“At least we know who our enemies are, unlike the highland clansmen who seem determined to annihilate each other,” she said.
His jaw tensed at that, and he lapsed into silence so that the only sound for several minutes was the click of Martha’s scissor blades.
“How old are you?” he asked. The question was so unexpected that the scissors made a jumpy arc that came perilously close to his ear before Martha got them back under control.
“That has nothing to do with you,” she said in her best teacher’s voice. He waited, and eventually she capitulated. After all, what did it matter? “I am six and twenty.”
“Past the marriageable age, ’tis true, but not quite at your last prayers. Why is it that you try so hard to appear older?”
That was going too far. No-one had ever spoken to her that way before. Ignoring the peculiar lump his words brought to her throat, she attempted to change the subject. “Where are your other clothes?”
“Why?” He leaned back slightly, watching her now that she had finished her task.
“They will give your identity away. I don’t want them to be discovered.”
A savage fire blazed gold in the hazel depths of his eyes. “That’s right. They are my identity. I’ll not let you dispose of the only things I have left of my name, my pride and my honour.”
“I was going to offer to wash them and store them safely until you are able to wear them again,” Martha said placidly. “Believe it or not, I do know the significance of the kilt and the tartan to your countrymen.”
The fierce look faded slightly. “You grew up on Lord Jack’s estate, at St. Anton?”
“Yes, on the northern part of the estate, close to Bamburgh. My father had land there and farmed cattle.” She didn’t need to explain what that meant. Although Fraser was a highlander and, therefore, hailed from an area far to the north of the border between England and Scotland, he would know and understand the practice of reiving. Conflict between the kingdoms of England and Scotland was as ancient as the lands themselves, and cross-border conflict was bloody, brutal and relentless. Families living on either side of Hadrian’s Wall existed in the certain knowledge that bloodshed, treachery and grief would come their way. The border traditions, passed down through generations, did not die out when King James I, great-great-grandfather of Bonnie Prince Charlie, to whom Fraser had sworn allegiance, united the two crowns. Reiving—raiding for cattle, sheep and anything else that could be transported—was a way of life that continued unabated. But theft was the lesser evil of reiving. Murder, rape and kidnap were all part of daily life on the border.
“Tell me about the reivers who hurt you.” His voice held more compassion than she would have imagined possible. What had wrought this odd change in his approach? Never trust a Scotsman. Her father’s words rang in her ears. It was sound advice, and yet Fraser seemed genuinely interested. He had a knack of triggering a chain of warring emotions in her breast. It was most unnerving.
Martha bent her head, unable to speak. Instead of trying, she busied herself by picking up the knife in preparation for shaving him, but her hand shook so hard that the blade was a silver blur. Fraser watched her thoughtfully, then reached out and clasped her wrist. Carefully, he removed the knife from her grasp.
“On second thoughts, perhaps it might be best if I do that myself?”
Tom, assisted by Fraser, undertook to transport Jack to Delacourt Grange in the farm cart later that afternoon. The two large, muscular men seemed to feel the ease with which they accomplished this task was a matter for some congratulation. Jack, who was tired and in considerable pain after being lifted and jolted, told them in no uncertain terms what he thought of their nursing skills and sent them packing so that he could sleep.
Fraser dawdled on his way back to the old dower house. The air was chill and rapid, with fleeing clouds threatening more snow to come. The beauty of the rolling Derbyshire countryside was not lost on him, but his heart yearned for the soaring grandeur of his homeland glens. It was hard to believe that it was only days since the Jacobites had marched behind the prince, glad of heart and certain that he would fulfil his promises to restore the Stuarts to the throne. It seemed that, at every turn, the highlanders must be the people to bear the weight of this ancient conflict, the ones who suffered the wrath of their more powerful neighbours.
This deception, this role he was being forced to play, did not sit comfortably on Fraser’s proud shoulders. His way was to face his enemy in combat, to look his foe in the eye. Even worse was the fact that he should be compelled into such indignity in this hated land. To be obliged to stoop and play the part of an Englishman! To forsake his tartan and have to share a roof with the woman who had humiliated him. It was the ultimate dishonour. His head told him all nations had their heroes as well as their villains. His heart, conditioned by his upbringing, told him England was populated by demons.
Fifty-three years had passed since the murders at Glencoe, but to the Lachlan clan—kinsmen of the MacDonalds—the atrocity might have happened yesterday. The history behind the awful tragedy was ingrained into Fraser’s being. It was part of who he was. When William of Orange ousted King James II, the last Stuart king, and claimed the throne for himself, Scotland became a nation rent in two. The old divisions resurfaced and redoubled, with the lowlanders largely loyal to King William while the highlanders clung stubbornly, and often fiercely, to the Stuart cause. The image of wild highlanders bearing down upon his forces, flailing their claymores and screaming retribution, had caused King William more than a few sleepless nights, and determined to quell their rebellious ways, he insisted all highlander chieftains must take an oath of fealty to the crown.
Accounts of the events leading up to Glencoe varied according to the viewpoint of the storyteller. The MacDonald chieftain had either not signed the oath of fealty or had signed it too late to placate the king. Soon after the deadline for signature, the MacDonalds were visited in their Glencoe home by members of the Campbell clan and a contingent of their highland mercenaries. The two chieftains were related by marriage, and it was said that the clans were on friendly terms at the time of the meeting. There was much drinking, feasting, dancing and harmony. What the MacDonald clan did not know was that the Campbells were working for the king. In the middle of one night, the guests rose and systematically slaughtered their hosts. The men were murdered outright, the women raped and beaten before being left to die. The mercenaries had bitten the married women’s fingers off to remove their wedding rings. Fraser’s grandmother, a MacDonald, had been visiting her family in Glencoe at the time and had perished in the massacre along with nearly forty others.
At the king of England’s written command, Fraser reminded himself now. A king of England who was a Dutchman. A king of England who had deposed the rightful Stuart heir—descendant of Scots kings. And the murders at Glencoe resonated in the echoing atrocity that had so recently torn apart his own life and placed his feet upon this path. Foul murder in the name of this fair land, he thought as, rounding a neat box bordered walkway, he looked up at the charming Elizabethan house. His hand automatically reached for the comforting solidity of his dirk handle, and he muttered a curse at the realisation it wasn’t there. He had left it with his kilt.
“Who goes there?”
Fraser halted abruptly as the words were flung at him. A figure emerged from the bushes, and it took all Fraser’s strength to stop himself from hurtling forward and wrapping his hands around the challenger’s throat. After a moment in which to reflect, he was heartily glad of his own restraint. The words were spoken by a mere lad, Fraser observed in surprise. He clenched his fists at his sides and drew a deep breath.