by Jane Godman
Later, Tom returned to his own quarters above the stables, and Mr. Delacourt, drowsy from the effects of overindulgence, followed Harry upstairs to bed. It was with some consternation that Martha noticed Rosie slip out of the room and Jack follow her.
“Dance with me now.” Fraser held out his hand to her.
“I must go after Rosie…”
“She will be safe with Lord Jack. You need not fear for her while she is with him. He is an honourable man. Dance with me.”
“We have no music,” she said, searching wildly for another excuse.
“We don’t need it,” he replied, drawing her close.
This was a very different dance to the light country dances in which Jack and Rosie had indulged. Fraser demanded eye contact throughout. Martha’s high colour and deeper breathing owed nothing to the physical activity and everything to his nearness. As he drew her tantalisingly close and then whirled her away as the convention of the dance dictated, she wanted to cry out with longing. She finally understood what Mrs. Glover meant when she said that dancing was the devil’s way of getting a maiden to misbehave. For the first time in her life, Martha actually wanted to misbehave. Desperate to ensure Fraser couldn’t sense her emotions, she arched her back, straining her body away from him.
“Stop it,” he said, with a frown, placing his hand in the small of her back and drawing her into deeper contact with his body. “This dance is meant to bring us together. And, yes—” a wicked smile lit the depths of his eyes, “—you are not mistaken. You can feel how hard I am. It means I am enjoying dancing with you, Martha Wantage.”
He danced her out into the hall and paused under the chandelier. Martha, still recovering from the shock of his last words, threw him an enquiring glance, and he pointed up to where a solitary sprig of mistletoe nestled amid the greenery above their heads.
“How on earth did you manage to smuggle that past Mrs. Glover?”
“She knows all about it,” Fraser informed her with a hint of smugness. “I have her blessing.”
The blaze of passion as she looked up into his eyes was so unexpected that, for a second, she wondered if her knees would hold her. She no longer had time to wonder anything. Fraser slid one hand around her waist and the other to the back of her neck. This close, his hazel eyes were mesmerizing, and she wasn’t sure if it was his heart or her own that thundered in her ears. She gripped the ruffles at the front of Fraser’s shirt tightly.
His breath stroked her cheek. “I have you, lass. I won’t let you fall.”
He kissed her. Momentarily, his lips were unexpectedly soft. Then his mouth was hard and demanding against hers, and his tongue swept inside, caressing and exploring her mouth. Martha rose onto the tips of her toes. Following her instincts, she pressed her body closer to Fraser’s. Her eyes widened as she felt the contrasting hardness of his body against the soft curves of her own. There was a primeval rightness about the feeling. It seemed natural to try to cleave ever nearer to him, as though parts of their bodies were actually made to fit together. Gradually she began to enjoy the new sensations, surrendering herself to them until they became quite intoxicating. A corresponding fizz of pleasure entered her bloodstream, and her whole body started to tingle.
So this was why people liked kissing! It was something she’d occasionally wondered about, almost as a disinterested bystander. After all, she had never, until now, imagined it would happen to her. She had been quite unable to imagine why there would be anything appealing about having another person’s mouth on her own. The thought of allowing another person to put his tongue inside her mouth had been something she found quite alarming. Now, shyly, Martha used her own tongue to explore Fraser’s mouth in return. He tasted of the wine they had drunk and of spices. He tasted delicious. Instantly, he tangled his hand in her hair, turning her head to the angle he wanted, deepening the kiss to bittersweet intensity. The tingling in her body increased and seemed to become more concentrated at a specific, exhilarating point. Here she was—Miss Martha Wantage, spinster of this parish—standing beneath the mistletoe, in the arms of a man she had known less than a month, with her tongue in his mouth and a wanton pulse beating between her legs. The mistletoe was certainly unleashing its mischief on this maiden’s behaviour.
That was when her knees did give way. But Fraser was true to his word and he didn’t let her fall.
