by Jane Godman
Finally, they arrived at a large, bleak, grey-stone manor house, set on a rocky ledge high above a small settlement just north of Fort William. It was a property that made a stark statement. To the Scots, function mattered more than beauty. Its architect had been concerned with ruthless practicality rather than aesthetics.
“Another two days of riding should find us at Inverness,” Fraser said as he guided Martha into the great hall of the house.
She nodded, too tired to speak. Gratefully, she held her ice-cold hands out to the blazing fire. A commotion in the doorway made her look up in time to see a tall young woman with hair brighter than the flames themselves erupt into the room. With a shriek of joy, she hurled herself into Fraser’s arms. He caught her up in a tight embrace and, laughing, swung her round in a circle.
“Gi’ over, ye great gallus besom!” He planted a smacking kiss on her cheek. “I recommend you try these hoyden’s tricks on Jack. He was always more inclined to fall for them than I.”
“Och.” She pulled a mock-disappointed face at him. “From your blethering and bleating, Fraser Lachlan, anyone would think ye were not right pleased to see your little sister.” She cast a measuring glance over at Martha. Her eyes, when they turned to take in Rosie, brightened with interest. Fraser, recollecting his manners, brought her forward to meet them.
“This is my sister, Lady Iona Cameron.”
“’Tis right welcome ye are in my home, ladies, although I could wish the circumstances different. My husband, Sir Donald, will be sorry to have missed you. He left this very day to join the prince at Culloden House.” Iona turned to one of the maidservants and issued a few orders. “Let me get you away to your rooms and we can talk more over dinner.”
The maid led them to their rooms. Martha’s bedchamber was warm and cosy, and she was sorely tempted to fall straight into the bed. Fearful of sleeping through and offending her hostess as well as missing the dinner she so desperately needed, she resisted the temptation. Instead, she washed her face and hands in lavender-scented water, briskly drying them on the soft towel that had been laid out for her. Brushing out her hair, she repinned it and shook out her gown. Feeling restored to something approaching equanimity, she knocked on the door of Rosie’s room. There was no answer, so she continued along the gallery toward the wide sweep of the staircase. Voices coming toward her made her shrink back against the hangings, and she gave a sigh of relief when Fraser and Iona paused around a turn in the corridor. She was still just out of their sight.
“When I saw ye’d two lasses wi ye, I thought perhaps ye’d chosen a new bride at last. Because ye mun, ye do know that?” Iona’s voice reached Martha’s hiding place.
“I do, but I’ll thank ye to leave me be on that score.” Fraser’s voice was level.
“Aye, ’tis all very well for you to look down your nose in that fine, proud way, but ye can’nae take too much time if ye are to have a son to carry the name. Och, I’ll hush then.” Her tone changed. “When I spied the wee, pretty one, I was in a right joyful stushie for ye. But she’s to be Jack’s bride, I hear. ’Tis well matched they are from what I’ve seen.”
“They are that.” Fraser’s deep tones answered her.
“So the other—the wee, dreich plain lass—she is the other’s maid?”
“Not at all. Martha is Rosie’s cousin. She is here for the proprieties.”
“Och, aye. She looks fain for that. Jack’ll no get as much as a foot near his maiden’s door wi’ that one on guard. The milk’d sour wi’ that face, and no mistake.” There was a pause. “Why the scowl, brother mine? She’s nought to you, is she?”
“’Tis not like you to be so unkind about another, Iona.”
“Och, ’tis you and I alone. Since when have I had to mind my tongue with you?” There was another pause. “That’s all she’s here for, then? The proprieties?”
“That is all, Iona. Allow me to be the master of my own business, if you please.”
Their footsteps moved away, and Martha hung back until she was sure they had really gone. That is all. Well, he was hardly going to tell his sister about the passionate lovemaking with which he seared the “wee dreich plain lass” both inside and out, was he?
