From his hiding place, Fraser watched as the girl ran toward the Elizabethan house, the big man lumbering in her wake. That was where they were taking Lord Jack. To this gifted healer they had talked of. From what he had overheard, they were about to hand a high-ranking Jacobite rebel over to an English witch who hated the Scots. Was there nothing about this day to give a highlander stranded in this hated country even a glimmer of hope?
Stealthily, Fraser left the seclusion of the barn. Keeping well back and using the shelter of the laurels to avoid being seen, he followed them.
Martha Wantage stood on the doorstep of the old dower house with her arms folded across her chest. Her foot tapped out a staccato beat on the stone surface. Tom Drury stood a few feet away from her, his eyes sliding warily away each time they encountered the fire in hers. An observer might infer it was rage that stiffened her slight figure and belligerence that held her spine straight as a ramrod. And perhaps that was partly true. After all, didn’t she, and every other right-minded woman in Derbyshire, have reason to be fearful and enraged at the news that thousands of Scottish barbarians had invaded the peace of their beautiful county? The silent impasse between Martha and Tom was broken abruptly as Rosie dashed around the corner of the laurel hedge, dragging her father behind her. At Mr. Delacourt’s approach, Martha pushed her spectacles back up her nose and turned to him with relief softening her features slightly.
“Cousin Henry! Thank goodness for someone with a modicum of sense. Do tell Rosie she can’t possibly keep this—” she floundered for a moment, seeking the right words, “—ne’er-do-well here.”
“He is not a ne’er-do-well. Father, please explain to Martha—”
Mr. Delacourt held up a hand. Rosie bit her lip and Martha clenched her fists at her sides. Both ladies lapsed into a reluctant silence.
“I have been roused from my library, where I was engaging in my favourite occupation,” Mr. Delacourt said, in a tone of mild complaint, “reading a most enjoyable account of the English peerage in the twelfth century, to come and settle this matter. Rosie has told me a remarkable story. Do remind me what it was you told me, child?”
“Papa, you know what it was. I found an injured Jacobite rebel in the old barn. He is close to death, but Tom says we may yet be able to save him if he can get the bullet out of his shoulder. I will nurse him myself, since others have refused to do so—” the frown she directed at Martha spoke volumes about her opinion of the unnamed others, “—and when he is well enough to travel, he can rejoin the prince in Scotland. Until then, we must hide him and keep his identity secret. But we cannot do that.” Her voice shook with the effort of containing her emotions. “Because of Martha.”
“Martha will not allow you to keep his identity secret?” Mr. Delacourt said in a voice of confusion.
“Martha is refusing to let him be carried over the doorstep of the dower house. And that is doubly unfair because Martha is the one person who could make the poor man better, if she chose. But she is being horribly stubborn.” She turned reproachful eyes to Martha. “You are, Martha. You know it. Anyway, Martha might live here, but it is your house, Papa. You must be the one to decide.”
Martha remained silent as a statue on the doorstep. Although Rosie’s words cut knife deep, she could never explain her sentiments to her young cousin. Or anyone else. She would rather have them think her cold and hard than make the attempt.
“Where is this man now?” Mr. Delacourt asked.
“Here, sir.” Tom spoke now from the lowering gloom at the side of the doorstep. When Martha had refused to allow him to carry the rebel over her doorstep, he had placed the injured man in the rear of an old farm cart. This vehicle was kept at the side of the house and was used by Martha as transport to and from market.
Going over to the cart, Mr. Delacourt studied the limp form thoughtfully. “Is there anything that can be done for him, do you think, Tom?”
“I need to get that musket ball out of him first, sir. Only then will I be able to see how bad the damage is.”
Mr. Delacourt paused. “As fantastic as Rosie’s story first seemed, it appears now to be true. I can think of no other explanation for this man’s presence here than that he must indeed be a Jacobite fugitive. Which means that if he is captured by soldiers loyal to the king, he will either be killed outright or stand trial for treason.”
Martha watched her cousin’s face as he spoke his thoughts aloud. Mr. Delacourt was himself a staunch supporter of the Jacobite cause, who scorned the Hanoverian claim to the throne and denounced King George II as a usurper. He did this, however, in a quiet voice, in private and within the confines of his own home. Would his loyalties to the prince he called “the true king” run deep enough for him to risk giving shelter to a wanted man? These were no ordinary times.
Mr. Delacourt’s glance flickered over to Martha. She knew what he was thinking. To him and only him, her feelings in this matter must be written across her face. No-one else knew how strong, deep and well-founded Martha’s fears of the Scots were.
“Martha, my dear.” He spoke directly to her as if they were alone. “I cannot leave this man to die. Despite what you say, I suspect you could not do so either.”
A shuddering sigh escaped her. He was right, of course. Silently, Martha stepped away from the doorstep.
“What are we waiting for? Let us get him inside,” Mr. Delacourt said, with unusual briskness. He might be a quietly spoken, gentle-mannered man, but he was master of his own home. Once he had made up his mind, no-one, not even Martha, would dare protest. The scene bustled into life as Tom carried the rebel up the perilously narrow staircase to the back bedchamber. He placed him on the bed, the coverlet of which was promptly whisked away by Martha.
“I spent many hours embroidering it.” Her lips turned down in a sour expression. She might be forced into acquiescence. It didn’t mean she had to be docile. “I’ve no wish to see it ruined with the bloodstains of a murdering Scots cutthroat.”
She turned to watch Tom as he cut away the fine coat and removed the lawn shirt to expose the ugly bullet wound that had torn deep into the man’s shoulder. This had started to sluggishly bleed once more. A waxy pallor marred the aristocratic features. It did not seem possible that anyone could survive such a devastating injury.
“It may not appear so now, but he’s a lucky man. A few inches lower and it would have killed him outright,” Tom said, rolling up his sleeves. He paused, reaching for his patient’s wrist and feeling his pulse. Tom’s face was grave. “It may yet have done for him.”
“No. We will not let him die.” Rosie’s voice was determined as she joined him at the bedside. “Tell me what I must do to help you, Tom.”
Tom glanced up at his master for confirmation that this was acceptable. Mr. Delacourt nodded briefly. “Do what you can for him, Tom.”
“And I suppose you would like me to vacate my home while you turn it into a sanctuary for every passing criminal and vagabond?” Martha did her best to bite back the words, but they came in spite of her, dripping vinegar into the atmosphere.
Three pairs of eyes turned to her. Martha returned their stares, her own eyes narrowed, her lips pursed. It was her defensive expression, as natural to her as breathing. Mr. Delacourt eventually broke the silence. “No, cousin dear, I would not expect that of you. But Tom cannot be spared from his other duties, and it would be most improper for Rosie to remain here alone with this young man, incapacitated though he may be. She will need you over the next few days to act as her chaperone. With your skills as a healer at his disposal as well as her nursing, we must be even more hopeful that he will pull through.”