The new year, 1746, arrived, and the unspoken knowledge that Jack and Fraser must soon leave hung heavy over them all. Tom joked that it wasn’t just Miss Rosie who had fallen in love. Their Jacobite guests had cast a spell over the whole household.
“That’s true,” Harry agreed. “Even Martha seems happier these days.”
Sometimes she thought she must have imagined that kiss on Christmas night. Fraser never referred to it, and the odd half-comfortable, half-wary lifestyle they had developed continued as before. But once or twice, when he thought she was unaware of his gaze, she caught him looking at her. And, because light in his eyes was the same one she had seen just as his lips descended on hers, she knew he was remembering too. The knowledge made her shiver.
Why me? She longed to ask him that question. If she listened to Mrs. Glover, she would believe it was because all men were devils who were unable to control their base desires. Was that it? She knew that Fraser had joined the prince when he first landed in Scotland back in July. Was Fraser simply missing a woman’s touch so much that the nearest one—no matter how unattractive—would do? That was unfair. Fraser wasn’t the barbarian she had first thought him. And it wasn’t just her raging emotions that told her that. After her initial mistake about his literacy, she had learned that he was an intelligent, cultured man who patiently continued to help Harry with his Latin studies. He could also converse with Cousin Henry on equal terms about English and Scots history and offer an argument as reasoned as any of Jack’s in support of the Jacobite cause.
There were other times when Martha felt him regarding her with a very different expression. An oblique, brooding, almost sullen look would cross his face. At those times, she could swear he dwelt on the old divisions and hatreds between them. It crossed her mind now and then that he might still be seeking revenge for that kiss in the cellar. The kiss of hate. She knew that, by her action, she had cut him to the very core of his being.
If wishes could undo that foolish, impulsive kiss, it would never have been. But, sadly, no amount of regrets from Martha could turn back the clock. Was Fraser drawing her into a web of attraction so strong so that she would betray her feelings for him, only to have him laugh in her face? She recalled how he too had trembled as their lips met when they stood under the mistletoe. If vengeance was his motive, he was a very good actor. Hard on the heels of that thought came another, more shocking one. If all he wanted her for was retribution, did she care? Whatever was happening here in this quiet, unremarkable corner of Derbyshire, it was something that shy, frightened Martha Wantage had never thought to experience. Fraser would be gone soon. This few weeks of madness was something she wouldn’t have missed for all the world.
The six soldiers approached Delacourt Grange from across the fields so that their arrival was not seen by anyone in the house. Fortunately, Joseph the groom, who was feeding the horses, spied the splash of colour of their red coats against the winter landscape. He was able to warn the household, and Jack had time to hide himself away in the attic. Martha was with Mr. Delacourt when he received Captain Overton in his study. He offered the youthful soldier wine and enquired courteously about the reason for the visit. The young man was patently embarrassed at his errand.
Captain Overton bowed low. “Your pardon, sir. We have been given information that a dangerous fugitive, a Jacobite lord, no less, has taken refuge in your home.”
“Dear me,” Mr. Delacourt remarked in his mild way. “Have you seen this person, Martha? Where do you suppose he could be hiding?” He looked around the room distractedly, a
s though expecting to see the rebel lurking behind the bookcase or under the desk.
The captain, obviously feeling that he had been sent on a fool’s errand, cleared his throat. “I would like to speak to a man named Jack who, I believe, has been staying with you recently?”
“Ah, you are referring to a kinsman of mine, Jack Brown, who was travelling in the area when he became unwell. He spent a few weeks here recovering from his malaise. Sadly, you have missed him. He left yesterday and has now resumed his travels.” Mr. Delacourt frowned in confusion, and Martha had to admire his acting skills. “Do you think he might know the whereabouts of the fugitive you seek?”
Captain Overton sighed and sipped his wine. “Our information was that this man was not a relative of yours. That he was, in fact, the high-ranking Jacobite we seek. The one who was injured in the skirmish at Swarkestone Bridge.”
