A passion that burns away centuries of hate…

The Georgian Rebel Series, Book 1

Stranded in the heart of England after Bonnie Prince Charlie’s hasty retreat, highlander Fraser Lachlan has sworn to stay by his injured friend’s side. But when a kindly English family takes Jack in to be cared for by the governess and healer at their Derbyshire estate, Fraser can only watch helplessly.

It’s just a matter of time before Jack is turned over to the Crown as a traitor, but Fraser’s attempt to rescue his friend is met with the blunt end of a candlestick.

Martha Wantage wears every reason she hates the Scots on her body—in the scars from a violent, fiery attack that killed her family. Now she has not only one unconscious Jacobite rebel at her mercy, but two. And she can’t resist cursing her enemy with the “kiss of hate”.

That kiss unleashes a storm of passion that rages quickly out of control. But with the legacy of Martha’s scars weighing heavy on her mind, and Fraser’s duty calling him to battle at Culloden, it may be too late to explore whether theirs is a desire born of hate…or love.

Warning: Contains a very sexy, masterful highlander and a demure, but defiant, governess who discovers the hard—very hard—way exactly what a Scotsman keeps under his kilt.

A Kiss for a Highlander

Jane Godman

Dedication

For my husband, Stewart.

Chapter One

Lord Jack was close to death. Even the stolen horse seemed to sense it, and it took every ounce of Fraser Lachlan’s considerable strength to urge the flea-bitten animal onward. At first the reluctant steed had valiantly borne the weight of both men away from the battle. Then, after a long, gruelling ride, when the animal could no longer bear the strain, Fraser had dismounted. He didn’t know how far he had walked since then, but his aching feet told him the miles they had covered were many. Deliberately skirting the open roads, he led—or, more often it now seemed, dragged—the stubborn mount with Lord Jack’s unconscious form slumped across the saddle. He had no idea where they were as they stumbled together along a broad farm track bordered by dense forest. A smattering of snow lay on the ground, and the bruised sky threatened more to come.

Fraser’s mind raced as he considered the possibilities. His lips twisted into a bitter smile. Impossibilities, more like! His task was simple. Get Lord Jack to safety in this unsafe land, with not a copper coin in his own sporran or in his lordship’s coat pockets. All he had was this bag-of-bones excuse for a horse and his faithful dirk, one of which he would trade for a hot meal, the other he would wield to fight his way out of a problem. Even Lord Jack’s fine French sword had been lost in the skirmish.

Just then, the horse gave a weary lurch. Lord Jack slid from his precarious position in the saddle, crying out briefly before hitting the iron-hard ground as if dead indeed. Fraser turned to tend him, and the exhausted horse stood still for a moment, its bony flanks heaving. Sensing an opportunity, it gave a defiant toss of its head before wandering away into the woodland. Now all they had was Fraser’s dirk.

“Leave me here, my friend.” It was little more than a sigh from Lord Jack’s lips.

“Aye, I’m thinking ’twould be no more than you deserve,” Fraser said, with a nod.

A soft laugh greeted his words. “I mean it, you fool. You wear the tartan. If the redcoats capture you, you’ll swing from the king’s gibbet.”

Fraser snorted, his expression hardening into a frown. “They can try to fasten King George’s noose around my neck. I like not their chances of success.” He leaned closer, unsure if Lord Jack was still conscious. “I need to see what lies over yon ridge, my lord.”

There was no reply.

Fraser swore under his breath, the Gaelic curses fluent and all-encompassing. The English deserved damnation. Always. That went without saying. One or two choice phrases were reserved specifically for the Hanoverian king—the one known to the Jacobites as Elector George—and his son the Duke of Cumberland, the wily commander brought back from the Continent and charged with leading the redcoats in the fight against the rebels. But Fraser’s expletives now embraced his own general, the Stuart prince welcomed only months earlier by the Jacobites as their saviour. Bonnie Prince Charlie. The charismatic leader who, having lured the brave highlanders from their homeland across this hated border with his fine words and promises, had unexpectedly turned tail and run without a fight. The worst of Fraser’s recriminations, however, he reserved for himself. He was to blame for their current plight. His must be the responsibility of finding sanctuary for Lord Jack before leading him safe home across the border once more.

Reluctantly leaving Lord Jack slumped against a tree trunk, Fraser made his way to the top of the wooded incline and scanned the rolling countryside below. Derbyshire proudly unfolded her finest winter landscape before his critical eye. Fraser, used to a grander scene, was interested only in what human activity he could glimpse. In the valley beyond the forest ridge, a large, golden manor house slumbered. It was set like a jewel in the middle of the snowy blanket that covered the surrounding farmland. A scattering of farmworkers’ cottages lay about half a mile distant. Another house—smaller than the manor, but larger than the cottages, half-timbered in Elizabethan black and white and with a thatched roof—was even closer to where he stood. In miniature because of his elevated position, this building was surrounded by laurel hedges and was joined to the manor by means of a tree-lined path. Fraser’s keen eyes noted extensive stables and, more interestingly, an outbuilding to one side of the smaller house. Thin plumes of smoke rising from their chimneys indicated that both properties were occupied.

The path Fraser had followed to reach this point clung closely to the line of tall pine trees as it dipped into the valley. Fraser contemplated this route down to the lower land thoughtfully. Taking the open path would be a risk, exposing his distinctive garb to any chance observer. On the other hand, the late-afternoon light was poor and the trees would provide shelter as he made his way into the valley. It was fortunate that the predominant colours of the Lachlan tartan were dark green and blue. And it was a chance he would have to take.

When Fraser returned to him, Lord Jack had not regained consciousness. Even as Fraser hoisted him roughly over his shoulder, grunting under the strain of settling his lordship’s weight onto his own broad frame, there was no response. Tottering slightly as he carried his burden, Fraser commenced a slow, tortuous descent. Intense weariness threatened to overwhelm him, and Fraser tried to remember when he had last slept. He failed. It wasn’t meant to be this way. The bitter bile of defeat rose in his gullet, and no amount of Scots pride could wash it away this day. Now was not the time to wallow, but soon he would have to face up to a harsh reality. Once again he had allowed the English to bring harm to one he loved. Last time he had lost his battle to save lives, this time he was determined the outcome would be different.

After several halts to catch his breath and shift Lord Jack’s weight, Fraser finally felt his feet touch level ground. He couldn’t have known at the time that a boyhood spent hunting barefoot in the Great Glen of Scotland, carrying his catch homeward in the evening light, would stand him in good stead for a venture such as this. The thought brought a tight, sharp pain to his chest and, determinedly, he turned his thoughts away from home and back to his present surroundings.

“Still ’tis a dram or two ye’ll owe me when we’re done here, my lord,” he told the leaden form he carried.