little wretch.” Martha could sense Sir Clive bristling at the familiarity the words betrayed. Jack placed a hand against the wall either side of her shoulders, effectively encircling and imprisoning her. Rosie did not appear unduly perturbed at this action. In fact, from her sparkling expression, it might even be inferred that she was very much enjoying herself. “Do you think I won’t take it from you?”
Deciding that enough was enough, Martha entered the room, clearing her throat loudly. Jack and Rosie moved apart without surprise or embarrassment. On noticing their guest, Rosie came forward to greet Sir Clive in her usual friendly way. “Good morning, Cousin Martha, Sir Clive. Why, sir—” she dropped a slight curtsy and held out her hand, “– we have not seen you this age.”
Sir Clive bowed stiffly and saluted her hand briefly with his lips. “I must make you known to my cousin Jack, Sir Clive.” She smiled up at Jack, a remnant of their funning lingering in her expression. “Sir Clive is our neighbour.”
“Your cousin?” Sir Clive appeared to mentally review what he knew of her family. “I was not aware that Mr. Delacourt had any nieces or nephews.”
Jack bowed. “Rosie honours me with the title, sir,” he informed him. “Our connection is more distant and tenuous than she would have you believe. In fact we can at best be described as ‘kissing cousins’.”
Rosie gave a little choke of laughter and cast him a reproachful glance. Sir Clive’s frown deepened. “Please be seated, sir.” She gestured to a chair and made her way to sit on a sofa. Sir Clive promptly sat beside her and attempted to shut Jack out of the conversation, launching into a lengthy monologue about his trip to London. Jack, occupying the chair rejected by their guest, gave every appearance of being quite content to talk to Martha. He did, however, keep the interaction between Rosie and Sir Clive under keen observation.
“The man reminds me of a dog guarding a bone,” he said in an undertone to Martha. “Damn him.”
“You must be careful not to betray your feelings,” she rebuked him.
“Oh, fear not. I’ll not let on that I could happily choke the life out of the scowling dullard. And all because he can offer her everything that I cannot.”
Sir Clive stayed with them for an hour, at the end of which time Jack was openly yawning and even Rosie was struggling to maintain any semblance of interest in his discourse. He said he would not disturb Mr. Delacourt but would call again in the next few days.
“I do have one piece of interesting news which I hope you will impart to him. Word has filtered through to me of the Jacobite withdrawal. Skirmishes in Cumbria and the loss of Carlisle have marked their passage to Scotland. Yesterday, the prince crossed the border. It was a significant day in more ways than one. He will soon be five and twenty years of age. Will he live to see his twenty-sixth birthday, or to see English soil once more? Cumberland is determined that he will do neither.”
Martha was aware of the tension in Jack’s frame at this casual reference to his friend and hoped that Sir Clive could not sense it. It seemed he did not, and with a low bow to Rosie and a curt nod to Jack, he took his leave. Jack closed the door behind him with a decisive click.
“You did not tell me that you had such an eligible suitor, my sweet.” Martha felt a tug of pity for him as he tried to keep his voice light.
Rosie turned to show him a laughing face. “Indeed, Sir Clive is accounted something of a prize in these parts.”
He came over to her and held out his hands. She took them, and he pulled her to her feet, scanning her upturned face. “You can do better, Rosie.”
“Can I? I’m waiting for you to tell me how, Jack.”
Almost angrily he pulled her into his arms, pressing his cheek against the mass of her hair. Martha turned away, gazing out of the window as she blinked away a sudden rush of tears. “I cannot keep up this pretence any longer, but Rosie, I have no right to ask you to wait for me.” Jack’s words were a groan.
“You have that right if I give it to you,” Rosie said softly, a note of sadness entering her voice.
“One day I will remind you of those words. But for now—”
Martha turned back in time to see his serious expression change to one of mischief. She was about to interrupt their embrace when, quick as a flash, Jack slipped his hand into Rosie’s bodice and removed the stolen chess piece.
