A Kiss for a Highlander

by Jane Godman

  “I was very sorry to hear about your parents, my dear. Your father and I were close as children, although we grew apart when he married your mother and came here to the North-East to live. I have only just learned of the dreadful circumstances…”

  Although her light-blue eyes shone with unshed tears, she had snatched her hand away from his. “I neither want nor need your pity.”

  “Martha! You must apologise at once for your rudeness…” The abbess had hurried forward to remonstrate, but Mr. Delacourt held up his hand.

  “It is I who should say sorry for wounding you with my crass words, child. As your nearest relative, I have come to take you home to live with me alongside my own children.”

  “I’ll not accept charity, sir. From you or anyone else. Sister Mary—” her eyes flickered over to the nun who stood to one side, watching their interaction anxiously, “—told me you seek a governess for your daughter. I am well educated. I believe I can fulfil your requirements.”

  Her pride, although sadly misplaced, was touching nonetheless. “Then I have indeed come to the right place. It is my belief we will deal well together, my dear.” The profound sigh of relief uttered by the abbess was audible and left Mr. Delacourt wondering just what his family’s future might hold once this strange girl became part of it.

  Their journey south had begun the next day, and they had arrived at Delacourt Grange as evening was falling over the beautiful Derbyshire countryside six days later. Martha, alighting from the carriage, had viewed in silence the warm, golden manor house with its curtain of honeysuckle draped lovingly around the door. As she gazed at this idyll, Rosie came tumbling out of the open front door, closely followed by a tearful Harry.

  “Papa, oh, Papa! Do come quickly. The most dreadful thing… Harry was climbing on the bookshelves in your study, and when I tried to lift him down, we both fell backward and we knocked over the inkwell and ink has spilled out all over your new books.”

  Before Mr. Delacourt could summon up an answer to this catastrophe, Martha responded in brisk tones. “We will have to go and clear up the mess in your papa’s study, of course. First of all, let me fix your sash, which is sadly awry, and straighten your hair. Good heavens, it looks like you have been playing in a hedge. You have? Well that explains the matter. There, that looks so much better. Now, you must be Rosie. I am your cousin Martha, and this—” she turned to address the stout, ink-and-tear-stained little figure on the doorstep, “—is Master Harry, I presume?”

  Mr. Delacourt watched in some bemusement as his children went, with unaccustomed decorum, hand in hand with the new arrival back into the house. Some ten minutes later, there had been a knock on the parlour door. At Mr. Delacourt’s command, Martha entered.

  “The children wish to see you, sir. If that is convenient?”

  A subdued, and considerably neater, Rosie had led her brother into the room. “We are very sorry, Papa, for going into your study without your permission. It will never happen again.” She cast a quick look at Martha, who nodded encouragingly. “Oh, and Cousin Martha cleaned up the mess and there is no damage to your books, although Harry’s shirt is quite ruined.”

  “Shall I speak to Mrs. Glover about the children’s dinner now, sir? Do they spend some time with you before their bedtime or do they follow a different routine?” Mr. Delacourt realised then that, until the descent upon it of this odd, taciturn girl, his household had no fixed routine. But Martha’s arrival changed that. Order had arrived at Delacourt Grange.

  During the intervening ten years, he had won some battles. They stood out in his memory because they were rare. Martha now called him “Cousin Henry” instead of “sir”. She could look him and a few of the men she knew well—like Tom Drury—in the eye, although she continued to flinch nervously away from strangers. He had been amazed at the beauty of her shy smile the first time he saw it tremble into life in response to Harry’s silliness. He had even heard her laugh once or twice. She had filled out a little and, although still very slender, had lost the gaunt, haggard look that used to worry him.

  Martha had fallen instantly, irrevocably and stubbornly in love with the old dower house. Mr. Delacourt, for his part, had categorically refused to allow her to take up residence there alone.

