She had told herself that she would not talk about that part of her life here. That, when she came here, she would concentrate only on the good memories. So those words, when they burst from her, startled Martha as much as they did Fraser. Without warning, she hurled herself into his arms. He caught her and held her close while raw, rasping sobs shook her frame as though trying to break her in two. Fraser lifted her and carried her to a fallen tree stump, where he sat with her, rocking her in his lap and holding her head against his shoulder as if she were an injured child, until at last her grief subsided.
“Are you sorry you came back here today?” he asked her much later, when she had dried her eyes.
“No, I’m glad. I feel—” she paused, searching for the right words, “—since that day I’ve felt as though my heart was enclosed behind prison walls. I’m not sure if it’s broken free yet, but I think it may finally be planning how to make its escape.” That was the best she could do to explain how releasing the storm of emotions had left her feeling. Fraser seemed to understand what she was trying to say. She didn’t add that perhaps the process had begun some time ago. Even as long ago as that day when she had touched her lips to his in the dusty darkness of the cellar.
Martha’s step was lighter as she led Fraser back along a different route, past the clifftop convent of St. Justine where she had been taken to recover from her injuries. “When the people from the town arrived and put out the fire, they thought at first that I was dead. Then, when it was found that I was still breathing, they brought me here. The nuns nursed me back to health. I used to wish they had left me to die.”
“Used to?” Fraser asked, studying her face as she looked up at the uninviting convent walls.
The wind tugged a strand of hair loose from its pins and whipped it across her face. Martha brushed it aside. “I haven’t wished that recently,” she said. “Not since the day of the battle at Swarkestone Bridge.” It was the only way she could think of to thank him. Without looking at him, she turned away and continued along the narrow path.
Chapter Twelve
Scotland did not do things by halves. Her scenery was wild, restless and angry with high, towering hills, slashed through with steep valleys and dark, eerie lochs. Her weather ranged in untamed moods from soaring discontent to blazing sunshine with no thought of moderation between. Every blink of the eye, every turn of the head, brought in its wake more drama than anything the English sister this ancient Caledonian land so loved to hate had to offer.
Fraser led the way now, directing them unerringly in a diagonal path across the country from southeast to northwest. They had spent six long, harsh days riding through glens blanketed in white, dotted here and there with stony grey cottages clinging high on bleak hillsides. The crisp scents of pine, heather and frost perfumed the wind. Stormy clouds choked the blue from the sky, and ice lay patchy and hard on the ground. At night they rested in the homes of clansmen sympathetic to the Jacobite cause. These stony-faced people welcomed Fraser and Jack with pleasure and regarded Martha and Rosie with a tight-lipped suspicion that deepened to hostility when they heard their English accents.
Finally, they arrived at a large, bleak, grey-stone manor house, set on a rocky ledge high above a small settlement just north of Fort William. It was a property that made a stark statement. To the Scots, function mattered more than beauty. Its architect had been concerned with ruthless practicality rather than aesthetics.
“Another two days of riding should find us at Inverness,” Fraser said as he guided Martha into the great hall of the house.
She nodded, too tired to speak. Gratefully, she held her ice-cold hands out to the blazing fire. A commotion in the doorway made her look up in time to see a tall young woman with hair brighter than the flames themselves erupt into the room. With a shriek of joy, she hurled herself into Fraser’s arms. He caught her up in a tight embrace and, laughing, swung her round in a circle.
“Gi’ over, ye great gallus besom!” He planted a smacking kiss on her cheek. “I recommend you try these hoyden’s tricks on Jack. He was always more inclined to fall for them than I.”
“Och.” She pulled a mock-disappointed face at him. “From your blethering and bleating, Fraser Lachlan, anyone would think ye were not right pleased to see your little sister.” She cast a measuring glance over at Martha. Her eyes, when they turned to take in Rosie, brightened with interest. Fraser, recollecting his manners, brought her forward to meet them.
“This is my sister, Lady Iona Cameron.”
“’Tis right welcome ye are in my home, ladies, although I could wish the circumstances different. My husband, Sir Donald, will be sorry to have missed you. He left this very day to join the prince at Culloden House.” Iona turned to one of the maidservants and issued a few orders. “Let me get you away to your rooms and we can talk more over dinner.”
The maid led them to their rooms. Martha’s bedchamber was warm and cosy, and she was sorely tempted to fall straight into the bed. Fearful of sleeping through and offending her hostess as well as missing the dinner she so desperately needed, she resisted the temptation. Instead, she washed her face and hands in lavender-scented water, briskly drying them on the soft towel that had been laid out for her. Brushing out her hair, she repinned it and shook out her gown. Feeling restored to something approaching equanimity, she knocked on the door of Rosie’s room. There was no answer, so she continued along the gallery toward the wide sweep of the staircase. Voices coming toward her made her shrink back against the hangings, and she gave a sigh of relief when Fraser and Iona paused around a turn in the corridor. She was still just out of their sight.
“When I saw ye’d two lasses wi ye, I thought perhaps ye’d chosen a new bride at last. Because ye mun, ye do know that?” Iona’s voice reached Martha’s hiding place.
“I do, but I’ll thank ye to leave me be on that score.” Fraser’s voice was level.
“Aye, ’tis all very well for you to look down your nose in that fine, proud way, but ye can’nae take too much time if ye are to have a son to carry the name. Och, I’ll hush then.” Her tone changed. “When I spied the wee, pretty one, I was in a right joyful stushie for ye. But she’s to be Jack’s bride, I hear. ’Tis well matched they are from what I’ve seen.”
“They are that.” Fraser’s deep tones answered her.
“So the other—the wee, dreich plain lass—she is the other’s maid?”
“Not at all. Martha is Rosie’s cousin. She is here for the proprieties.”
“Och, aye. She looks fain for that. Jack’ll no get as much as a foot near his maiden’s door wi’ that one on guard. The milk’d sour wi’ that face, and no mistake.” There was a pause. “Why the scowl, brother mine? She’s nought to you, is she?”
“’Tis not like you to be so unkind about another, Iona.”
“Och, ’tis you and I alone. Since when have I had to mind my tongue with you?” There was another pause. “That’s all she’s here for, then? The proprieties?”
“That is all, Iona. Allow me to be the master of my own business, if you please.”
Their footsteps moved away, and Martha hung back until she was sure they had really gone. That is all. Well, he was hardly going to tell his sister about the passionate lovemaking with which he seared the “wee dreich plain lass” both inside and out, was he?
Nevertheless, there was something cold and dismissive about the way he had said those words that made her shiver. You are being fanciful, she told herself. Did you expect a declaration of undying devotion? Just because you admit him to your bed and allow him to take you any time he feels lonely and in need of release? You have no reason to think he lied when he told you you were the only woman he has bedded since his wife. He probably could have a girl in every highland glen and village if he chose, each of them more comely, more buxom and more experienced than you. You are available and need no wooing, Martha Wantage, that is the only thing you have in your favour.