A Kiss for a Highlander (13 page)

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 dour 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.”

They clattered into the stable yard, and grooms hurried forward to tend the exhausted horses that had served them so well since they left Derbyshire over two weeks ago. Around them all was bustle and activity as stable lads mucked out stalls, laid fresh hay and fetched and carried water and feed. Returning huntsmen passed them, laden down with deer, hares, rabbits and birds for the table. Fraser and Jack were hailed on all sides by people anxious to confer with them. A wizened man—Auld Rab, one of the braver stable hands called him, although he made sure it was out of earshot of the man himself—was clearly in charge.

“Get on up to the Tower House,” Rab told Martha and Rosie when they found themselves deserted by their companions. “And Cora’ll set ye right.”

The Tower House turned out to be a unique Scottish tradition. It was a compromise between a noble mansion and a fortified residence. In the case of Castle Lachlan, it was a four-storey inner castle or laird’s residence, hidden within the main walls of the fortress. The lower floor of the Tower House was dominated by a great hall. This vast space was a meeting, living and banqueting room with dark, wood-panelled walls decorated all around with heraldic crests and coats of arms. One wall was dominated by a huge open fireplace, large enough to easily fit an ox inside for roasting, above which a decorative, carved overmantle depicted a fire-breathing dragon of ancient Celtic legend. High window recesses, positioned to catch the rising and setting sun through gaily coloured glass panels, lit the room during the day. Wall sconces positioned at regular intervals were ready to be lit once darkness descended. The flagstone floor was covered in woven reed mats, and these in turn were scattered over with dried flowers and herbs. At the opposite end of the hall to the fireplace was a servery hatch that gave a view through into a vast kitchen. A short woman, who was as wide as she was high, stepped through a door next to this, a soup ladle in one hand and a severed pig’s head in the other.

“’Tis true then?” she asked, in an accusatory voice that sent Rosie instantly sidling closer to Martha. “Yon lord and master has finally remembered the road back home?”

“’Tis small wonder I’ve stayed away so long. Whenever I do come home, I get a right royal reekin from ye, Cora Ramsey.” Fraser’s voice rang out as he entered the hall.

She gave a shriek and just found enough time to cast aside both ladle and pig’s head before she was caught up in his embrace. “Master Fraser! Put me down, do. ’Tis not decent.”

Fraser laughed and set her back on her feet. “Cora was our nurse, mine and Iona’s, when we were bairns,” he explained. “And she will shortly remember her manners and show you to your bedchambers. Only the best for my guests, mind, Cora. Just because they are English, there’ll be no tying them up and locking them in the cellar.” There was a distinctly wicked challenge in his eye as he looked over both Cora’s and Rosie’s heads at Martha.

Chapter Thirteen

Martha’s bedchamber was a small, comfortable room on the third floor of the Tower House. Cora, on showing her to this apartment, had seemed inclined to linger and eager to gossip about the reason for the presence of two English women in the castle, but Martha had been so tired she could barely speak. The garrulous little housekeeper had reluctantly left her alone.

Dinner that night had passed in a blur of courses and noise. Martha had barely seen Fraser, who, at the head of the table, had been much in demand. On returning to her room, she had tumbled gratefully into the comfort of her four-poster bed and into a sound sleep. When a knock on the door roused her, she had no idea of the hour. Although the sky outside the casement window was fully light, indicating that it must be morning, it was quiet as though the castle had not yet come to life.

Martha slid from beneath the warmth of the bedclothes, shivering slightly as the chill air touched her flesh. Snatching up a shawl, she draped it around her shoulders and hurried to the door. Her heart constricted, as if squeezed by an invisible hand, when she opened the door to find Fraser leaning against the frame. He smiled down at her and the tightness in her chest loosened. Only he, it seemed, had this unique and remarkable power to melt her insides.

“Will ye no ask me in, crabbit one?”

“You are the laird.” She stepped aside so that he could pass her. “Surely you can do anything you want within these walls. You need no invitation from me.” She wondered why he was here. With her. As chieftain of this vast castle, he must surely have so many women willing to do his bidding. Why would he choose the least prepossessing?

He closed the door behind him, a frown descending on his brow at her words. “I may be the laird, but I’ve never been one to take that which is not willingly offered to me, Martha. I thought you knew me better. Was I wrong then to come to ye? Have things changed so much between us?”

His words answered her unspoken question. He already knew she was willing. Wildly, wantonly so. There was no danger of scandal here. No raised expectations. No courting or promises necessary. And, as soon as she looked into those golden eyes, she was wet and throbbing with lust, wanting him as much as he wanted her.

She went to him and slid a hand behind his neck, drawing his head down so that she could trace his lips with her tongue. “No, you were not wrong to come to me.”

Fraser’s hand tangled in the soft curls of her hair. “Since I’m the laird, and you are mine to command, din’nae pin it up so prim and tight while you are under my roof. Wear it looser as a private sign to me that you want me…always.”