“Why do you try so hard to make yourself invisible?”
“I beg your pardon?” Coming, as it did, so soon after the emotionally charged scene she had witnessed between Jack and Rosie, Fraser’s question threw Martha off balance.
“You know fine well what I mean.” He was helping her to clear the table, and he now turned to face her, standing a fraction too close for comfort. “You wear these to hide the fact that you’ve got beautiful eyes.” He reached out a hand and very gently removed her glasses. “And you pin your hair so tightly to disguise the fact that you’ve got soft, pretty curls.” Heart pounding, she remained frozen as he reached behind her head and pulled out some of the pins that held her hair in place. When he tangled his hands in those very curls and began to draw her toward him, however, she speedily unfroze and started to back away.
“Don’t do that. And give me back my glasses.” She extended her hand, palm upward. Bravely, she withstood the heat of his gaze. He licked his lips. She wished he wouldn’t do that. It made her imagine how it would feel if he licked her lips. And that was a most unseemly way for a demure, unmarried, invisible lady to think.
“What if I won’t?”
“Then I won’t be able to see,” she said in what she hoped was her usual prosaic manner.
“Tell me about the reivers.”
“I can’t.” Martha hung her head.
“I hear you crying every night.” His voice was husky.
“Have you ever thought I might be crying because I have a Scotsman in my house?” She gave a shaky laugh then, when his expression didn’t change, she followed it with a sigh of resignation. He was waiting for her to speak and, surprisingly, she found herself wanting to tell him about it. It was a story she never expected to recount, and it took a moment for her to find the right words. Drawing a breath, and faltering slightly, she began. “They came in the early morning. Although he was a tenant, my father was a wealthy farmer and that meant we were always in danger. The men who worked on the farm also guarded us. On this particular day, one of the farm cats had given birth in the barn and then gone missing. I’d taken a basket to gather up the kittens and bring them up to the house. When I emerged from the barn, the sky was black and orange over the house. I knew immediately what it was. It meant that my family were all dead and our home was ablaze. One of the new men my father had taken on recently was with the reivers. He noticed me and grabbed me. He threw me down on the ground and tried to—” Her voice had been carefully neutral until then, but she gagged on the word.
“To rape you.” Fraser said it for her.
“Yes. But I had a knife. The borders are a wild place to grow up, and my father insisted that we all knew how to defend ourselves. I only had one chance, but I made it a good one. That reiver was never going to rape anyone again by the time I’d finished with him. The townspeople were on their way by then. They’d been alerted by the flames, and I could hear their shouts as they approached. But the other reivers wanted their revenge for what I’d done. The one I’d cut was their leader’s son, you see. Strangely, none of them wanted to try the same thing he had.” Her smile was lopsided, and her hand crept up to her shoulder as though feeling the scars through the cloth of her gown. “You know the rest.”
“You were lucky to survive,” Fraser said gently.
She looked up at him then. She felt the smile that was not a smile still trembling on her lips. “Is that what you call it? Lucky? You asked me why I make myself invisible. I do it to ensure I never have to see the look of disgust in the eyes of another. Those reivers didn’t kill me, but when they scorched my flesh so that it looks like rough cloth or crumpled, discarded parchment, they killed any chance I might have of a normal life.”
Wordlessly, Fraser handed back her spectacles, and she quickly slipped them on. They finished their chores in silence.
“I didn’t know I cried in my sleep,” Martha said eventually, keeping her head bent over the dishes she was stacking.
“Aye, ’tis woeful hard on the heart to hear it.” He started to go out of the room, but turned around again, his big frame filling the doorway. “Oh, and, crabbit one?”
“Yes?” Her voice was wary. She blinked at him, aware that her pupils were magnified even further by the thick lenses.
“You don’t see disgust in my eyes.” His smile was warm on her face and, nervously, she lowered her head again.
