Glad of something to do to stop her thoughts returning to her depraved behaviour of the night before, she snatched up a basket, filled it with several picnic items and set off in the direction of the lake to find the two fishermen. The day, although cold, showed signs of weak sunlight, and once she had left Delacourt Grange, Martha walked along a pleasant, green, hedgerow-lined lane that wound its way down pastured hill slopes. It was as she was about to cross a stile into the field that led to the lake that a voice hailed her. She turned her head, and her heart sank when she saw Sir Clive Sheridan striding toward her.
“Give you good noontide, Miss Wantage,” he said, in the slightly dismissive tone he generally used to her. Martha had long since got the message. She was unimportant to him if Rosie was not present. “You are a long way from home on a chilly day.” His sharp eyes dropped to her basket.
“Good afternoon, sir. It seems we are both keen to take advantage of a dry day despite the ice that lingers in the air.”
“Yes, indeed. I called in at the Crown to see what news I could glean of the rebellion. You will have heard, no doubt, of the news from Falkirk? A dark day indeed, but I believe we may trust Cumberland to rally his troops and teach these Jacobite dogs to know their place. There was a young guards captain name of Overton in the taproom.”
Martha hoped she managed to disguise the start of surprise she gave at the name by pretending to turn it into a shiver of cold. “I believe there are redcoats stationed nearby still,” she observed.
“They seek a dangerous fugitive.” Sir Clive puffed up with his own importance at the news. “Overton himself told me that a fine lord, friend to the prince himself, no less, was left for dead by a young redcoat on Swarkestone Bridge. The captain said he cannot have left the area so badly wounded he was. ’Tis a certainty he is either dead in a ditch from his wounds, or holed up nearby with rebel sympathisers. I’d not want to be in their shoes should he be found.”
“No indeed,” Martha answered him mechanically. Over his shoulder, she had caught a glimpse of two figures emerging from the bushes, carrying their fishing rods and reels. “Would you mind, sir, if we walked along the lane as we talk? I am feeling rather chilled by this wind as I stand here.”
Courteously, he offered her his arm and they walked along together. As she listened with half an ear to his discourse, Martha was able to see Fraser and Harry cross the lane behind them and make their way back in the direction of the old dower house. She felt her breathing gradually return to normal.
“Old Mr. Cartwright, who lives in Swarkestone village, had a strange tale to tell.” Sir Clive’s penetrating voice bored into her consciousness. “His horse, which he thought had been stolen from the blacksmith’s during the Jacobite invasion, strolled back into its stable a full two weeks later. Not that I’d give you tuppence for the old bag of bones myself. Are you on your way to distribute food to Mr. Delacourt’s tenants? I will happily accompany you all the way…”
It had been a difficult day. Shaking off Sir Clive had been no easy task, and when Martha had attempted to remonstrate with Fraser for putting himself in danger by going on a fishing expedition, he had been unconcerned.
“Keep your heid, crabbit one,” he had said. “What’s for ye’ll no go by ye.”
Martha was tired. And the very large, very beautiful reason why she had not had any sleep the night before was not helping her mood by smiling down at her and being very Scottish in response to her fears. She felt her lips purse and her eyes narrow.
“If by that you mean ‘what is meant to be will be’, I have never heard a sillier utterance.” She slammed down the book she had been holding. “It is one thing to deal with danger as it comes, but it is quite another to actually court it, which is what you seem to enjoy doing.”
He had regarded her in surprise. Then, as he made a movement toward her with his hands held out, she had whirled away angrily and stomped upstairs to allow her temper the luxury of a few minutes’ indulgence alone. If the redcoats took him it would be quite his own fault. If the redcoats took him! Dear God, the very thought of it was unbearable.
She crept back down the stairs some minutes later and set about preparing the evening meal. She was aware of Fraser casting one or two confused glances in her direction, but she kept her head down. Heaven forbid that he should see her expression and know her thoughts.
When evening fell and they occupied their usual fireside seats, Martha decided that the best way to quell the desperate restlessness that threatened to overwhelm her sanity would be to darn sheets. Even the ones that didn’t need darning. She had just arranged her sewing basket next to her chair when Fraser, who had been slumped in his chair, gazing moodily into the fire with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, rose abruptly to his feet. Martha looked up in surprise, thinking he must be intending to go out. Perhaps to see Jack and discuss Sir Clive’s revelations. Before she could speak, however, he had come to stand over her.
“To hell with this.” He reached down and clamped his hands either side of her waist, lifting her from her seat. Sheets, darning and sewing basket tumbled across the floor in disarray. He carried her to his own chair, sitting back down and holding her in his lap. Martha was stunned into silence at the unexpectedness of his actions. He was so virile and commanding—all the things that had made her afraid of men. In reality, she knew now that what she had been afraid of was life. Yet with Fraser, she was fiercely attracted to the very masculinity that had scared her for so long. She breathed deeply to halt the quivering of her body. Her heart beat wildly when he raised his fingers and loosened the pins that held her hair, tugging it free so that it tumbled about her shoulders. One big hand gripped the back of her neck and drew her face down to his. When their lips met, she spread her palms wide over the broad muscles of his shoulders, exulting in the knowledge that his big, strong, masculine body was hers to touch as she chose.
With a low murmur of satisfaction, he deepened the kiss. His tongue stroked the inside of her mouth. She tingled with desire…every part of her actually tingled. How had she reached the age of twenty-six without knowing it was possible to feel so alive?
Martha’s skirt fanned out over Fraser’s lap, and she moved so that she could kneel with her legs positioned either side of his solid thighs, the way she had done in the priest hole. She wanted to feel even closer to him. He held her there, rubbing the thick length of his erection against her, and the intimate contact made her shudder with shock and anticipation. His tongue was seducing her. Thoughts of the wanton nature of her behaviour crowded in on her, and she welcomed them. She wanted to be all the things she had been brought up to consider wrong. She wanted to be a hoyden. She needed to be the prim English maiden who was about to take this rough Scotsman into her bed and into her body.
Martha broke the kiss, pressing her forehead to his as her breath came in quick, short, shallow pants. Fraser, in comparison, seemed relaxed and in control. How could he stay so calm when her every breath was ragged with longing and excitement, constricting her lungs so tightly that she could scarcely breathe?
“Will we go upstairs now, lass?” His voice shook slightly and she realised he was not in control at all. He was just better at hiding it than she was. She nodded, and he rose to his feet, holding her in his arms. Martha relaxed in his hold, tucking her head into his shoulder. He carried her up the stairs and into his room, only setting her down on her feet once he had closed the door behind him.