He pulled her closer with his hands on her hips, then moved one around to squeeze her backside, drawing her up against him. His tongue rolled over hers in a leisurely sweep, then dove deep, staking and claiming, branding her as his all over again. She could feel his erection already beginning to stir, hardening and lengthening as she pressed herself eagerly against him.

His long fingers slid between her slender ones, entwining with them. For Martha, the mere act of staying upright was becoming a physical pain. He raised her hand and pressed a light kiss into her palm, then slid it down between the swell of her breasts, over her flat stomach, bringing it to rest at the apex of her sex. He used her own hand beneath his to cup her possessively.

“This is where I need to be. Right now. I thought of little else on the long ride here except getting myself inside you. ’Tis a spell you’ve cast on me,” he said in a whisper that was close to a groan. “So get that nightgown off, English witch, and get that skinny, crabbit arse of yours into bed.”

Martha’s heart hammered as she obeyed. Heat pricked her nipples and pooled between her legs. From beneath her lashes, she watched Fraser as he undressed. He moved so swiftly that he was on the bed with her and between her legs before she had time to fully enjoy his masculine beauty. The press of his hips as his cock swelled pushed him right where she needed to feel him. The desperate heat and moisture of her need welcomed him. When he moved with just the slightest tilt of his hips, his cock slid hard against her and her eyes widened at the delicious friction. She drew in air between her clenched teeth and squirmed to deepen the feeling. He laughed and moved himself back and forth over her sex again.

His hand slid up over her belly and cupped her breast. Martha’s head fell back as his fingers played with her nipple. His touch varied between gentle strokes and squeezes to a continual roll of her nipple between his thumb and finger, sending sparks of pleasure shimmering through her nerve endings. At the same time, he continued to rub the head of his cock over the bud of her clitoris. Martha wanted to cry out.
How did I live before this—without Fraser—in my life?

Thick and granite hard, the feel of him just entering her sent a ripple of pleasure, like warm honey, coursing through her bloodstream. He let her do the work this time. She moved her hips upward with aching slowness, drawing him fully into her, exulting in the sound of him whispering her name. His patience didn’t last long. Fraser’s movements soon grew urgent. Tame and tender were long forgotten now. Wildly, he drove himself in and out of her body, stretching her, using his muscular buttocks to power each frantic hip thrust. Pangs of raw, primal lust spurred Martha on as well. She jerked her hips up to him, meeting and matching his lunges over and over.

Fraser gave a low moan, a sound that began somewhere in the centre of his chest and blew soft breath over her heated face. “I love that you want me as much as I want you. I love watching your face when you finally succumb…like ye are about to do now.”

Martha cried out as her body bucked and ground uncontrollably beneath him. She could feel Fraser’s cock beginning to jerk with his own release. “Being inside you feels so good, Martha. Dear God, how can I want you all over again even while I’m still coming?”

Martha slowly lifted her head to look into his face. Rolling onto his side, Fraser pulled her close to him, throwing his leg over her thigh to pin her to the bed, keeping her where he wanted her. It felt right. Martha’s chest fluttered with something that was so much more than lust. He was in her heart now, her big, beautiful Scotsman. She couldn’t reason him away. Whatever happened in the coming days and weeks, she would be content with this. To be here when he needed her.

The hills on the south side of Loch Ness subsided at the lower end of the loch into a long, smooth swelling ridge, which gradually declined to the east near the town of Nairn. This ridge formed a gravel coastline, which extended through Inverness, Nairn and the Moray shires. The surface was very gently rolling and not quite level, with slight depressions where the water collected and rendered the ground wet and spongy. The view of the Moray and Beauly Firths and of the mountains along the Great Glen was truly magnificent. It was here that the Jacobite army was drawn up near Culloden House, where the prince had taken up residence.

Culloden House was the home of Duncan Forbes, the Lord Chief Justice of Scotland. Its proximity to Inverness, the main Jacobite base in the campaign, made it a natural choice of residence for Charles Edward Louis John Casimir Sylvester Severino Maria Stuart. This was the man whose birth in Rome in 1720 had been the cause of much Jacobite rejoicing. Here, it seemed, was the boy who would restore their fortunes and take his rightful place as a Stuart king on the united English and Scottish thrones. Throughout his life he would be known by many names. To the Hanoverians he was the Young Pretender, he was Tearlach—the Gaelic form of Charles—to the Scots, Carluso to his mother and Carluccio to his father. To his devoted followers, however—because of his handsome face, ease of manner and way of charming those around him into following his wishes—he was Bonnie Prince Charlie.

He was brought up to see himself as the saviour of the Jacobite cause, the man who would remove the dour Hanoverians from the throne they had stolen. He was a restless, tireless man who sometimes forgot to go to bed, a man who had joined the Spanish army at the age of fourteen, gaining experience for the day when he would embark on his quest to regain his birthright. Landing in Scotland with limited resources and no idea of his reception, he had secured the support of many of the highlanders through the sheer force of his magnetic personality. But there was a darker side to his nature, and as the tide turned against him at Derby and he found himself hunted through the highlands, he became sulky and petulant. He was also drinking heavily and had been unwell for some time. News that the Duke of Cumberland was bearing relentlessly down on him, setting fire to whatever was in his path, did nothing to improve the prince’s mood.

