“Stop it,” he said, with a frown, placing his hand in the small of her back and drawing her into deeper contact with his body. “This dance is meant to bring us together. And, yes—” a wicked smile lit the depths of his eyes, “—you are not mistaken. You can feel how hard I am. It means I am enjoying dancing with you, Martha Wantage.”
He danced her out into the hall and paused under the chandelier. Martha, still recovering from the shock of his last words, threw him an enquiring glance, and he pointed up to where a solitary sprig of mistletoe nestled amid the greenery above their heads.
“How on earth did you manage to smuggle that past Mrs. Glover?”
“She knows all about it,” Fraser informed her with a hint of smugness. “I have her blessing.”
The blaze of passion as she looked up into his eyes was so unexpected that, for a second, she wondered if her knees would hold her. She no longer had time to wonder anything. Fraser slid one hand around her waist and the other to the back of her neck. This close, his hazel eyes were mesmerizing, and she wasn’t sure if it was his heart or her own that thundered in her ears. She gripped the ruffles at the front of Fraser’s shirt tightly.
His breath stroked her cheek. “I have you, lass. I won’t let you fall.”
He kissed her. Momentarily, his lips were unexpectedly soft. Then his mouth was hard and demanding against hers, and his tongue swept inside, caressing and exploring her mouth. Martha rose onto the tips of her toes. Following her instincts, she pressed her body closer to Fraser’s. Her eyes widened as she felt the contrasting hardness of his body against the soft curves of her own. There was a primeval rightness about the feeling. It seemed natural to try to cleave ever nearer to him, as though parts of their bodies were actually made to fit together. Gradually she began to enjoy the new sensations, surrendering herself to them until they became quite intoxicating. A corresponding fizz of pleasure entered her bloodstream, and her whole body started to tingle.
So this was why people liked kissing! It was something she’d occasionally wondered about, almost as a disinterested bystander. After all, she had never, until now, imagined it would happen to her. She had been quite unable to imagine why there would be anything appealing about having another person’s mouth on her own. The thought of allowing another person to put his tongue inside her mouth had been something she found quite alarming. Now, shyly, Martha used her own tongue to explore Fraser’s mouth in return. He tasted of the wine they had drunk and of spices. He tasted delicious. Instantly, he tangled his hand in her hair, turning her head to the angle he wanted, deepening the kiss to bittersweet intensity. The tingling in her body increased and seemed to become more concentrated at a specific, exhilarating point. Here she was—Miss Martha Wantage, spinster of this parish—standing beneath the mistletoe, in the arms of a man she had known less than a month, with her tongue in his mouth and a wanton pulse beating between her legs. The mistletoe was certainly unleashing its mischief on this maiden’s behaviour.
That was when her knees did give way. But Fraser was true to his word and he didn’t let her fall.
The new year, 1746, arrived, and the unspoken knowledge that Jack and Fraser must soon leave hung heavy over them all. Tom joked that it wasn’t just Miss Rosie who had fallen in love. Their Jacobite guests had cast a spell over the whole household.
“That’s true,” Harry agreed. “Even Martha seems happier these days.”
Sometimes she thought she must have imagined that kiss on Christmas night. Fraser never referred to it, and the odd half-comfortable, half-wary lifestyle they had developed continued as before. But once or twice, when he thought she was unaware of his gaze, she caught him looking at her. And, because light in his eyes was the same one she had seen just as his lips descended on hers, she knew he was remembering too. The knowledge made her shiver.
Why me? She longed to ask him that question. If she listened to Mrs. Glover, she would believe it was because all men were devils who were unable to control their base desires. Was that it? She knew that Fraser had joined the prince when he first landed in Scotland back in July. Was Fraser simply missing a woman’s touch so much that the nearest one—no matter how unattractive—would do? That was unfair. Fraser wasn’t the barbarian she had first thought him. And it wasn’t just her raging emotions that told her that. After her initial mistake about his literacy, she had learned that he was an intelligent, cultured man who patiently continued to help Harry with his Latin studies. He could also converse with Cousin Henry on equal terms about English and Scots history and offer an argument as reasoned as any of Jack’s in support of the Jacobite cause.
There were other times when Martha felt him regarding her with a very different expression. An oblique, brooding, almost sullen look would cross his face. At those times, she could swear he dwelt on the old divisions and hatreds between them. It crossed her mind now and then that he might still be seeking revenge for that kiss in the cellar. The kiss of hate. She knew that, by her action, she had cut him to the very core of his being.
If wishes could undo that foolish, impulsive kiss, it would never have been. But, sadly, no amount of regrets from Martha could turn back the clock. Was Fraser drawing her into a web of attraction so strong so that she would betray her feelings for him, only to have him laugh in her face? She recalled how he too had trembled as their lips met when they stood under the mistletoe. If vengeance was his motive, he was a very good actor. Hard on the heels of that thought came another, more shocking one. If all he wanted her for was retribution, did she care? Whatever was happening here in this quiet, unremarkable corner of Derbyshire, it was something that shy, frightened Martha Wantage had never thought to experience. Fraser would be gone soon. This few weeks of madness was something she wouldn’t have missed for all the world.
The six soldiers approached Delacourt Grange from across the fields so that their arrival was not seen by anyone in the house. Fortunately, Joseph the groom, who was feeding the horses, spied the splash of colour of their red coats against the winter landscape. He was able to warn the household, and Jack had time to hide himself away in the attic. Martha was with Mr. Delacourt when he received Captain Overton in his study. He offered the youthful soldier wine and enquired courteously about the reason for the visit. The young man was patently embarrassed at his errand.
Captain Overton bowed low. “Your pardon, sir. We have been given information that a dangerous fugitive, a Jacobite lord, no less, has taken refuge in your home.”
“Dear me,” Mr. Delacourt remarked in his mild way. “Have you seen this person, Martha? Where do you suppose he could be hiding?” He looked around the room distractedly, as though expecting to see the rebel lurking behind the bookcase or under the desk.
The captain, obviously feeling that he had been sent on a fool’s errand, cleared his throat. “I would like to speak to a man named Jack who, I believe, has been staying with you recently?”
“Ah, you are referring to a kinsman of mine, Jack Brown, who was travelling in the area when he became unwell. He spent a few weeks here recovering from his malaise. Sadly, you have missed him. He left yesterday and has now resumed his travels.” Mr. Delacourt frowned in confusion, and Martha had to admire his acting skills. “Do you think he might know the whereabouts of the fugitive you seek?”
Captain Overton sighed and sipped his wine. “Our information was that this man was not a relative of yours. That he was, in fact, the high-ranking Jacobite we seek. The one who was injured in the skirmish at Swarkestone Bridge.”