A Kiss for a Highlander

by Jane Godman

  “Martha will not allow you to keep his identity secret?” Mr. Delacourt said in a voice of confusion.

  “Martha is refusing to let him be carried over the doorstep of the dower house. And that is doubly unfair because Martha is the one person who could make the poor man better, if she chose. But she is being horribly stubborn.” She turned reproachful eyes to Martha. “You are, Martha. You know it. Anyway, Martha might live here, but it is your house, Papa. You must be the one to decide.”

  Martha remained silent as a statue on the doorstep. Although Rosie’s words cut knife deep, she could never explain her sentiments to her young cousin. Or anyone else. She would rather have them think her cold and hard than make the attempt.

  “Where is this man now?” Mr. Delacourt asked.

  “Here, sir.” Tom spoke now from the lowering gloom at the side of the doorstep. When Martha had refused to allow him to carry the rebel over her doorstep, he had placed the injured man in the rear of an old farm cart. This vehicle was kept at the side of the house and was used by Martha as transport to and from market.

  Going over to the cart, Mr. Delacourt studied the limp form thoughtfully. “Is there anything that can be done for him, do you think, Tom?”

  “I need to get that musket ball out of him first, sir. Only then will I be able to see how bad the damage is.”

  Mr. Delacourt paused. “As fantastic as Rosie’s story first seemed, it appears now to be true. I can think of no other explanation for this man’s presence here than that he must indeed be a Jacobite fugitive. Which means that if he is captured by soldiers loyal to the king, he will either be killed outright or stand trial for treason.”

  Martha watched her cousin’s face as he spoke his thoughts aloud. Mr. Delacourt was himself a staunch supporter of the Jacobite cause, who scorned the Hanoverian claim to the throne and denounced King George II as a usurper. He did this, however, in a quiet voice, in private and within the confines of his own home. Would his loyalties to the prince he called “the true king” run deep enough for him to risk giving shelter to a wanted man? These were no ordinary times.

  Mr. Delacourt’s glance flickered over to Martha. She knew what he was thinking. To him and only him, her feelings in this matter must be written across her face. No-one else knew how strong, deep and well-founded Martha’s fears of the Scots were.

  “Martha, my dear.” He spoke directly to her as if they were alone. “I cannot leave this man to die. Despite what you say, I suspect you could not do so either.”

  A shuddering sigh escaped her. He was right, of course. Silently, Martha stepped away from the doorstep.

  “What are we waiting for? Let us get him inside,” Mr. Delacourt said, with unusual briskness. He might be a quietly spoken, gentle-mannered man, but he was master of his own home. Once he had made up his mind, no-one, not even Martha, would dare protest. The scene bustled into life as Tom carried the rebel up the perilously narrow staircase to the back bedchamber. He placed him on the bed, the coverlet of which was promptly whisked away by Martha.

  “I spent many hours embroidering it.” Her lips turned down in a sour expression. She might be forced into acquiescence. It didn’t mean she had to be docile. “I’ve no wish to see it ruined with the bloodstains of a murdering Scots cutthroat.”

  She turned to watch Tom as he cut away the fine coat and removed the lawn shirt to expose the ugly bullet wound that had torn deep into the man’s shoulder. This had started to sluggishly bleed once more. A waxy pallor marred the aristocratic features. It did not seem possible that anyone could survive such a devastating injury.

  “It may not appear so now, but he’s a lucky man. A few inches lower and it would have killed him outright,” Tom said, rolling up his sleeves. He paused, reaching for his patient’s wrist and feeling his pulse. Tom’s face was grave. “It may yet have done for him.”

  “No. We will not let him die.” Rosie’s voice was determined as she joined him at the bedside. “Tell me what I must do to help you, Tom.”

  Tom glanced up at his master for confirmation that this was acceptable. Mr. Delacourt nodded briefly. “Do what you can for him, Tom.”

  “And I suppose you would like me to vacate my home while you turn it into a sanctuary for every passing criminal and vagabond?” Martha did her best to bite back the words, but they came in spite of her, dripping vinegar into the atmosphere.