Nevertheless, there was something cold and dismissive about the way he had said those words that made her shiver. You are being fanciful, she told herself. Did you expect a declaration of undying devotion? Just because you admit him to your bed and allow him to take you any time he feels lonely and in need of release? You have no reason to think he lied when he told you you were the only woman he has bedded since his wife. He probably could have a girl in every highland glen and village if he chose, each of them more comely, more buxom and more experienced than you. You are available and need no wooing, Martha Wantage, that is the only thing you have in your favour.
When she reached the main hall, it was crowded, and Martha hesitated for a moment on the doorstep. This was her worst nightmare. To be forced to enter a room where she knew no-one. To face the prospect of having to make conversation with people she had never met before. Then a tall figure in traditional tartan stepped forward, and her heart leapt as Fraser took her hand and led her forward.
“Come in.” His eyes were warm on her face. “Take a seat at the table and let them fetch you some food. You must’nae think us rude if the talk is all of battle, but we are close now to the prince and that is all that occupies our thoughts this night.”
Before long, Martha was gratefully tucking into a bowl of hearty beef-and-barley stew mopped up with thick chunks of bread. She let the conversation—most of which was conducted in English, with the occasional Gaelic phrase or expletive thrown in—wash over her. She learned that they were just north of Glencoe, scene of the dreadful massacre at the end of the last century. The nearest town lay at the head of Loch Linnhe, amid picturesque mountains, including Scotland’s highest peak, Ben Nevis. This settlement had grown up around a hated garrison built to hold this area against the Jacobites. It was named Fort William, after the very king who had given the order to wipe out the MacDonald clan at Glencoe. Locals could not bring themselves to speak the name William of Orange, and around the table that night, the town was often given its Gaelic name of An Gearasdan.
“The Great Glen is the key to holding this area against Cumberland,” Fraser was saying to a group of men.
“What is the Great Glen?” Martha asked Iona, who was seated between her and Rosie.
“It is mile upon mile of the grandest glens of Scotland, from the edge of Moray Firth in the north, here to Loch Linnhe in the south. The Great Glen is of strategic importance to the English when it comes to controlling the highland Scottish clans. Over the years, English kings have tried to achieve this by building a series of fortified garrisons along the length of the Great Glen. Fort William is here in the south, Fort Augustus sits in the middle of the glen, and Fort George is just to the north of Inverness itself.”
“Aye,” one of the clansmen was responding to Fraser now. “And we have taken Fort Augustus and Fort George. But, despite our best efforts, Fort William would not fall. ’Tis a fearful omen.”
“Two weeks did we shell the place.” Another voice took up the story. “But they withstood the bombardment from our field guns. At the last, they boldly sent a body of men to take our weapons from us. Then the garrison launched their own salvo down upon us, destroying our remaining batteries. The prince gave the order for us to withdraw and the siege was abandoned. The fort remains in the king’s hands.”
There was much gloom and head shaking at this account. “What was the reason for the worsening change in our fortunes?” Fraser asked.
“Too many of the clansmen were dispirited after what happened in Derby.” Iona spoke up, her clear tones cutting across the conversation of the men. “Din’nae forget, the highlanders wanted to consolidate Scotland, to reclaim our own land. ’Twas never part of our plan to mar
ch south into England. Bonnie Prince Charlie it was who persuaded our men to follow him. It was he who turned tail and came back when the support he promised did’nae materialise as he thought. A lot of the highlanders went home to their clans once they crossed the border. The Jacobite army has dwindled. The prince can’nae claim the loyalty he once did.”
“But Cumberland will come for all of us. He’ll not just come for the prince,” Fraser said. “The king is after ending our very way of life now. He wants to destroy the clans.”
“We have to stand and fight.” Jack added his voice to the call.
“Aye.” The voices around the table were as one. Goblets were raised in a toast to the prince. He might have proved himself weak in Derby, but he was a Stuart, born of the true line. Scots blood flowed through his veins and—most important of all—he was no Hanoverian.
“Why do you pass your glasses over a bowl of water before you drink a toast?” Martha asked Fraser later.
