“No.” Jack shook his head. “You would bring the whole regiment down upon us within minutes that way. I’ll not have Mr. Delacourt and his family placed in danger. What do you propose, sir?”
“Well, in your case the task is made easier by the fact that you are a gentleman and so well spoken—” he cast a brief, apologetic look in Fraser’s direction, “—I think that we should move you to Delacourt Grange after all and pass you off as a distant kinsman. No-one need know the nature of your illness. We will say that you were travelling the country when you were struck down by a sudden bout of stomach trouble. That will account for your lack of colour and general weakness. As good fortune would have it, you were close to my home and naturally you have come to stay with me to convalesce.”
“You are very good to agree to such a deception on my behalf, sir,” Jack said.
“That still leaves us with one very large problem.” Tom eyed Fraser who, with his muddied and bloodstained clothing, bandaged head and badly shorn hair, dominated the room.
“Fraser must remain here in the old dower house—”
“No!” Martha exclaimed, startled out of her composure. She was even more annoyed when Fraser’s voice chimed with hers in an identical chorus of horror. What reason did he have to be outraged at the suggestion? “Cousin Henry, you cannot seriously expect me—an unmarried woman—to allow a man to live under my roof? It would be unseemly.”
“Worry not, crabbit one. I’ve no designs on you. I’d as soon lie with the auld heifer I saw in yon field.” Fraser paused and studied her ramrod-straight figure. “Sooner,” he added.
“Martha has a point,” Tom said. “Apart from the proprieties, it would appear most odd and cause some talk in the neighbourhood, which is surely contrary to what we wish to achieve?”
“Not if we allow it to be known that Fraser here is Martha’s brother.”
“But he is Scottish.” Martha’s protest was partly drowned out by Fraser’s derisive shout of laughter.
“People hereabouts know that you are from the border lands, my dear, although you have resided here in Derbyshire for many years. If Fraser could perhaps make an effort to tone down his accent…?” Mr. Delacourt paused delicately.
“I shall do my level best, old chap,” Fraser said, with a mocking bow.
“Thank you. A passable, although not quite perfect attempt. I venture to think we shall contrive to muddle through until Jack here is able to travel across the border and rejoin the prince.”
“Will it not appear too much of a coincidence that we have two visitors, both of them strangers to the area, and both arriving so soon after the Jacobite invasion?” Martha asked, desperately casting around for reasons why the plan would not work. “We generally live a very quiet existence.”
“It may excite some comment, but we must stick to our story. If any soldiers do come, I think it wise for Fraser to take to the priest hole. Lord St. Anton, on the other hand—”
“I do beg your pardon, Cousin Henry, but…” Martha, unable to contain her emotions any longer, committed the crowning social solecism of interrupting. She stepped forward and addressed Jack directly. “Are you indeed Lord St. Anton?”
He smiled, and in spite of his pallor and fatigue, she thought how captivating he was and how hard it was going to be to protect Rosie from his charm. “So I have always been led to believe. Why do you ask?”
“I’m sorry. I must appear dreadfully rude. You see, until he died, my father was a tenant on the St. Anton estate.” Martha did her best to hide the sudden sorrow the memory provoked, but she was horribly afraid that her voice hitched on the words.
“What is your name?” The gentleness of his tone confirmed her worst fears. She had betrayed her emotion in front of all these people. Worst of all, she had shown her feelings in front of the Scotsman.
“Wantage. Martha Wantage.”
“Ah.” Recognition dawned on his face. She wanted to beg him not to show her any sympathy. Not here. Not now. It seemed he understood the plea in her eyes. “Your father was a good man,” he said quietly.
Mr. Delacourt cleared his throat, breaking the moment. “As I was saying, if the king’s men do come, Jack here should remain in full view and play the part of my young relative. The first job, I think, will be to find Fraser some suitable clothing. Tom, you must be a similar size. And perhaps, Martha my dear, you could do something about his hair?”
Martha, glad to have a semblance of normality restored, eyed her prospective houseguest with dislike. He gave her a bland, tawny stare in return. Jack and Mr. Delacourt thrashed out a few final details of the plan, and then Tom took Fraser off to find some less-obvious garb. Before long, Mr. Delacourt succumbed to the call of his books and returned to Delacourt Grange. Rosie brought a glass of water and supported Jack to raise his head in order to help him drink it.
“Why do you frown so?” She scanned his face. Concern darkened the silver-grey depths of her eyes.
He sighed. “I feel so helpless. It does not suit my code of honour that you should be forced to wait on me while I lie here like a feeble child.”
Rosie smiled and, as if she was unable to resist the temptation to touch him, smoothed a stray lock of hair back from his forehead.
“What a muttonheaded idea. And you a grand gentleman…an earl, forsooth. Do stop fretting and try to get some sleep.”
Jack chuckled at her indulgent tone. “Yes, nurse.” He returned her smile, joining in the ready laughter which bubbled on her lips.
Martha, observing this little scene, could not help but be touched at the tenderness that had sprung up so quickly between them. At the same time, a sense of misgiving gripped her. This fledgling romance was not destined to end well.
Chapter Five
Half an hour later, Martha hardly recognised the tall, powerfully built man who strode into her kitchen through the open back door. It was only the bandage on his head and his badly cut hair that alerted her to his identity. Somehow, the severely cut breeches, shirt and jerkin Tom had lent him only accentuated the breadth of Fraser’s shoulders and the strong muscles of his thighs. It was plain from his expression, however, that he did not approve of his new attire.
He plucked at the cloth of his breeches with distaste. “I look like a cursed lowlander. ’Tis unmanly and a reproach to my heritage for me to appear in public without my sporran, kilt and dirk.”
Privately deciding that Fraser had far too much manliness for any garment, Martha disregarded this comment. “Sit here while I cut your hair and shave you,” she said, indicating a seat at the kitchen table.
He regarded her with suspicion. “Must I present my throat to you while you’ve a blade in your hand, wee crabbit one?”
“Yes, and I do wish you’d stop calling me that. I lived in Northumberland until ten years ago. I know exactly what it means.”
“Aye, ill-tempered, unpleasant and all-round disagreeable.” He grinned, a gleam of genuine humour in his eyes. “It suits you just fine.”
Ignoring the look she threw at him, he took a seat and, leaning his elbows on the table, made no further comment while she removed his bandages and trimmed his hair into a semblance of order. The red-gold curls clustered close into the nape of his neck and over his ears, and Martha concentrated on her task rather than his proximity. He smelled of masculinity. It was a warm, earthy, musky scent that was out of place in her kitchen. Whenever she moved into the line of his vision, she was conscious of his unwavering stare on her face.
“Northumberland was once a part of the kingdom of Scotland,” Fraser said. Martha gritted her teeth and did not respond. “Aye, and is it not true that the Northumbrians are known for their wild and revolutionary ways? Before the stabilising influence of a Scottish king on the English throne, was it not known as the most lawless county in the land?”