  Three pairs of eyes turned to her. Martha returned their stares, her own eyes narrowed, her lips pursed. It was her defensive expression, as natural to her as breathing. Mr. Delacourt eventually broke the silence. “No, cousin dear, I would not expect that of you. But Tom cannot be spared from his other duties, and it would be most improper for Rosie to remain here alone with this young man, incapacitated though he may be. She will need you over the next few days to act as her chaperone. With your skills as a healer at his disposal as well as her nursing, we must be even more hopeful that he will pull through.”

  The understanding in his tone brought a hard, painful lump to Martha’s throat. She felt a faint blush stain her habitually pale cheeks. Her eyes flickered from the still features on her best guest pillows to the pleading grey eyes of her former pupil. “Very well. I will fetch cloths and water,” she said stiffly, and left the room.

  Mr. Delacourt followed her. “Thank you, my dear. I knew I might rely on you.” He studied her face, which she kept carefully neutral. It was a difficult subject to broach, and Martha had never invited familiarity. Silently, she willed him not to say the words. “This must be painful for you, Martha. The memories…” He broke off as she turned her head away and made a little, pleading gesture for him to be silent. “Very well, I will say no more on the matter. I’ll leave you now, but I will return on the morrow to see how your patient fares. Then we will confer and decide what next must be done.”

  They parted as she went to the kitchen, and with a final, worried glance back at her, he left through the front door. Once he had gone, Martha allowed her shaking knees to give way and lowered herself into a chair. She permitted herself the luxury of a few minutes to collect her thoughts before returning to join Tom and Rosie in the back bedchamber.

  Chapter Two

  Martha watched her young cousin carefully. It was obvious from her pallor that the next hour tried every ounce of Rosie’s fortitude, but she bore up well. At the end of it, Tom had removed the musket ball, after digging and probing deep into the flesh with a fiendishly long, thin knife. He then relinquished his place at the bedside to Martha. Once Mr. Delacourt had made his feelings known, she, along with every other member of the household, accepted his decision without demur. The rebel would receive the very best care she could give him. First, she stemmed the fresh flow of blood produced by Tom’s ministrations and then began to bathe the wound with a pungent solution.

  “What is that?” Rosie, leaning over her shoulder, wrinkled her nose at the smell.

  “It is a mix of thyme, sage, rosemary and lavender soaked in vinegar to cleanse the wound and keep away any pus or rottenness which might prevent it healing. Until it does heal, the wound must be swabbed with this solution twice a day.” Rosie nodded as though making a mental note. Martha’s lips twitched slightly. She refrained from commenting on the fact that Rosie had never before shown the slightest interest in what she and her brother Harry called Martha’s Potions.

  “What next?”

  “Next, we apply a soothing salve made from some of the same herbs suspended in animal fat and honey. This also has nettles which promote healing in a deep wound and St. John’s wort which helps with pain.” Martha’s deft fingers applied the sticky mixture to the injured flesh as she spoke. “This must be covered—” she made a pad from a cloth and placed it over the wound, “—and held securely in place.”

  Expertly, she bandaged their patient’s wound. As she worked, Tom lit a fire in the grate and pronounced there was little more they could do
that night. While she washed her hands, he whispered to Martha that, with the amount of blood the rebel had lost, it was most unlikely the man would last until morning.

  “Do not repeat those thoughts in her hearing, if you please,” Martha murmured in return, indicating Rosie’s absorbed expression.

  “We can only wait and pray,” Tom said more loudly, as they gathered up the bloodstained cloths and clothing in preparation for burning.

  “Tell me he will live, Tom,” Rosie pleaded, without looking up from the bed.

  Tom shrugged. “He must be strong, Miss Rosie, to have survived thus far and to have travelled all the way here from Swarkestone Bridge with a bullet in him. If he can fight off any fever that comes his way, no doubt he’ll pull through. He’ll likely not come round again tonight. Best get some sleep.”

  Rosie smoothed the coverlet that she had placed back on the bed. Martha had pretended not to notice the slightly defiant action. “I’ll stay here and watch over him,” Rosie said, her voice quietly determined.