“’Tis a Jacobite tradition. Before the prince landed, we drank our toasts in secret to acknowledge the ‘king across the water’. We could’nae speak his name aloud back then. The man we believe is King James III is the father of Bonnie Prince Charlie, known to the Hanoverians as the Old Pretender.”
“So that is why the prince is the Young Pretender.”
“And why he does not claim the crown for himself. He is here fighting on his father’s behalf.”
“There is another toast I do not understand,” Martha said. “You also raised your glasses to ‘the wee gentleman in the black velvet waistcoat’. Who is he?”
He laughed. “That is a childish joke in which we allow ourselves to indulge. William of Orange died after falling from his horse when it stumbled on a molehill. We Jacobites raise our glasses and drink a toast to the mole…the wee gentleman in black velvet. He killed the man we highlanders hate more than any other.” He led her to the window. Even in the darkness, she could see white-tipped mountain peaks, decorated with huge, stoic pines pointing into the crisp blue sky. “This is my land, lass. These are my highlands. No lowland plains will do for me.” The words, and the expression on his face, were fierce with pride. She thought there was a deeper message for her in what he was saying. Nothing less than this breathtaking grandeur was good enough for Fraser Lachlan.
They were hidden from the view of the rest of the room, and in that instant, they might just as well have been alone. Martha felt his eyes fasten on the flickering pulse at the base of her throat. As though unable to help himself, Fraser leaned toward her and swiftly circled the tender flesh with his tongue. Martha pulled a startled breath in between her teeth. She made a movement away from him, and he lowered his voice, drawing her back to him with his next words. “Will ye come to me tonight, Martha?”
And, when she raised her eyes to his, it didn’t matter why he wanted her. It only mattered that he did. She nodded.
After the travellers left Cameron House, another day of bone-aching travel followed, broken only by a night spent in another grey Scots mansion. The next afternoon, they took a path that skirted a vast, silver-surfaced loch. This route gave them the best view of the dramatic scenery. A hawk circled high overhead, and the scrubby gold-and-purple heather that covered the hillside steamed in the weak sunlight as the last snows of a harsh Scots winter finally began to melt away. In the afternoon a furious sky turned the lavender clouds to grey haze. Icy, relentless rain drizzled down the backs of their necks and seemed to reach into their very souls. When it eventually ceased, pathetic sunlight made an occasional attempt to sprinkle the new grass with its rays, but a low, obscure mist chased them away.
Martha thought of her parting conversation with Iona. Fraser’s sister had taken her to one side just as she was about to mount her horse.
“The battle lines will soon be drawn. ’Twill be no carnival ye go to up at Lachlan.” She nodded over at where Rosie was looking up Jack, her pretty face shining with love. “I was mistaken when you arrived. I hoped yon lass might be wi’ my brother. Fraser is a fine man, but one who is sore in need of a good woman. Has he told ye about his wife?”
Martha had been unsure how to answer that question. “I know he was married and that his wife and son both died.” It was all she could say…because it was all she knew for sure.
Iona sighed and glanced over at her brother. “’Twas a desperate time for him. I was desperately afeared for him back then. The boy succumbed first to the smallpox and Kirsty soon after. ’Tis doubtful they would have lived anyway, but the English had blockaded the glen to punish Fraser for defying them. The physician was’nae allowed through. They would’nae even allow him to send medicines. Fraser blamed himself, of course. But what could he do? He was half-dead himself from a beating and chained in an English prison cell here in Fort William. By the time they released him, Kirsty and young Ewan had been in the ground a full ten days.”
Martha bent her head and pretended to fiddle with the fastening on her cloak. In reality she used the gesture to hide the sudden rush of tears that Iona’s words brought to her eyes. She knew an urgent desire to run to Fraser and hold him in her arms, to draw his head down to hers and kiss him long and hard until some of the hurt was gone from his big, brave heart. To hell with propriety. Iona was speaking again, so instead of following her instincts, she blinked rapidly and looked up again.
“Kirsty was a pleasant enough lass, but too soft for him. Fraser had only to speak and she would bend to his will. And yon English rose may have great beauty, but that wouldn’t do for Fraser either. No, he needs to pluck himself a strong, warlike bloom. What Fraser needs is a thistle.”