  “It is not necessary for you to do so, my dear. Delacourt Grange must be your home. We are your family now. Besides, you are too young to live alone. ’Twould not be seemly. And, in any case—” his voice held a note of triumphant finality, “—the house is not fit to be lived in.”

  He never quite knew how it happened. All of his objections were unarguably sound, and Martha had not raised a single argument. Yet within six months, the old dower house was not only restored to its former glory, it had become Miss Martha Wantage’s home. Mr. Delacourt was forced to agree that it was an arrangement that suited everyone. The children spent the day at the old dower house for their lessons, and Martha often ate with the family at Delacourt Grange in the evenings. She was able to preserve the veneer of independence that was so important to her. Mr. Delacourt, meanwhile, was able to reap the benefits of her considerable organisational skills whilst still indulging his reclusive tendencies.

  Mr. Delacourt occasionally knew a moment or two of trepidation. When the day arrived that Rosie married and left Delacourt Grange, he believed that Martha would feel under an obligation to go with her to care for her children. But he dismissed such fears as nonsensical. Rosie, although the reigning belle of the neighbourhood, was young and showed no signs of flying the nest just yet. And it wasn’t as if Martha herself was likely to receive any offers of marriage!

  “I think the one upstairs is definitely sleeping easier,” Rosie said, as she joined Martha at the kitchen table for a late breakfast. “Are you quite sure there are no signs of life from the other one?”

  The question struck them both as so funny that they began to laugh uncontrollably. It was into this scene of mirth that Tom strolled some minutes later.

  “I take it he is not dead, then?” He pulled another chair forward so that he could join them.

  “Which one?” Rosie asked, mopping her eyes on her handkerchief as Martha signalled frantically to her. They had decided not to tell anyone about the inconvenient appearance of the second rebel. Martha’s reasoning was that, if he regained consciousness, they could speedily send him about his business by warning him that he must leave Mr. Delacourt’s property immediately or risk be handed over to the redcoats. The fewer people who knew about him, the less chance there was of attracting the soldiers to their home and the fact that they were sheltering the first rebel being discovered. Rosie had been unconvinced. A man bold enough to break into a house in the dead of night might not be cowed by feminine threats, she had reasoned.

  “Don’t worry,” Martha had said, with more assurance than she felt. “He will be too pleased to escape the hangman’s noose to try any further nonsense.”

  If he died, of course, the situation was altered. Martha would be guilty of murder, and a whole new subterfuge, such as burial of a large and cumbersome body, would be required. Even if he was only a Scotsman, Martha pointed out, murder was a sin. She would rather not advertise her crime to the world.

  “If he dies, it will take the two of us a week to dig a hole large enough to bury someone that big,” Rosie had said, with a glum expression.

  “Rosie is being nonsensical.” Martha frowned in her young cousin’s direction. “We were trying to fathom how many rebels may be lying low around the countryside in houses like ours. But do tell us, Tom, what news is there of the prince?” She poured milk into a tankard for Tom and cut him a thick slice of bread.

  “It is much as expected. The Jacobite army is on the march back toward the border, pursued, so it is said, by Cumberland’s troops.”

  “Will there be more battles?” Rosie’s eyes were troubled.

  “Undoubtedly. If Cumberland can catch up with th
e rebels, that is. The prince is equally determined to stay one step ahead. If Cumberland cannot meet the prince and face him in England, he will cross the border and follow the Jacobites deep into Scotland with the goal of re-establishing the king’s supremacy over that land. It is a battle of wills now between the two men.”

  “And yet they are kinsmen, these two who would meet on the battlefield and do each other to death,” Martha said.

  “Yes, indeed. Cumberland is the prince’s distant cousin and the two are of a similar age. In other circumstances they might even have been friends. But their loyalties lie in very different directions. The prince, of course, is sworn to fight for the true bloodline of the Stuarts through the Scottish crown. Cumberland is the youngest son of the current king and must defend the Hanoverian cause.”

  “I confess I am at a loss to comprehend why the highlanders are on the side of the prince,” Rosie said.

