A Kiss for a Highlander

by Jane Godman

  “I am no reiver.”

  “You are a Scotsman. It is the same thing.” She kept her gaze steady on his.

  For a moment she thought he wanted to say more. With a muttered curse, he turned back to the task of securing the restraints. “With any luck your friends will find you before you starve to death.” He turned back at the top of the cellar stairs. “Although ’tis hard to tell with one as skinny and pale as you are, Englishwoman. You would appear to be halfway there already.”

  White teeth flashed in a grin that held no humour. Then he was gone and she was plunged into darkness.

  “The wound appears free from any infection.” Fraser heard Tom’s voice as he paused outside the bedchamber with his ear to the door. Deciding that now was as good a time as any to make his presence known, he pushed the door wide and strode into the room.

  “What the devil…?” Tom spun round from his position beside the bed, where he was examining Lord Jack’s injury and changing his bandages. Strolling forward in an unhurried manner, Fraser placed a forearm like the trunk of a young tree around Tom’s throat and jerked it tight. At the same time, he pressed the tip of his dirk under the other man’s chin. Tom’s face instantly went a deep shade of beetroot. Rosie gave a little shriek and started forward, but Tom held up a warning hand and she stepped back. Glancing over her shoulder, she looked to Fraser as if she was weighing up the option of escaping to get help.

  “Stay where you are, lassie. You’ll not get another chance to find a sleekit wee witch to bash me on the head and lock me away.” Fraser pushed the blade deeper and a thin trickle of blood tracked down Tom’s neck and onto his shirt.

  “Fraser.” The voice from the bed was quiet, cultured and very English. Fraser turned to stare at Lord Jack, a combination of surprise and joy flooding through his veins. He loosened his stranglehold slightly and felt Tom draw a shuddering breath. “Do let my rescuer go, there’s a good fellow. You’ll have these fine people thinking we are desperate ruffians who have forgotten our manners.”

  “Lord Jack, my God! I thought ye were close to death.” Almost absent-mindedly, Fraser released Tom.

  Although Lord Jack was alert and lucid, his fine features were deathly pale and etched with pain. He held out a hand toward Rosie, saying in formal tones, “I should kiss your hands and feet in thanks for rescuing me, sweetheart. Unfortunately, my current incapacity prevents me from doing so. I am Jack Lindsey and I will forever be your most humble servant. I must also apologise for the conduct of my friend here. He can be somewhat overexuberant at times.”

  Echoing his formality, Rosie placed her hand in his. “I am enchanted to meet you too, sir. My name is Rosie Delacourt.”

  A twinkle lit the blue depths of his eyes. “You are so beautiful that I thought you must be a dream, Miss Delacourt.”

  “Aye, it’s all very well starting one of your flirtations, my lord,” Fraser said, unimpressed with these formalities. He cast a frowning look at Tom and then allowed his gaze to travel over Rosie’s blushing features. “But who’s to say they’re not on the side of the German Elector? Or looking to get a reward for placing our heads in a noose?”

  “If they were after the reward, they’d have handed me over to the redcoats as soon as they found me. If they were for the king, they’d have done likewise or left me to die. They are on our side, man.”

  Reluctantly, Fraser was forced to acknowledge the reason of this argument. He was tired of this place. Weariness and hunger assailed him. His head throbbed, and all he wanted now was to feel the soil of Scotland beneath his feet once more. “Well in that case, we can go. The prince is barely four days’ ride ahead of us.” He turned to Tom. “If Lord Jack is right and you follow the true cause, then ye’ll give us horses and food for the journey?”

  “I daresay my master might give you any assistance he can render,” Tom agreed. “But Jack here cannot ride. Even if he could use his arm, he has lost so much blood that his recovery will take some time.”

  “Is it the truth he speaks, my lord?” Fraser felt the frown crease his brow. Surely fate could not be so unkind as to trap them here indefinitely?

  “It is. I’m as weak as a kitten.” Jack’s eyes, when he lifted them to Fraser’s face, were full of regret.

