“Oh, I do like your hair so much better that way!” Rosie had exclaimed, on seeing her cousin first thing that morning. “Those looser curls are so much more becoming than that tight, scraped-back style you usually wear.”
Martha had blushed and murmured something about not having time to pin it up properly. Later that day, in a brief exchange of glances, Fraser nodded at her hair and smiled slightly. Martha had seen the way Rosie’s sharp eyes widened as she took in the exchange.
“I see you have kept your hair in that new fashion instead of reverting back the tightly pinned style you used to favour. Mayhap I am not the only one to think it suits you better, Cousin Martha?” Rosie had commented some days later. The innocence of her tone had been belied by the mischief in her eyes, and Martha had silently cursed the blush that rose to her cheeks.
Now, the look of sympathy in Rosie’s eyes burned almost as much as the shock of Jack’s words. Martha knew exactly what she was thinking. There was nothing in plain, staid Martha Wantage to attract handsome, charismatic Fraser Lachlan. Particularly when Martha seemed to do all she could to repel every man she met. And Rosie was right, of course. Martha couldn’t compete in this assembled company of dazzlingly pretty young maidens. Above their heads, the stained-glass windows, designed to take advantage of the scarce Scottish sunlight, captured the beams streaming through the glass. The rays of light playing upon the hues of the various silks and velvets turned the hall into a whirling rainbow of red, gold, blue and green. The air was thick and cloying as a dozen or more different scents vied for supremacy. Girlish laughter rang out regularly, and there was much fluttering and coquetry, most of it directed at the laird himself.
Even if he were not the laird, Martha decided, they would hover round him like so many pretty butterflies drawn to the sweetest flower. If he were the humblest servant in the room, he would still be the centre of attention because of his virile beauty. But I am biased, she thought sadly, because I love him. And, loving him, she would not stay and watch this display or see him make his choice. Quietly, while no-one was watching, she slipped out of the room.
Chapter Fourteen
The turn the festivities had taken was making Fraser feel uncomfortable. The gathering of the clans was indeed an ancient tradition, but this squealing, giggling pack of maidens all intent on vying for his attention was something he had not bargained on. Word must have travelled through the glens. It had somehow been decided for him. Three years was long enough for mourning. Time for the Lachlan laird to marry again. Well, to hell with them all if they thought he was the man to dance to that tune.
The devil of it was that he had to keep his fellow chieftains sweet, so he had to make a pretence, at least, of interest in all the determined flirting. He cast his eyes around the room for some saner company. His eyes encountered Jack’s amused blue gaze before taking in Rosie’s slightly troubled expression. Moving on, he tried to find Martha’s face in the crowd. She, at least, could be relied upon not to simper and coo. They would laugh about this nonsense later, when he held her in his arms…
When he was absolutely sure that she was not in the great hall, Fraser strode over to Rosie. “Where is Martha?”
“She was here earlier, but then she left. I didn’t see her go—” Rosie started to say, but she was left floundering as he turned abruptly on his heel.
Fraser stifled a curse before stomping out of the hall, leaving one or two eager young ladies gazing after him in disappointment. He didn’t have far to look for Martha, but his presence caused almost as much of a stir among the kitchen maids as it did among the maidens in the great hall. The difference was he didn’t have to pretend to be in a pleasant mood here. One or two of the serving wenches took a quick look at his scowling face and scurried quickly out of his way.
For some reason that only served to infuriate Fraser further. Martha had taken over the task of turning the spit that spanned the vast, open fire. Consequently she had her back to the room and didn’t seem to notice that a hush had fallen over the kitchen. She was unaware that Fraser was standing only inches behind her until he spoke.
“What are you doing?” His voice was dangerously low.
She turned her head and smiled up at him over her shoulder. Her usually pale face was pink from her exertions. “Making sure these fowl don’t burn while Lorna and Florrie help Cora—oh!”
He caught hold of her wrist, wrenching her to her feet. “You are not a servant.”
“No, but I offered to help Cora.” Martha peeped around him, taking in the interested stares of the kitchen staff. Lowering her voice, she said, “You are drawing attention to us.”
“I din’nae care about that. I want you out there with me.”
She scanned his face. “There are dozens of pretty young maidens in the great hall, all of them wanting your attention, my laird,” she said, keeping her voice quiet. “Don’t keep them waiting on my account.”
“Is that what this is about? Are ye jealous, lass?” He stared down at her incredulously for a moment. Hope flared briefly, trying to drive away his rage. If she was jealous… He fought off a sudden urge to pull her into his arms.
Something blazed in her eyes then, and she blinked rapidly as though trying to hide her emotions from him. When she spoke again, it was with her usual unruffled dignity. “I know jealousy is not something I have a right to where you are concerned. We have no claim on each other. I simply meant that you have so many guests, I’m sure you won’t miss one.” She made as if to return to her task, but he jerked her back to face him. His anger, after fading briefly, had flared into life stronger and hotter than ever. We have no claim on each other? So that was what she thought, was it?
“Don’t push me, Martha.” He glared down at her, his eyes raking the plain gown she wore. “We’ll talk about this more later, when the time is more suited to the discussion. For now, get yourself upstairs and into something more suitable. Wear the blue dress you wore at Christmas—” his expression softened slightly at the memory, “—when we danced. And then join me and my guests for the meal.”
“And if I choose not to?”
“Then I will come back here and strip that gown from your back.” A gasp from Cora informed him that his words had carried further than just Martha’s ears. “After that I will throw you over my shoulder, hoist you up that staircase and dress you in it myself. Do you doubt I will carry out my threat?”
There was an infinitesimal pause, during which he could have sworn she was weighing up her options. “No.”
“Then I suggest you get moving. You have worn my patience thin enough this night, Englishwoman.” Without a backward glance, he made his way out of the kitchen and back into the great hall.
When Martha took her seat next to Rosie in the great hall some ten minutes later, she was conscious of several interested pairs of eyes upon her. How much of the encounter in the kitchen Cora had managed to relay in so short a time, she could not be sure, but there was no doubt about it. Some of the story had already trickled out, and she was being viewed differently now. The rumour was clearly spreading around the great hall. The Englishwoman was the laird’s mistress. Fraser could not have made it any plainer if he had gone to the highest point on the battlements and shouted it across the loch. Surely the speculation was all about why he had chosen her. But they couldn’t know—and how could anyone else even begin to imagine?—what heat they could generate between them.
From that tiny spark of hatred in the cellar of the old dower house had grown something so powerful and all-consuming that it would be impossible to explain it to another person. Only Fraser understood. Because he was scorched by it as well. He whispered to her, over and over, as she lay in his arms, how it felt for him. How rare it was to find someone who could get into your blood so that your wanting them was a physical ache every minute of the day.