  “It really is not necessary—” Martha began. Seeing the suddenly fierce light in the usually mild grey eyes, she broke off. “If you insist, however, I will leave you to your task. You may fetch me if you need me.”

  Martha made an effort to infuse more gentleness into her tone this time than she had previously shown. She still had grave doubts about the wisdom of sheltering the rebel, but she also recognised that Rosie’s instant preoccupation with him would need careful handling. Mr. Delacourt was right when he said a chaperone would be needed, more to guard Rosie from her own feelings than from any ill intent from the Jacobite. As if to confirm these thoughts, Rosie nodded in response to Martha’s words, but did not raise her eyes from the pale face on the pillows. Martha followed Tom from the room, holding her candle aloft as she accompanied him down the stairs.

  “I question the wisdom of leaving the care of a handsome hero to an impressionable and very softhearted young lady,” she said. “Indeed, this man has the power to turn our lives upside down before he even opens his eyes. What happened at Swarkestone Bridge, Tom? The rumours are plentiful, but I cannot for the life of me pluck the grains of truth from the make-believe.”

  “It’s the speed of the advance that has us all in shock. The prince was on his way to London, prepared to take the crown. It is said that King George had his bags packed and was ready to flee back to Hanover. Swarkestone Bridge is the main crossing over the Trent and onward to the south, into London town itself. Once the Jacobites were across it, nothing could stop them. The king’s men had been ordered to blow up Swarkestone, but the prince sent an advance party of highlanders to seize it. A battle ensued and the highlanders held the bridge.”

  “Yet the prince did not cross, even though his way was clear?”

  “No, the Jacobites have retreated back toward Scotland with the king’s men in pursuit. The prince’s advisers were misled about the scale of support in London. The bridge was his, the road to London was his and the crown was his as well. But no-one could believe it was so easy. The prince lost the most important battle of all—the one with his own council. I doubt we’ll see the Stuarts back on the English throne again, Miss Martha.”

  “Do you have any idea who this man, the one in my back bedchamber, may be?”

  “I have not heard any specific stories. He is clearly noble and that worries me.”

  “If it is known a nobleman was at Swarkestone, the soldiers will already be looking for him. The law will not deal kindly with these rebels.” Martha cast a wary glance up the staircase.

  “He has managed to travel twenty-five miles from Swarkestone Bridge. How he accomplished that alone and with a bullet in him, I don’t know. But we must hope the redcoats will not look this far afield.”

  “Do you place much dependence on that?” Martha asked.

  “I don’t,” he said, with brutal honesty. “The king will be vindictive toward any who have gone over to the prince’s side. It is the highland Scots who will pay the heaviest price for this rebellion. Although the prince may yet win the next round of battles across the border.” His tone did not hold any great optimism about the chances of such an event. He opened the heavy, black-oak door. The night was wintry, and his breath plumed the next words out into the darkness ahead of him. “Lock your doors and windows. Word in the town is that several rebels have deserted the prince and still roam the area. They will be hungry, tired and desperate.”

  “Thank you for those words of comfort, Tom. It appears I have one of the dangerous ruffians you describe ensconced in my back bedchamber. It’s just as well he is wounded since, with your departure, there will be only two defenceless women in the house.” Martha drew her shawl closer about her shoulders, although whether the chill that ran down her spine was due to the icy breeze or the fear of what was to come, she could not have said.

  “There will be only two defenceless women in the house.”

  Upon hearing those words, Fraser allowed himself a grim smile and resheathed his dirk. The lethal-looking weapon would not be needed after all. Having already been around the exterior of the house several times, he knew there were numerous places where he could easily gain entry. The big man called Tom would have presented him with no problem anyway. In size they were equal, but in a fight there were few men who could match Fraser Lachlan. No, overcoming Tom would have been child’s play—might even have been enjoyable—but he had gone now. And from the words they had just exchanged, he would not be back until morning. From his vantage point in the dark shadows of the laurel bush, Fraser watched as Tom walked away in the direction of the stables. This was going to be all too simple.