  “It has become as much a Scottish civil war as a fight between England and Scotland. It’s no wonder you cannot keep up with it all. I doubt the prince himself would be able to unravel the intricacies of his own support.” Tom shook his head over the vagaries of the warring sides.

  “The man upstairs does not look like a highlander.” A soft blush touched Rosie’s cheeks. Martha and Tom exchanged a look laden with foreboding.

  “He may be an English or Irish nobleman loyal to the Stuart cause, even possibly one of the French nobility who form part of the prince’s retinue. The Jacobites are a diverse group, as are the king’s supporters. Whatever he may turn out to be, perhaps I had best go and check on him?”

  He rose from the table and Rosie went with him. She turned back at the door. “Will you be joining us, Martha?”

  “No, I have something I need to attend to in the cellar.” Was it guilt that drew her eyes constantly back to the closed door? The persistent memory of the brief touch of the Scotsman’s lips against her own had left her emotions in turmoil. Restlessness and confusion were new emotions for Martha, and she wasn’t sure she liked them.

  “Again?” Rosie bit her lip as though catching the next words before they could escape her mouth. “You will be careful, won’t you?”

  “Certainly I will,” Martha said, her unruffled manner disguising the heavy thud of her heart. “It may be very cluttered down there, Rosie, but I wouldn’t describe it as hazardous.”

  “I am being foolish, of course…” Rosie cast a glance up at Tom’s increasingly bewildered countenance. With a little laugh and a shrug, she made her way out of the room and up the stairs.

  “Proof indeed, if such a thing were needed, that a handsome invalid can do much to disorder a maiden’s mind,” Tom said to Martha, before he followed her.

  Martha began to clear the table as she pondered the matter of how to get the highlander in the cellar out of the house—alive or dead—without alerting Tom, or anyone else, to his presence. She was still considering the matter when a sound like a hunting horn startled her so much that she almost dropped the jug she was holding. Master Harry Delacourt burst into the kitchen with his devoted retriever, Beau, close on his heels. Harry had recently attained his twelfth summer and was a sturdy, athletic young gentleman who had something of his sister’s countenance, but none of her grace. The recent incursion by Jacobite troops into the county had fired his imagination, and he wore a wooden sword and an expression of importance.

  “What’s going on, Cousin Martha?” he asked, while stuffing apples into his pockets.

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Why is Rosie staying here with you, instead of at home?”

  “I asked her to keep me company following the invasion,” Martha improvised rapidly.

  Harry’s eyes lit up. “I will take Rosie’s place. I can protect you,” he exclaimed, brandishing his sword with enthusiasm. “You will need a guard to keep you safe from these desperate brigands.”

  “I do not need protection, thank you, only a companion,” Martha told him firmly and he shrugged. He had clearly decided that, on balance, spending time with his prim cousin would be less interesting than hiding out in the woods to watch for marauding rebels. She might even expect him to work on his handwriting, always a contentious issue between them.

  “Why on earth do you need all those apples?” Martha eyed him in some astonishment.

  “Sustenance.” He went out, his swagger only slightly impaired by his bulging pockets. His faithful hound threw a longing look in the direction of the breakfast table before reluctantly trailing behind him.

  Chapter Four

  There was no point in putting it off any longer. She really must go into the cellar and see if the highlander had regained consciousness. Martha found herself in the grip of conflicting emotions, something that she had never experienced before. How could she long to see the highlander again and yet dread it at the same time? This foolishness must end. The sooner he was gone, the sooner she could rest easy. Easier, she corrected herself. There was the handsome hero in the back bedchamber and the matter of young Rosie’s tender heart to be dealt with.

  Reaching for the tinderbox, Martha lit a candle and drew the key from her pocket. The cellar door swung inward. How was it possible for the darkness to suddenly appear darker? Menace seemed to hang in the very dust motes of the air. Somehow the enormity of the situation appeared greater now, and she almost stepped back and called for Tom. Giving herself a mental scold, she trod carefully down the steep stairs, raising her candle high so that she could view the figure on the floor. He had not moved, and that troubled Martha more than any threats or recriminations might have done. He should have come round by now. Hated Scotsman or not, the idea that it was her hand that had struck the blow that left him incapacitated—or worse, had killed him—set her nerves jangling.