  “How long then? Days? A week? Speak out, man.” Fraser turned his frustration on Tom, grinding the words out impatiently.

  “Weeks, at least. I can’t say for sure, but you’ll see the new year arrive here in Derbyshire, my lord. February may well have made its appearance before you have enough strength to ride any distance.”

  Fraser swore long and low under his breath.

  “There is a lady present,” Jack reminded him.

  “Oh, aye. Your pardon, miss.” He nodded at Rosie. “But we can’nae wait that long. No, we must be away tonight. The morrow at the latest. I’ll care for you on the road. They’ll be looking for you, my lord. I told you ’twas folly for you to show your face at Swarkestone.”

  “So you did. How nice for you to be proved right.” Jack bit his lip. “You must go, Fraser, but I’ll not endanger you by coming with you and slowing you down.”

  “And I’ll not go without you. We fight together and we fall together. That has ever been our way.” Raw emotion throbbed through each syllable. How could Lord Jack think he would abandon him here? “I’ll not leave this place without you. Even though yon crabbit wifie tried to loosen my brains from my head when I came only to see how you were faring.”

  Frowning as she tried to follow the meaning of his words, Rosie exclaimed in sudden dismay, “Oh, dear Lord. Martha! What have you done to her, you hateful man?”

  Fraser felt his brow darken once more. He touched the back of his head reminiscently. “Aye, hateful, is it? I did no more to her than she did to me. Less, if truth be told.”

  “Where is she?”

  He remained stubbornly silent under her accusatory stare. Then, with a glance at Jack’s taut face, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Cellar.” As Tom and Rosie both made for the door, he halted them with a question. “Och, can ye no just leave her there? Gi’ us all some peace?”

  Martha tensed when the cellar door opened and a man’s large silhouette filled the frame. Why would the highlander come back so soon? He had been outraged by the kiss she had bestowed on him while he was bound and helpless. Had he changed his mind about taking his revenge? Memories of her home in flames, the bodies of her family scattered like discarded dolls on the beloved grass of her homeland and the scent of her own burning flesh crowded in on her. The edges of her vision darkened, and she sagged weakly against the rope that held her upright.

  “Oh, quickly, Tom.” Rosie’s voice came to Martha as though from a distance. “These ropes are so tight, I cannot loosen them.”

  It seemed to take an age for Tom to free her, and when Martha did emerge from the cellar, clinging to Tom’s arm and blinking at the overbright light, she was greeted by the sight of the highlander. He was seated with his muddy, booted feet up on her spotlessly clean kitchen table, cutting himself a second slice of the bread he had taken from her pantry. This, it seemed, was required to go with the hunk of her cheese that he was eating. The sight of him was exactly what she needed to restore the steel to her backbone.

  “Get that Scots devil out of my house,” she said in a tone of sharpened flint. Releasing her hold on Tom, she clutched the torn edges of her dress together over her shoulder with one hand while trying to repair the damage to her hair with the other.

  “We might have a bit of a problem there.” Tom guided her to a chair. “He is refusing to go anywhere until the injured man—who has regained consciousness and is a nobleman called Jack Lindsey—is well enough to leave with him.”

  “How dare you?” Martha’s voice shook as she addressed the highlander. The object of her fury continued with his repast without response. He appeared to be oblivious to t
he storm of emotion he was provoking within her. “You think you can break into my house, molest my cousin, lock me in my own cellar and then demand the right to remain under my roof at your leisure?”

  “Whisht now, woman. Hush your mouth.” His hazel gaze, when it flickered over her, held no interest. She might as well have been part of the furniture.

  Martha quivered with outrage. “I will not be spoken to in such a way, in my own home…”

  “Choose then. Will it be the door or the window by which you take your leave? Because I’ll be happy to help you on your way out of either.” Fraser rose to his feet, planting his hands on the table as he loomed over her. From his expression, she knew he was serious.