  He heard the bolts grind as, obedient to Tom’s instructions, she locked the door. That was the sour-faced one. The one who looked like she had a spike permanently shoved up her skinny arse. Their so-called healer. Heaven help the English if she was the best they had! He hadn’t seen the other one—the young, pretty one who had found Lord Jack in the barn—since they’d taken his lordship inside earlier. That had been as afternoon was giving way to evening. Although Fraser had been forced to hide deeper in the trees as they’d gathered on the doorstep, he had nevertheless been able to observe the scene closely.

  “No, I’ll not allow you to bring him in here,” she had said, shaking her head and folding her arms across her chest.

  “Would you condemn him to die like a dog on your doorstep?” Fine words from the big man. In another time and place, Fraser might have warmed to him.

  “Yes.” She had flashed the words back at him. Even from a distance, Fraser had seen the quiver that ran through her body. He had known a compulsion to burst from his hiding place and take that slender, white throat between his hands. “Can you doubt it, Tom? My father could have told you that the only good Scotsman is a dead one.”

  At that point Rosie had dashed off and returned with her father. Mr. Delacourt’s intervention had signalled the start of a long vigil for Fraser. Ignoring the cold had been the hardest, although hunger, thirst and fatigue had all played their parts in his discomfort. Only the thought of what he owed Lord Jack had kept him upright.

  Now there was flickering candlelight at two of the mullioned windows while the others were in darkness. A first-floor room at the back of the house had been lit constantly since darkness fell. Another, at the front, also on the first floor, had been black until a few minutes ago. It didn’t take much ingenuity to work it out. The pretty one was in the back bedroom. The sourpuss had gone up to the room at the front after seeing Tom, their protector, out of the house.

  Fraser made his way around to the back. That was where he had seen a kitchen window that, if it could be opened from the outside, looked just about wide enough to permit a large-framed man to fit through.

  The moon threw enough light on the scene for Fraser to study the window. The wrought-iron frame was divided into four casements, and looked to be hinged on
the inside. If he broke the glass, he could easily reach inside and release the catch. But the sound would alert the two women to his presence. Fraser glanced around until he found what he needed. Picking up a large, pointed piece of slate, he came back to the window. Sliding the sharp edge of the stone under the corner of the window frame, he pressed down hard until he felt the catch inside give way. The window sprang open.

  Although Fraser was an intruder, the homely atmosphere of the kitchen seemed to welcome him as he climbed over the ledge. Lingering smells of baking and beeswax greeted his appreciative nostrils, and the dying embers of the fire beckoned to him. Shards of moonlight stole through the open window, highlighting a long, scrubbed table in the centre of the room. A greedy moan escaped Fraser’s lips at the sight of half a loaf of bread, a wheel of cheese and a jug of water. Scooping up the jug, he gulped down most of its contents in one long swallow. Droplets clung to his beard, and he dashed them away impatiently. He was just tearing into the bread when the sound of light footsteps descending the stairs reached his ear.

  “Is that you, Martha?” Candlelight flickered tentatively in the doorway as Rosie stepped into the kitchen. “I was hungry…”

  She looked up from the table to where Fraser stood, her eyes widening in shock. He took a step forward, and she had a moment to assimilate his size. Her eyes lowered to take in the green-and-blue woollen kilt, muddied and bloodied linen shirt, knee-length gartered hose and laced leather shoes of the true clansman. Then Fraser had moved with lightning speed and seized her in a grip of iron. He clamped one hand firmly over her mouth.

  “Softly now, pretty lassie,” he whispered as she began to struggle. “It’s not from any thought of doing harm to you that I’ve come here this night.” He had intended the words to reassure her, but panic filled her eyes as one possible, and very sinister, meaning for what he was saying occurred to her. Wildly, she attempted to lunge away from him. Her efforts to free herself were pathetic against his superior strength, but she did succeed in biting his fingers. Hard. With an exclamation, Fraser pulled his hand back. It was the ensuing combination of events—the trickle of blood from his hand coupled with a screech from Rosie that nearly deafened him—that meant he didn’t notice Martha until it was too late. She had already raised the candlestick above her head in both hands and slammed it with all her might into the back of Fraser’s skull before he even knew she was there.