  As Martha knelt beside him, placing her candle on the floor, the highlander’s eyes opened. Too late, she realised her mistake. He had tricked her. Thrusting the blanket aside, he sprang to his feet before she could even move. For such a giant of a man, his movements were surprisingly lithe. With a hand that easily encircled her upper arm, he hauled her upright and jerked her hard against his body.

  “Well now—” his breath was warm on her cheek as he held her close in the half-light, “—it seems ’tis my turn to be the captor. My chance to pay you back for your treatment of me. What shall it be first? Will I take up the scissors as you did and rid you of these fine locks?”

  He caught his other hand in her hair, loosening its pins and jerking her head back at a painful angle. His eyes were scornful as they scanned her face. Martha bit her lip. Not for all the world would she attempt to explain herself or beg for mercy. Not from a Scotsman.

  “Or will I just clout you over the back of the head with that candleholder and leave you to lie in your own blood? Maybe I’ll tie you all around with rope so that you can’t move, so that your arms and legs go numb and the cold from the cellar floor seeps into your very bones. And once I’ve got you tied just as I want you, will I then kiss your vile English lips and whisper how much I hate you in return?”

  Martha felt the blood flame into her cheeks. He had been conscious when she kissed him! She squirmed in his grip in an effort to get loose, but it was like trying to break free from manacles of iron. Inexorably, he drew her closer, bending his head so that their mouths were a mere inch apart.

  Martha lifted her chin defiantly. Life had taught her the hard way how to hide her fear. She wasn’t about to start displaying it now. “Is that what you will do to me, Scotsman? Then what? Will you rape me? Isn’t that what your kind do to the women of the enemy?”

  She felt his whole body stiffen with anger. His mouth—the beautiful mouth that had prompted her touch—thinned into a hard line. When he spoke, his voice was as cold and remote as the mountains of his homeland. “I’d not take you, Englishwoman, neither in rage nor in wanting. Not if my life depended on it.”

/>   His words should have reassured her, but to her chagrin, Martha felt the blush deepen. What did you expect, Martha Wantage? The insidious whisper sneered inside her head. You are so plain that you can repulse even a depraved, undiscerning Scot. Although “plain” was too generous, the demon of self-hatred in her mind decided. “Ugly” perhaps, or “hideous” suited her better.

  The highlander was speaking again, drawing her attention back to him. “Lucky for you, I’ve no time to waste on banter. I’ve no wish to spend a minute longer than I need on this hated soil. And being a more considerate jailer than you, I’m going to bind you to that chair over there, rather than leave you to take your chances on the floor with the cold and the rats.”

  “Rats?” The word came out on a squeak, and she cast a quick glance around into the darker reaches of the cellar.

  He laughed. “Aye, rats. You are English so you should feel at home among them.”

  He carried her over to the chair as easily as if she had been a child and thrust her down onto it, holding her in place with one huge palm flat against her shoulder. Swiftly and adeptly, he looped the rope around her waist, securing her firmly to the chair, with her arms at her sides. Unlike her own clumsy attempts of the previous night, Martha decided it was obvious that he had done this before.

  “Hold still, wench,” he said, as she started to struggle. The hand at her shoulder clamped down harder just as she jerked back. Martha flinched at the sound of her gown tearing under the grip of his strong fingers. She was looking up into at his face so that, even in the dim light, she saw the shock register on his features as he stared at her damaged flesh.

  “A souvenir from your countrymen,” she said, surprised at the calm tone of her own voice. His expression was inscrutable. Something that could have been disgust, but might have been pity, flickered in the hazel depths of his eyes. Given a choice, she’d have preferred disgust. “I was fifteen years old when a party of reivers pinned me down and set fire to me.”