Chapter Thirteen

Martha’s bedchamber was a small, comfortable room on the third floor of the Tower House. Cora, on showing her to this apartment, had seemed inclined to linger and eager to gossip about the reason for the presence of two English women in the castle, but Martha had been so tired she could barely speak. The garrulous little housekeeper had reluctantly left her alone.

Dinner that night had passed in a blur of courses and noise. Martha had barely seen Fraser, who, at the head of the table, had been much in demand. On returning to her room, she had tumbled gratefully into the comfort of her four-poster bed and into a sound sleep. When a knock on the door roused her, she had no idea of the hour. Although the sky outside the casement window was fully light, indicating that it must be morning, it was quiet as though the castle had not yet come to life.

Martha slid from beneath the warmth of the bedclothes, shivering slightly as the chill air touched her flesh. Snatching up a shawl, she draped it around her shoulders and hurried to the door. Her heart constricted, as if squeezed by an invisible hand, when she opened the door to find Fraser leaning against the frame. He smiled down at her and the tightness in her chest loosened. Only he, it seemed, had this unique and remarkable power to melt her insides.

“Will ye no ask me in, crabbit one?”

“You are the laird.” She stepped aside so that he could pass her. “Surely you can do anything you want within these walls. You need no invitation from me.” She wondered why he was here. With her. As chieftain of this vast castle, he must surely have so many women willing to do his bidding. Why would he choose the least prepossessing?

He closed the door behind him, a frown descending on his brow at her words. “I may be the laird, but I’ve never been one to take that which is not willingly offered to me, Martha. I thought you knew me better. Was I wrong then to come to ye? Have things changed so much between us?”

His words answered her unspoken question. He already knew she was willing. Wildly, wantonly so. There was no danger of scandal here. No raised expectations. No courting or promises necessary. And, as soon as she looked into those golden eyes, she was wet and throbbing with lust, wanting him as much as he wanted her.

She went to him and slid a hand behind his neck, drawing his head down so that she could trace his lips with her tongue. “No, you were not wrong to come to me.”

Fraser’s hand tangled in the soft curls of her hair. “Since I’m the laird, and you are mine to command, din’nae pin it up so prim and tight while you are under my roof. Wear it looser as a private sign to me that you want me…always.”

He pulled her closer with his hands on her hips, then moved one around to squeeze her backside, drawing her up against him. His tongue rolled over hers in a leisurely sweep, then dove deep, staking and claiming, branding her as his all over again. She could feel his erection already beginning to stir, hardening and lengthening as she pressed herself eagerly against him.

His long fingers slid between her slender ones, entwining with them. For Martha, the mere act of staying upright was becoming a physical pain. He raised her hand and pressed a light kiss into her palm, then slid it down between the swell of her breasts, over her flat stomach, bringing it to rest at the apex of her sex. He used her own hand beneath his to cup her possessively.

“This is where I need to be. Right now. I thought of little else on the long ride here except getting myself inside you. ’Tis a spell you’ve cast on me,” he said in a whisper that was close to a groan. “So get that nightgown off, English witch, and get that skinny, crabbit arse of yours into bed.”

Martha’s heart hammered as she obeyed. Heat pricked her nipples and pooled between her legs. From beneath her lashes, she watched Fraser as he undressed. He moved so swiftly that he was on the bed with her and between her legs before she had time to fully enjoy his masculine beauty. The press of his hips as his cock swelled pushed him right where she needed to feel him. The desperate heat and moisture of her need welcomed him. When he moved with just the slightest tilt of his hips, his cock slid hard against her and her eyes widened at the delicious friction. She drew in air between her clenched teeth and squirmed to deepen the feeling. He laughed and moved himself back and forth over her sex again.

His hand slid up over her belly and cupped her breast. Martha’s head fell back as his fingers played with her nipple. His touch varied between gentle strokes and squeezes to a continual roll of her nipple between his thumb and finger, sending sparks of pleasure shimmering through her nerve endings. At the same time, he continued to rub the head of his cock over the bud of her clitoris. Martha wanted to cry out. How did I live before this—without Fraser—in my life?

Thick and granite hard, the feel of him just entering her sent a ripple of pleasure, like warm honey, coursing through her bloodstream. He let her do the work this time. She moved her hips upward with aching slowness, drawing him fully into her, exulting in the sound of him whispering her name. His patience didn’t last long. Fraser’s movements soon grew urgent. Tame and tender were long forgotten now. Wildly, he drove himself in and out of her body, stretching her, using his muscular buttocks to power each frantic hip thrust. Pangs of raw, primal lust spurred Martha on as well. She jerked her hips up to him, meeting and matching his lunges over and over.

Fraser gave a low moan, a sound that began somewhere in the centre of his chest and blew soft breath over her heated face. “I love that you want me as much as I want you. I love watching your face when you finally succumb…like ye are about to do now.”

Martha cried out as her body bucked and ground uncontrollably beneath him. She could feel Fraser’s cock beginning to jerk with his own release. “Being inside you feels so good, Martha. Dear God, how can I want you all over again even while I’m still coming?”

Martha slowly lifted her head to look into his face. Rolling onto his side, Fraser pulled her close to him, throwing his leg over her thigh to pin her to the bed, keeping her where he wanted her. It felt right. Martha’s chest fluttered with something that was so much more than lust. He was in her heart now, her big, beautiful Scotsman. She couldn’t reason him away. Whatever happened in the coming days and weeks, she would be content with this. To be here when he needed her.

The hills on the south side of Loch Ness subsided at the lower end of the loch into a long, smooth swelling ridge, which gradually declined to the east near the town of Nairn. This ridge formed a gravel coastline, which extended through Inverness, Nairn and the Moray shires. The surface was very gently rolling and not quite level, with slight depressions where the water collected and rendered the ground wet and spongy. The view of the Moray and Beauly Firths and of the mountains along the Great Glen was truly magnificent. It was here that the Jacobite army was drawn up near Culloden House, where the prince had taken up residence.

Culloden House was the home of Duncan Forbes, the Lord Chief Justice of Scotland. Its proximity to Inverness, the main Jacobite base in the campaign, made it a natural choice of residence for Charles Edward Louis John Casimir Sylvester Severino Maria Stuart. This was the man whose birth in Rome in 1720 had been the cause of much Jacobite rejoicing. Here, it seemed, was the boy who would restore their fortunes and take his rightful place as a Stuart king on the united English and Scottish thrones. Throughout his life he would be known by many names. To the Hanoverians he was the Young Pretender, he was Tearlach—the Gaelic form of Charles—to the Scots, Carluso to his mother and Carluccio to his father. To his devoted followers, however—because of his handsome face, ease of manner and way of charming those around him into following his wishes—he was Bonnie Prince Charlie.