“Are you saying he needs a Scotswoman?” Martha asked, somewhat bewildered about why Iona felt the need to impart this information to her.
“My brother needs a wife who will face him, toe to toe, and not back down when he gets in one of his high tempers. The land of her birth is of no matter. Well—” She glanced back at Fraser again, and Martha followed her gaze. He was laughing at something Jack was saying, his head thrown back slightly, his red-gold hair bright in the weak sunlight. Martha’s heart clenched. “Not once he gets past the first shock of it.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Martha asked.
“Din’nae gi’ me that! I’ve seen the way ye look at him. Aye, and the way he looks back at you. And I’m thinking ye may not bloom like the rose, but ye may well endure like the thistle.” She sighed as Fraser threw himself onto his horse and signalled for his companions to do the same. “But we Lachlans never take the easy route. He’s not picked a right convenient time for to go a-courting.”
“You’re mistaken.” Martha felt the colour rise to stain her cheeks. “There is no thought of courting me in your brother’s head. Apart from anything else—” Where should she start with “anything else”? He calls me crabbit. That means disagreeable, doesn’t it? Oh, and sleekit. Unless I’m mistaken, that’s treacherous. And skinny. And you don’t know, but he does, about my scars. And about the reivers… “—I’m English, and he hates the English, remember?”
“Oh, aye. Mistaken, is it?” Iona had gone away then to bid Fraser and Jack farewell, chuckling to herself.
A chill wind whipped up now and swept across the valley, pulling long streamers of cloud in its wake. Their path dipped lower, between sharp-scented pines, until Fraser, riding slightly ahead, called a halt. Holding up a hand, he pointed to a break in the tree line. It showed them a glimpse of a castle, perched alone on a small peninsula that cut a sharp triangle into the loch. Tall and grand and built from slate-grey impregnable stone, it was reflected back on itself in the mirrorlike gloss of the water’s surface.
“Lachlan.” That one word, when Fraser spoke it, held within it a whole world of pride.
The closer they came to Castle Lachlan, the more gaunt and grim it appeared. Its high towers and crenelated turrets kept watch far over the loch and surrounding valleys. A do
ur drawbridge was closed so that its entrance resembled a mouth frozen in a permanent snarl. Yet, when the clouds broke and sunshine glanced off the grey stone, there was a haunting beauty about its isolated stance that tugged at a hidden point somewhere deep in Martha’s heart. The narrow path across the rocks and up to the castle entrance had been designed to present any would-be attackers with a nightmare. There was no other approach unless from the loch itself.
“No-one has ever made the attempt. Legend has it that these waters are bottomless,” Fraser said. Looking down into the soul-dark depths, Martha could almost believe that the legend was true.
As they crested the dangerous ridge, no archers or cannon fired down on them from on high. Instead a bugler called a sweet, clear song across the glen and the drawbridge was slowly raised.
Inside, the inner courtyard of the keep resembled a small, bustling village. A group of children ran to them and gathered around the horses, hampering their path and gawking up at them.
“Our laird has returned! He is come home to us at last.”
Men bowed their heads and women curtsied as they passed. Realisation dawned gradually on Martha, and she turned her head to look at Fraser. “You are their laird?”
“Aye, lass.”
“But you call Jack ‘my lord’.” Her bewildered words followed him as he pressed his mount on until he rode slightly ahead of them.
“Did you think the fact that he always calls me ‘Lord Jack’ and ‘my lord’ meant he was subservient to me?” Jack asked in some amusement, drawing his horse alongside hers. “The name has been his joke—Fraser’s playful name for me—since we were children.” She raised her brows in a question, and he smiled at her obvious confusion. “Fraser is my kinsman, our mothers were sisters. He is my equal in rank. As the Lachlan chieftain, he is also one of the most powerful of the highland clansmen. And, since Castle Lachlan is a symbolic point in the Great Glen, King George’s men would love to take it from us. Fraser has been a thorn in the English side since he could first hold a claymore.”