Martha bent her head and pretended to fiddle with the fastening on her cloak. In reality she used the gesture to hide the sudden rush of tears that Iona’s words brought to her eyes. She knew an urgent desire to run to Fraser and hold him in her arms, to draw his head down to hers and kiss him long and hard until some of the hurt was gone from his big, brave heart. To hell with propriety. Iona was speaking again, so instead of following her instincts, she blinked rapidly and looked up again.
“Kirsty was a pleasant enough lass, but too soft for him. Fraser had only to speak and she would bend to his will. And yon English rose may have great beauty, but that wouldn’t do for Fraser either. No, he needs to pluck himself a strong, warlike bloom. What Fraser needs is a thistle.”
“Are you saying he needs a Scotswoman?” Martha asked, somewhat bewildered about why Iona felt the need to impart this information to her.
“My brother needs a wife who will face him, toe to toe, and not back down when he gets in one of his high tempers. The land of her birth is of no matter. Well—” She glanced back at Fraser again, and Martha followed her gaze. He was laughing at something Jack was saying, his head thrown back slightly, his red-gold hair bright in the weak sunlight. Martha’s heart clenched. “Not once he gets past the first shock of it.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Martha asked.
“Din’nae gi’ me that! I’ve seen the way ye look at him. Aye, and the way he looks back at you. And I’m thinking ye may not bloom like the rose, but ye may well endure like the thistle.” She sighed as Fraser threw himself onto his horse and signalled for his companions to do the same. “But we Lachlans never take the easy route. He’s not picked a right convenient time for to go a-courting.”
“You’re mistaken.” Martha felt the colour rise to stain her cheeks. “There is no thought of courting me in your brother’s head. Apart from anything else—” Where should she start with “anything else”? He calls me crabbit. That means disagreeable, doesn’t it? Oh, and sleekit. Unless I’m mistaken, that’s treacherous. And skinny. And you don’t know, but he does, about my scars. And about the reivers… “—I’m English, and he hates the English, remember?”
“Oh, aye. Mistaken, is it?” Iona had gone away then to bid Fraser and Jack farewell, chuckling to herself.
A chill wind whipped up now and swept across the valley, pulling long streamers of cloud in its wake. Their path dipped lower, between sharp-scented pines, until Fraser, riding slightly ahead, called a halt. Holding up a hand, he pointed to a break in the tree line. It showed them a glimpse of a castle, perched alone on a small peninsula that cut a sharp triangle into the loch. Tall and grand and built from slate-grey impregnable stone, it was reflected back on itself in the mirrorlike gloss of the water’s surface.
“Lachlan.” That one word, when Fraser spoke it, held within it a whole world of pride.
The closer they came to Castle Lachlan, the more gaunt and grim it appeared. Its high towers and crenelated turrets kept watch far over the loch and surrounding valleys. A dour drawbridge was closed so that its entrance resembled a mouth frozen in a permanent snarl. Yet, when the clouds broke and sunshine glanced off the grey stone, there was a haunting beauty about its isolated stance that tugged at a hidden point somewhere deep in Martha’s heart. The narrow path across the rocks and up to the castle entrance had been designed to present any would-be attackers with a nightmare. There was no other approach unless from the loch itself.
“No-one has ever made the attempt. Legend has it that these waters are bottomless,” Fraser said. Looking down into the soul-dark depths, Martha could almost believe that the legend was true.
As they crested the dangerous ridge, no archers or cannon fired down on them from on high. Instead a bugler called a sweet, clear song across the glen and the drawbridge was slowly raised.
Inside, the inner courtyard of the keep resembled a small, bustling village. A group of children ran to them and gathered around the horses, hampering their path and gawking up at them.
“Our laird has returned! He is come home to us at last.”
Men bowed their heads and women curtsied as they passed. Realisation dawned gradually on Martha, and she turned her head to look at Fraser. “You are their laird?”
“Aye, lass.”
“But you call Jack ‘my lord’.” Her bewildered words followed him as he pressed his mount on until he rode slightly ahead of them.
“Did you think the fact that he always calls me ‘Lord Jack’ and ‘my lord’ meant he was subservient to me?” Jack asked in some amusement, drawing his horse alongside hers. “The name has been his joke—Fraser’s playful name for me—since we were children.” She raised her brows in a question, and he smiled at her obvious confusion. “Fraser is my kinsman, our mothers were sisters. He is my equal in rank. As the Lachlan chieftain, he is also one of the most powerful of the highland clansmen. And, since Castle Lachlan is a symbolic point in the Great Glen, King George’s men would love to take it from us. Fraser has been a thorn in the English side since he could first hold a claymore.”
They clattered into the stable yard, and grooms hurried forward to tend the exhausted horses that had served them so well since they left Derbyshire over two weeks ago. Around them all was bustle and activity as stable lads mucked out stalls, laid fresh hay and fetched and carried water and feed. Returning huntsmen passed them, laden down with deer, hares, rabbits and birds for the table. Fraser and Jack were hailed on all sides by people anxious to confer with them. A wizened man—Auld Rab, one of the braver stable hands called him, although he made sure it was out of earshot of the man himself—was clearly in charge.
“Get on up to the Tower House,” Rab told Martha and Rosie when they found themselves deserted by their companions. “And Cora’ll set ye right.”
The Tower House turned out to be a unique Scottish tradition. It was a compromise between a noble mansion and a fortified residence. In the case of Castle Lachlan, it was a four-storey inner castle or laird’s residence, hidden within the main walls of the fortress. The lower floor of the Tower House was dominated by a great hall. This vast space was a meeting, living and banqueting room with dark, wood-panelled walls decorated all around with heraldic crests and coats of arms. One wall was dominated by a huge open fireplace, large enough to easily fit an ox inside for roasting, above which a decorative, carved overmantle depicted a fire-breathing dragon of ancient Celtic legend. High window recesses, positioned to catch the rising and setting sun through gaily coloured glass panels, lit the room during the day. Wall sconces positioned at regular intervals were ready to be lit once darkness descended. The flagstone floor was covered in woven reed mats, and these in turn were scattered over with dried flowers and herbs. At the opposite end of the hall to the fireplace was a servery hatch that gave a view through into a vast kitchen. A short woman, who was as wide as she was high, stepped through a door next to this, a soup ladle in one hand and a severed pig’s head in the other.
“’Tis true then?” she asked, in an accusatory voice that sent Rosie instantly sidling closer to Martha. “Yon lord and master has finally remembered the road back home?”
“’Tis small wonder I’ve stayed away so long. Whenever I do come home, I get a right royal reekin from ye, Cora Ramsey.” Fraser’s voice rang out as he entered the hall.
She gave a shriek and just found enough time to cast aside both ladle and pig’s head before she was caught up in his embrace. “Master Fraser! Put me down, do. ’Tis not decent.”
Fraser laughed and set her back on her feet. “Cora was our nurse, mine and Iona’s, when we were bairns,” he explained. “And she will shortly remember her manners and show you to your bedchambers. Only the best for my guests, mind, Cora. Just because they are English, there’ll be no tying them up and locking them in the cellar.” There was a distinctly wicked challenge in his eye as he looked over both Cora’s and Rosie’s heads at Martha.