“This is not the place to face the might of the king’s forces, sire.” Fraser’s words to the prince echoed the thoughts of the other men about the table. The difference was that none of the others had the nerve to say them aloud.

“You are saying I should keep running like a wounded dog with my cousin Cumberland snapping at my heels?” the prince asked. His face as he regarded Fraser was haughty.

“Sire, no-one would suggest that.” It was Jack who spoke up this time. “Our forces are depleted and supplies are low. Morale among the highlanders is as low as it can get. Cumberland has had time to strengthen his ranks so that he now outnumbers us. Our Jacobite strength lies in our fearsome highland charge, and given the right terrain, we might yet defeat him, even with his superior numbers. What Fraser is saying is correct, however.
This
is not the right terrain.”

“What is your proposal?” The prince turned back to Fraser, his handsome face downcast.

“We harangue Cumberland’s forces with dawn raids and night attacks. Weaken them by stealing their weapons, supplies and horses. Wear them out with lack of sleep and demoralise them before we face them. Give the highlanders a chance to bring them down with their famous charge.” Most of the men around the table nodded and muttered their agreement with Fraser’s plan.

“No, I will lead my men into battle. Here.” The prince turned away, hunching his shoulder moodily. His face was set in stubborn lines.

“Then you will lead us into carnage, sire.” With a bow, Fraser walked out of the room. Behind him, he heard the collective gasp of the other men.

All her life, Martha had been brought up to fear the Scots. After the attack on her family and on her person, she had even more reason to view these people as tartan-clad demons. Now she was living among them. Eating with them, talking to them, working alongside them. Making mad, glorious love with one of them. And they were—her mind searched for a suitable word and found several—ordinary, humorous,
likable
and scared. Scared because they didn’t know what the gathering red-coated forces meant for their traditional way of life. Scared because they sensed that their chieftains were not happy with the prince’s battle plans. Scared because right and wrong seemed to have been lost somewhere and replaced instead by a battle of wills between two power-hungry princes.

She was shocked to hear stories of the casual brutality of her countrymen. It seemed the clansmen were viewed by the soldiers as savages who did not deserve to be treated with anything approaching humanity. Whole communities were victimised as a matter of routine. The English swept the glens, scavenging and thieving, subduing the spirited highlanders by beating the men and raping the women. All with the blessing of their commanders, all done to break the spirit of the clansmen. Fraser, she learned to her horror, had been subjected to an ongoing campaign of savagery since his father’s death. Fraser had inherited the title in his late teens, and since then, the English generals at Fort William had made a concerted effort to break the spirit of the young laird. He had been repeatedly imprisoned, beaten and threatened. But the men who had tried to intimidate him had not broken Fraser’s spirit.

“Aye, the Laird of Lachlan is a strong man. Stronger by far than most,” Rab told her, as he showed her around the inner court of the castle. “The English can’nae understand a will that is toughened by adversity. Although—” his brow furrowed with sadness, “—no man should have to face the sorrow that was wrought upon him.”

They had been standing in a quiet corner of the castle garden, and Martha had followed Rab’s eyes to a spot where, under the sheltering umbrella of a willow tree, there were two graves. Both were marked by simple crosses, and the scrubby grass grew overlong around them. Nearby, a small rose garden that might have been planted for remembrance had been allowed to become a wilderness.

“When did they die?” she asked quietly.

“Three summers gone. Since then it has pained the laird’s heart to return here.”

Martha was surprised at how quickly she had been accepted by Rab, who performed all the old, feudal functions of a castle steward, and Cora, who, it turned out, was his wife. Martha could not have surmised this interesting piece of information about their relationship from their dealings with each other. On the surface, they appeared to dislike each other intensely and spent much of their time in each trying to score points over the other with Fraser. She only knew they were husband and wife because one of the kitchen maids told her, and then, when she studied them more closely, she could detect no sign of affection, or even tolerance, in their behaviour toward each other.

Any fears she might have had that the inhabitants of the castle would view the arrival of two Englishwomen in their midst with suspicion were soon put to rout. Rosie was greeted with delight for her decorative value alone. Martha, with her quiet reserve, was initially regarded with less enthusiasm. Her natural aptitude for management soon asserted itself, however. Since Castle Lachlan had no mistress and a long-absent master, there was very little routine and a great deal of chaos in the prevailing approach to the running of the household. This did not suit Martha at all, and she calmly set about doing something to rectify the situation. Cora, bristling slightly at the arrival of a small, stiff-backed whirlwind in her kitchen, soon allowed herself to be carried along upon a tide of gentle orders and quiet reproof.