He held her by her upper arms, close enough so that she could feel his chest rise and fall with each breath. Because of the difference in their heights, her eyes were level with the open lacing at the neck of his shirt. Obstinately, she kept her gaze fixed on that point, on the red-gold hair that peeked through the undyed cloth, and the hint of solid muscle beneath. If she concentrated on that, and the warm, masculine smell of him, she didn’t have to look up and show him the terror in her heart, an emotion that must also be obvious in her eyes. She wondered if he could sense it anyway. Perhaps he heard the pounding of her blood through her veins. It certainly sounded loud enough in her own ears. Whatever it was, she felt something change within him. Slowly, he exhaled and then released her.
“Snow or not, I’m away to see how Lord Jack is faring.”
It wasn’t until he had gone that Martha realised she had been holding her breath.
Some hours later, Martha emerged from the cellar to find that the snow had finally stopped falling. There was no sign of Fraser, and she told herself firmly that her decision to go up to Delacourt Grange had nothing whatsoever to do with him. In fact, she would be only too happy to learn that the wretched man had gone for good. No, she felt it was her duty to go up to the house to discover how things were between Rosie and the all-too-attractive earl. Cousin Henry was a kind and gentle man, but he probably wouldn’t notice what was going on under his nose until it was too late.
Donning her cloak and a stout pair of shoes, she made her way along the path, avoiding the worst of the drifts and icy patches. Even so, her feet skittered over the cobbles and she came close to falling several times.
With a sinking heart, she found on her arrival at Delacourt Grange that her worst fears had been well founded. Rosie, who had become a frighteningly conscientious nurse, had relented for the first time that very day and allowed Jack to leave his bedchamber to eat. Martha found them lingering over their meal in the cosy breakfast parlour.
“Fraser was here earlier, and in a foul mood,” Jack said, as Rosie pulled out a chair for Martha. “He left after doing a passable imitation of a caged wildcat. I suspect he will have found his way to the stables. When we were boys, it was always the place he chose to go when his temper was at its peak.”
Martha resisted the temptation to ask the questions that crowded to her lips. Why on earth should she suddenly be interested in what Fraser was like as a boy? Instead, she listened as Jack attempted to explain to Rosie why he had chosen to swear loyalty to Bonnie Prince Charlie. “My mother was a Scotswoman, her family were from the highlands. My father was an Englishman, of course, although, as you and I both know, Miss Wantage, Northumberland is a county that has never quite been sure of its loyalties. He was a close friend of the Old Pretender, the prince’s father. So it was in some ways inevitable that I should throw in my lot with the son. I completed the grand tour after Eton, and I first met Prince Charles then. We became friends.” Martha watched as he passed Rosie an apple he had peeled, and she received it with a smile of thanks. It seemed they had already reached a stage where words were not necessary between them, and Martha’s heart sank a little further. “But my life and loyalties changed that day at Swarkestone Bridge.”
Martha judged the conversation to be moving into dangerous territory and decided to deflect its focus. “How did you come to be injured at Swarkestone?”
Jack gazed out of the window for long minutes at the wintry scene as he answered. “Some of the memories I have of that day are hazy, so Fraser has filled in the details for me. The call went up for volunteers to protect Swarkestone Bridge so that the prince might cross and commence his triumphant march on London. Fraser and I were at the lead of the party of seventy highlanders. When we arrived, all was quiet. I was tired after the long ride south and decided to doze in a small copse. The ground was freezing hard, but I wrapped myself in my cloak and tried to ignore it. Fraser—who has the constitution of an ox and can manage without sleep for days at a time—laughed at me for what he called my laziness. He went to stand guard on the bridge itself with the other clansmen. I woke some time later, but I know not how long had passed. A red-coated boy—for that was all he was—stood over me, his musket in one hand. As I got to my feet, he fired, and the impact of the shot threw me down the slope toward the riverbank. Fraser and the other highlanders were alerted by the gunshot and rushed from the bridge into the fray. A couple of the men had already stolen several horses from the local blacksmith in preparation for the crossing. Fraser placed me upon one of these aging nags and threw himself up behind. I lost consciousness then and came round in your back bedchamber, Miss Wantage.”
Rosie shuddered. “If it had not been for Fraser, you would surely have died. He saved your life.” Martha could see her cousin’s feelings toward the Scotsman softening.
“Fraser sees the situation very differently. He blames himself for my injury, believing that, had he remained with me while I slept, the redcoat would not have been able to shoot me.”
“But that is nonsensical.” Martha wished the exclamation unsaid as soon as it left her lips, particularly as Jack and Rosie both regarded her most peculiarly. “I mean, he could not have known what would happen when he left you to sleep,” she added in a milder tone.
“No, but Fraser’s past experiences have led him to be less than kind to himself about his own dealings with the English.” Really, Martha thought, with a trace of annoyance, a statement like that might almost have been designed to provoke curiosity in the listener. Even someone like her—someone who had not the least interest in Fraser Lachlan and the events that had shaped him—could not help but wonder at the meaning behind Jack’s cryptic words.
“But you are English.” Rosie’s words interrupted her deliberations.
Jack smiled. “Nonetheless, our Jacobite code allows Fraser to tolerate me.”
“I confess I do not understand these things, these codes of honour that seem so important to men.” Rosie cast a sidelong, speculative glance in Martha’s direction. “Must you and Fraser go to the prince? Can you not stay here?”
Before Martha could remonstrate with her for her forwardness, Jack spoke. “We have sworn an oath of allegiance to the prince, and we must go to him as soon as we can do so. Our vows hold true. If the Jacobites win, we will be free men. If we lose—” he broke off at the soft moan that escaped Rosie’s lips, “—and I survive, I will be a fugitive. A wanted man with a price on my head. I must either flee the country or seek to gain the king’s pardon. Until I do that, I cannot return to my estates and begin to live a normal life again. I cannot ask any lady to be my wife.”
With a little cry, Rosie betrayed her feelings by dashing out of the room. Martha bent her head over her teacup. Heartily, she wished she didn’t have to share this doomed love story. Or that it could end differently. Why couldn’t Bonnie Prince Charlie have chosen a different route for his invasion? There would be no need then to shield the hearts of unprepared Derbyshire maidens against the devastating effect of these seductive rebels. Jack’s voice brought her back into the room.
“Please make her see sense, Miss Wantage. I would have to be the worst cad in the world to ask her to share my shame.”
Martha thought that Rosie was probably already too lost in love for sense, but she agreed to try. She found Rosie in her bedchamber, indulging in a hearty bout of tears.
“Are all men proud, and stubborn, and doltish about nonsensical things such as honour and people’s reputations and good names?” Rosie demanded angrily, punctuating her tirade by giving her pillow a series of vicious thumps.