“It is much as expected. The Jacobite army is on the march back toward the border, pursued, so it is said, by Cumberland’s troops.”
“Will there be more battles?” Rosie’s eyes were troubled.
“Undoubtedly. If Cumberland can catch up with the rebels, that is. The prince is equally determined to stay one step ahead. If Cumberland cannot meet the prince and face him in England, he will cross the border and follow the Jacobites deep into Scotland with the goal of re-establishing the king’s supremacy over that land. It is a battle of wills now between the two men.”
“And yet they are kinsmen, these two who would meet on the battlefield and do each other to death,” Martha said.
“Yes, indeed. Cumberland is the prince’s distant cousin and the two are of a similar age. In other circumstances they might even have been friends. But their loyalties lie in very different directions. The prince, of course, is sworn to fight for the true bloodline of the Stuarts through the Scottish crown. Cumberland is the youngest son of the current king and must defend the Hanoverian cause.”
“I confess I am at a loss to comprehend why the highlanders are on the side of the prince,” Rosie said.
“It has become as much a Scottish civil war as a fight between England and Scotland. It’s no wonder you cannot keep up with it all. I doubt the prince himself would be able to unravel the intricacies of his own support.” Tom shook his head over the vagaries of the warring sides.
“The man upstairs does not look like a highlander.” A soft blush touched Rosie’s cheeks. Martha and Tom exchanged a look laden with foreboding.
“He may be an English or Irish nobleman loyal to the Stuart cause, even possibly one of the French nobility who form part of the prince’s retinue. The Jacobites are a diverse group, as are the king’s supporters. Whatever he may turn out to be, perhaps I had best go and check on him?”
He rose from the table and Rosie went with him. She turned back at the door. “Will you be joining us, Martha?”
“No, I have something I need to attend to in the cellar.” Was it guilt that drew her eyes constantly back to the closed door? The persistent memory of the brief touch of the Scotsman’s lips against her own had left her emotions in turmoil. Restlessness and confusion were new emotions for Martha, and she wasn’t sure she liked them.
“Again?” Rosie bit her lip as though catching the next words before they could escape her mouth. “You will be careful, won’t you?”
“Certainly I will,” Martha said, her unruffled manner disguising the heavy thud of her heart. “It may be very cluttered down there, Rosie, but I wouldn’t describe it as hazardous.”
“I am being foolish, of course…” Rosie cast a glance up at Tom’s increasingly bewildered countenance. With a little laugh and a shrug, she made her way out of the room and up the stairs.
“Proof indeed, if such a thing were needed, that a handsome invalid can do much to disorder a maiden’s mind,” Tom said to Martha, before he followed her.
Martha began to clear the table as she pondered the matter of how to get the highlander in the cellar out of the house—alive or dead—without alerting Tom, or anyone else, to his presence. She was still considering the matter when a sound like a hunting horn startled her so much that she almost dropped the jug she was holding. Master Harry Delacourt burst into the kitchen with his devoted retriever, Beau, close on his heels. Harry had recently attained his twelfth summer and was a sturdy, athletic young gentleman who had something of his sister’s countenance, but none of her grace. The recent incursion by Jacobite troops into the county had fired his imagination, and he wore a wooden sword and an expression of importance.
“What’s going on, Cousin Martha?” he asked, while stuffing apples into his pockets.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Why is Rosie staying here with you, instead of at home?”
“I asked her to keep me company following the invasion,” Martha improvised rapidly.
Harry’s eyes lit up. “I will take Rosie’s place. I can protect you,” he exclaimed, brandishing his sword with enthusiasm. “You will need a guard to keep you safe from these desperate brigands.”
“I do not need protection, thank you, only a companion,” Martha told him firmly and he shrugged. He had clearly decided that, on balance, spending time with his prim cousin would be less interesting than hiding out in the woods to watch for marauding rebels. She might even expect him to work on his handwriting, always a contentious issue between them.
“Why on earth do you need all those apples?” Martha eyed him in some astonishment.
“Sustenance.” He went out, his swagger only slightly impaired by his bulging pockets. His faithful hound threw a longing look in the direction of the breakfast table before reluctantly trailing behind him.
Chapter Four
There was no point in putting it off any longer. She really must go into the cellar and see if the highlander had regained consciousness. Martha found herself in the grip of conflicting emotions, something that she had never experienced before. How could she long to see the highlander again and yet dread it at the same time? This foolishness must end. The sooner he was gone, the sooner she could rest easy. Easier, she corrected herself. There was the handsome hero in the back bedchamber and the matter of young Rosie’s tender heart to be dealt with.
Reaching for the tinderbox, Martha lit a candle and drew the key from her pocket. The cellar door swung inward. How was it possible for the darkness to suddenly appear darker? Menace seemed to hang in the very dust motes of the air. Somehow the enormity of the situation appeared greater now, and she almost stepped back and called for Tom. Giving herself a mental scold, she trod carefully down the steep stairs, raising her candle high so that she could view the figure on the floor. He had not moved, and that troubled Martha more than any threats or recriminations might have done. He should have come round by now. Hated Scotsman or not, the idea that it was her hand that had struck the blow that left him incapacitated—or worse, had killed him—set her nerves jangling.
As Martha knelt beside him, placing her candle on the floor, the highlander’s eyes opened. Too late, she realised her mistake. He had tricked her. Thrusting the blanket aside, he sprang to his feet before she could even move. For such a giant of a man, his movements were surprisingly lithe. With a hand that easily encircled her upper arm, he hauled her upright and jerked her hard against his body.
“Well now—” his breath was warm on her cheek as he held her close in the half-light, “—it seems ’tis my turn to be the captor. My chance to pay you back for your treatment of me. What shall it be first? Will I take up the scissors as you did and rid you of these fine locks?”
He caught his other hand in her hair, loosening its pins and jerking her head back at a painful angle. His eyes were scornful as they scanned her face. Martha bit her lip. Not for all the world would she attempt to explain herself or beg for mercy. Not from a Scotsman.
“Or will I just clout you over the back of the head with that candleholder and leave you to lie in your own blood? Maybe I’ll tie you all around with rope so that you can’t move, so that your arms and legs go numb and the cold from the cellar floor seeps into your very bones. And once I’ve got you tied just as I want you, will I then kiss your vile English lips and whisper how much I hate you in return?”
Martha felt the blood flame into her cheeks. He had been conscious when she kissed him! She squirmed in his grip in an effort to get loose, but it was like trying to break free from manacles of iron. Inexorably, he drew her closer, bending his head so that their mouths were a mere inch apart.