  “Far be it from me to interrupt this exchange of pleasantries,” Tom said, in the voice of a long-suffering parent who has been forced to intervene between squabbling offspring. “But might I suggest we postpone this conversation until Mr. Delacourt has been consulted? Any delay in deciding what action to take next might well bring the king’s soldiers a step closer to the door. I for one am quite fond of the idea of keeping my head attached to my spine, if at all possible.”

  Martha bit her lip. “Very well,” she said coldly, turning her head away from the Scotsman’s glare.

  “Aye, ’tis good sense you’re talking.” Fraser nodded, straightening his stance. He returned to his seat and to what appeared to be the more important matter of filling his belly.

  Mr. Delacourt, when summoned to be formally introduced to his houseguest, regarded Jack thoughtfully. “Might you be related to the Lindsey family who reside in the county of Northumberland?”

  “I am amazed at your wide knowledge, sir,” Jack admitted. “I am indeed of that family.”

  His host viewed him over the top of his spectacles. “Then you are, in fact, the Earl of St. Anton.”

  Martha tensed at the mention of the title. A glance around at her companions confirmed that no one had noticed her sudden rapt attention to everything Jack had to say.

  “At your service, sir.”

  Mr. Delacourt’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the families of the British nobility never failed to impress his acquaintance, and he greatly enjoyed showing it off. “I know your uncle a little, although we have very opposite views when it comes to politics. You are welcome to stay here, my lord,” he said. “At least until you are fully recovered from your injuries and able to travel. Tom tells me that may take some time, since you have lost a considerable amount of blood and are likely to suffer some loss of use of your injured arm.”

  Jack struggled then to raise himself on one elbow. He failed miserably, a fact that seemed to illustrate Mr. Delacourt’s words, and gave up the effort. “Sir, I cannot thank you enough for your help. Believe me when I tell you that I will not stay here a moment longer than is necessary. I would not, for the entire world, place you and your family in danger.”

  “Your sentiments do you credit, Lord St. Anton. But if we can come up with a creditable story, I believe you will be safe here. The focus of attention has shifted back across the border once again.” He proceeded to fill Jack in on the prince’s retreat from Derby, the details of which he had gleaned from his newspaper. “A few troops remain nearby. Their task is to round up any deserters or stragglers, and our object must be to do all we can to shield your identity from them.”

  At that moment, Fraser strolled into the room eating an apple. “The big feller, Tom, he kens a thing or two, but I was right about yon wee peely-wally lass.” He nodded in Martha’s direction. “What she needs is a good skelp about her backside.”

  Shaken to the core by the revelation about Jack’s identity, Martha scarcely registered the insult. Mr. Delacourt, on the other hand, was so startled at the sight of the large Scotsman that he raised his brows in alarm. “I fear that our task may be somewhat harder than I had originally anticipated.”

  This comment struck Jack as hugely entertaining, and he gave a shout of laughter that left him weak and gasping. When he had recovered, the conversation among the four men became serious and focussed on the dilemma facing them.

  “It seems that you and I are here as bystanders,” Martha murmured to Rosie. A plain blue dimity gown with a high neck had replaced the dress Fraser had torn, and her light-brown hair was pinned up in its usual neat style. She hoped a casual observer might believe that her natural serenity had been restored.

  “The whole point of bringing Jack to the old dower house instead of to Delacourt Grange was that there is a priest hole here in which he can hide should the need arise,” Tom explained.

  “The problem with that plan would appear to be the fact that his lordship’s injuries leave him too incapacitated to move with any ease. He would have great difficulty getting into the priest hole at all. It is a very narrow space,” Mr. Delacourt replied.

  “Aye, but only let Elector George’s men come close enough, and I’ll know how to deal with them.” Fraser’s hand strayed to the hilt of his dirk. Martha felt her lip curl. Must he take every opportunity to demonstrate his virility?

  “No.” Jack shook his head. “You would bring the whole regiment down upon us within minutes that way. I’ll not have Mr. Delacourt and his family placed in danger. What do you propose, sir?”