“Not a relative of mine? Why, I have known Jack Brown since he was in his cradle.” Mr. Delacourt’s feigned confusion deepened. “I had thought that the prince turned back before the king’s troops arrived at the bridge?”
“That is correct, sir, but there was some fierce fighting at Swarkestone. Apparently one of the advance guard of rebels sent by the prince to hold the bridge was injured with a shot to the shoulder. Quite an important member of the Jacobite forces and a friend of the prince himself, no less. We have reason to believe the injured man is none other than Lord St. Anton.” He watched Mr. Delacourt carefully to see how this impressive piece of information was received.
“So this man is not only high ranking, he is in possession of abnormal powers as well?” Mr. Delacourt appeared mildly amused at the thought. “To have sustained a mortal injury, but to have escaped from your men, then travelled thus far and persuaded complete strangers to hide him would imply something other than mere humanity. Would you not agree, Martha dear?”
“It would certainly seem so, Cousin Henry.”
Their words appeared to echo Captain Overton’s own thoughts on the matter. The captain was a meticulous young man, however, and it was clear that he wanted to be able to assure his superiors that he had done a thorough job. He rose and bowed to both Mr. Delacourt and Martha, thanking them for their time.
“We will be checking the surrounding area, including your stables, barns and farmland, before we leave the area, sir.”
Assuring himself that the soldiers had indeed left the house, Mr. Delacourt set about finding out where his son was. He had a nasty vision of Harry trying to help his new friend Fraser’s cause by attempting to rout the soldiers with his wooden sword. Martha wasted no time in dashing down to the old dower house to check that Tom had made sure Fraser was safely hidden away.
“Yes, he is in the priest hole. Although he went most reluctantly,” Tom said.
“Did you give him food and water? He won’t be happy if he gets hungry,” Martha said.
“He has food, water and a blanket. He’d better remain hidden. If the soldiers come, we can’t risk a wild Scotsman springing out on them, dirk in hand.” Tom frowned at the staircase as if a wild animal lurked below its wooden slats. Which, in a way, it did, Martha thought.
“The priest hole cannot be opened from inside,” Martha explained. “Now that Fraser is in there, he can’t get out until I release him from this side. The family chronicles show that was a problem for one priest, who died when the family left the house, apparently forgetting he was in there.”
“I don’t think we will be able to forget about Fraser,” Tom said with a laugh.
“No,” Martha agreed. She turned away slightly to hide the little, secret smile that tried to claim her lips. “But he must be prepared to stay there for much of the day, since we don’t know for how long the soldiers will remain on Cousin Henry’s land.”
“I will send you word when I’m sure they are gone,” Tom assured her.
It was considerably later than she had anticipated when he returned to tell her that the soldiers had finally departed. The hour was so advanced that she was clad in her nightdress with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
“They have been scouring the estate for most of the day. Tell Fraser I will come back early on the morrow. We will need to decide what to do next. Jack continues to improve by the day, but I am not yet convinced that he is quite ready for the rigours of a ride to Scotland,” Tom said, as he bade her goodnight.
Holding her candle aloft, Martha raised the hinged stairs that gave her admittance to the first hidden chamber. As she stepped inside, her shawl snagged and caught on the rough stone walls. She allowed it to slip from her shoulders, reasoning that she would be just a moment and that she could collect it on the way back. Clad only in her nightgown, she carefully slid open the second panel and moved through into the wider space.
“Fraser?” He was lying on his back on the wooden bench that ran the length of the cell-like room and was sound asleep. A soft snore met her ears as she approached him. Leaning over, she shook him by the shoulder. “The king’s men are gone at last. It is safe to come out.”
Blinking away sleep, he sat up and stretched. His smile tugged at a point somewhere midway between her heart and—well, it would not be seemly to think about where else in her body it affected. Fraser rose to his feet, although he had to stoop in the cramped space. “I’m glad you have a candle to light the way, lass. It’s the one thing I didn’t think to fetch, and it’s woeful dark in here when you close the panel thus.” He reached out a hand and pulled it shut behind her.
“No!” Martha tried to stop him, but it was already too late. The panel was closed, imprisoning them both inside the enclosed space. In the flickering light of her single candle, she saw Fraser’s raised brows. “The catch can only be opened from the outside. We are trapped here now until Tom comes back in the morning.”
She shivered as she spoke, and Fraser’s glance took in the thin linen of her nightgown and her bare feet.
“Och, lass, I’m sorry.” He took up the blanket from the bench and draped it around her shoulders.
“Now you’ll be cold,” she said.
“I deserve it for being such a great, glaikit fool. And I ate all the food.” He pointed to an empty plate. “Although there is some water left.”
They sat on the hard bench in silence while Martha did her best to control the chattering of her teeth. Even the blanket around her shoulders could not ward off the chill that seeped through the thick stone walls and up from the flags of the floor. She jumped slightly when Fraser took one of her feet in his hand and chafed it between his warm palms.
“Ye’re frozen, hen.” His voice was full of remorse. His nearness and the intimacy of his touch were unsettling, and the golden light of the candle lent a surreal aspect to the scene. “I do know of another way to warm you up.” He paused, and she didn’t dare think about what his meaning might be. “If you’ll let me?”
She didn’t answer and he moved closer. Keeping his eyes on hers in the semidarkness, he reached out and took the blanket from her shoulders. She probably should have protested. Then he undid the laces at the neck of her nightdress, and the moment for objections had passed. His big hands felt warm against the cool flesh of her upper arms as he tugged the cloth down, exposing her small, pointed breasts to his gaze. The scars that marred her shoulder and upper arm continued across the top of her left breast, almost to the centre of her chest, making the undamaged skin below appear even whiter and purer in contrast. She closed her eyes, but she could still feel his eyes on her.
Slowly and softly, his hands moved across her scarred flesh, massaging and stroking. No-one else had ever touched her there—not since the nuns had treated her burns—and his caress made her shudder with a combination of shock and pleasure.
Then Fraser bent his head and very gently licked the tip of one pale-pink nipple. The sensation was so outrageously delicious that Martha didn’t move. She couldn’t.
&n
bsp; He lifted his head and smiled into her eyes as she opened them again. “Just look at you, Martha Wantage. You’re not all hard edges and sharp points as you’d have the world believe. You choose these ugly clothes to hide yourself beneath, but under them, you’re all soft and round. Will you let me do it again?” Her eyes felt huge on his as, very slowly, she nodded.
He placed his hand beneath her breast, lifting it to his mouth as he lowered his head again, this time taking the whole of her left nipple between his lips and sucking it. How was it possible for his tongue to feel so soft and yet to rasp against her flesh? Martha’s head fell back as she gave a moan of complete surrender. Adroitly, Fraser moved his hands behind her, supporting her with his palms flat against her shoulder blades to prevent her from falling backward.
He moved his lips up to the hollow of her neck. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
“What will you do if I say nothing?” Her voice sounded husky and quite unlike her own.
“I’ll keep going until I think you’re warm enough.” She remained silent, and he gave a soft laugh of understanding.
He paused with his lips just brushing hers, and she thought back to the kiss she’d given him in the cellar. A kiss of hate. Was he thinking of it too? Would he pull back and laugh at the blatant longing in her eyes, the way her body arched now like a bow toward him? But no. He moved with infinite slowness, opening her lips with his and claiming her mouth with his tongue. He explored her, tasted her, owned her, and she was utterly powerless to do anything other than cling to him. He broke the kiss, holding her face between his hands and studying her.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said, embarrassment punctuating her words. She tried to hang her head, but he wouldn’t let her. Every part of her ached. Her lips tingled, her hardened nipples throbbed, and deep inside her, starting at a point between her legs and spreading upward and outward was a burning, thrumming, maddening sensation that made her want to cry out and, at the same time, dig her nails into his flesh and hurt him in return.