  “Well, in your case the task is made easier by the fact that you are a gentleman and so well spoken—” he cast a brief, apologetic look in Fraser’s direction, “—I think that we should move you to Delacourt Grange after all and pass you off as a distant kinsman. No-one need know the nature of your illness. We will say that you were travelling the country when you were struck down by a sudden bout of stomach trouble. That will account for your lack of colour and general weakness. As good fortune would have it, you were close to my home and naturally you have come to stay with me to convalesce.”

  “You are very good to agree to such a deception on my behalf, sir,” Jack said.

  “That still leaves us with one very large problem.” Tom eyed Fraser who, with his muddied and bloodstained clothing, bandaged head and badly shorn hair, dominated the room.

  “Fraser must remain here in the old dower house—”

  “No!” Martha exclaimed, startled out of her composure. She was even more annoyed when Fraser’s voice chimed with hers in an identical chorus of horror. What reason did he have to be outraged at the suggestion? “Cousin Henry, you cannot seriously expect me—an unmarried woman—to allow a man to live under my roof? It would be unseemly.”

  “Worry not, crabbit one. I’ve no designs on you. I’d as soon lie with the auld heifer I saw in yon field.” Fraser paused and studied her ramrod-straight figure. “Sooner,” he added.

  “Martha has a point,” Tom said. “Apart from the proprieties, it would appear most odd and cause some talk in the neighbourhood, which is surely contrary to what we wish to achieve?”

  “Not if we allow it to be known that Fraser here is Martha’s brother.”

  “But he is Scottish.” Martha’s protest was partly drowned out by Fraser’s derisive shout of laughter.

  “People hereabouts know that you are from the border lands, my dear, although you have resided here in Derbyshire for many years. If Fraser could perhaps make an effort to tone down his accent…?” Mr. Delacourt paused delicately.

  “I shall do my level best, old chap,” Fraser said, with a mocking bow.

  “Thank you. A passable, although not quite perfect attempt. I venture to think we shall contrive to muddle through until Jack here is able to travel across the border and rejoin the prince.”

  “Will it not appear too much of a coincidence that we have two visitors, both of them strangers to the area, and both arriving so soon after the Jacobite invasion?” Martha asked, desperately casting around for reasons why the plan would not work. “We generally live a very quiet existence.”

  “It may excite some comment, but we must stick to our story. If any
soldiers do come, I think it wise for Fraser to take to the priest hole. Lord St. Anton, on the other hand—”

  “I do beg your pardon, Cousin Henry, but…” Martha, unable to contain her emotions any longer, committed the crowning social solecism of interrupting. She stepped forward and addressed Jack directly. “Are you indeed Lord St. Anton?”

  He smiled, and in spite of his pallor and fatigue, she thought how captivating he was and how hard it was going to be to protect Rosie from his charm. “So I have always been led to believe. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m sorry. I must appear dreadfully rude. You see, until he died, my father was a tenant on the St. Anton estate.” Martha did her best to hide the sudden sorrow the memory provoked, but she was horribly afraid that her voice hitched on the words.

  “What is your name?” The gentleness of his tone confirmed her worst fears. She had betrayed her emotion in front of all these people. Worst of all, she had shown her feelings in front of the Scotsman.

  “Wantage. Martha Wantage.”

  “Ah.” Recognition dawned on his face. She wanted to beg him not to show her any sympathy. Not here. Not now. It seemed he understood the plea in her eyes. “Your father was a good man,” he said quietly.

  Mr. Delacourt cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “As I was saying, if the king’s men do come, Jack here should remain in full view and play the part of my young relative. The first job, I think, will be to find Fraser some suitable clothing. Tom, you must be a similar size. And perhaps, Martha my dear, you could do something about his hair?”

  Martha, glad to have a semblance of normality restored, eyed her prospective houseguest with dislike. He gave her a bland, tawny stare in return. Jack and Mr. Delacourt thrashed out a few final details of the plan, and then Tom took Fraser off to find some less-obvious garb. Before long, Mr. Delacourt succumbed to the call of his books and returned to Delacourt Grange. Rosie brought a glass of water and supported Jack to raise his head in order to help him drink it.