“He was in a ditch, to one side of where the front rank of the king’s men had lined up,” Rab said, as Martha knelt beside the stretcher. “As if he was going after Cumberland himself.”
“Knowing you, my Scotsman, that is exactly what your plan was,” she murmured, low enough that no-one else could hear words. Beneath its mask of mud and gore, Fraser’s face was marble-still. Like the effigies in the church at Bamburgh where her family had worshipped when she was a child. At the sound of her voice, however, his eyelids twitched, and for the briefest of moments, she glimpsed the hazel gleam of his eyes.
“Don’t leave me, my love.” At her whispered plea, his hand lifted very slightly toward her and then dropped back to his side. It was signal enough. He had heard. He had come back to her.
“He is alive.” She took a moment to blink back the tears that stung her eyelids. “Take him up to his room. I will tend his wounds there.”
“Was the laird the only one you found?” Rosie’s voice held a pathetic little note of hope.
“The only one alive, my lady,” Rab said and his rough voice was oddly gentle.
“And Lord Jack?”
“We could’nae even find his body to bring back to you for burial, my lady.” He shook his head regretfully. “I scoured every inch of the battlefield myself in search of him. But some of the clansmen had already set fires on the battlefield, and many of the bodies were burned to save them from looters or Cumberland’s atrocities.”
With a sob, Rosie clasped her hands over her mouth and whirled away. Martha watched her for a moment, torn briefly between her needs and Fraser’s.
“I have a recipe for a potion that will heal his wounds, my lady,” Cora said, becoming alarmingly brisk now that her initial tears were dried. “Firstly, we must crush together juniper berries with the wild heather that grows on the high moors. These must be mixed with extract of wormwood and heated together in a cup of whisky, to be taken twice daily.”
Martha pursed her lips. She couldn’t see anything in Cora’s suggestion to cause Fraser any harm, nor could she perceive anything in the proposed potion that might conceivably help to cure him. “While you gather and prepare those items, send Rab to me so that we can remove his clothing and bathe him. And, Cora—” the little woman paused in the doorway, “—while you are about it, take a dram to Miss Rosie and tell her I will wait on her shortly.” It was going to be a long night.
“There is an Englishman at the castle entrance.” Rab seemed to have conferred upon Martha the status of honorary Scot, but his expression betrayed, in no uncertain terms, his feelings toward unannounced Englishmen.
Martha was only mildly distracted by this information. It had been three days since the battle of Drumossie Muir. Three long days and nights during which she and death had fought tirelessly for possession of Fraser. She was winning at last…but only just. When they had finally finished cleaning Fraser and Martha had been able to examine his injuries, she had felt sick with shock and fear. In addition to the fact that every inch of his flesh appeared to have been beaten, he had a deep gash across his forehead, and his left wrist was broken. It was the wound in his left side, however, that caused the world to swim out of focus when Martha first saw it. It was a ragged gash that ran in a line from beneath Fraser’s arm to just above his hipbone. It looked deep enough for Martha to have slid her hand inside. She could tell, from the shocked expressions on their faces, that Cora and Rab shared her fears. How could he survive this?
“You must,” she had told his unconscious form firmly. “You have to.” She then set about giving instructions for the gathering of the herbs she would need.
There had followed a treadmill of nursing so intensive that each hour blended seamlessly into the next. Cora and Rab had done what they could to help—even Rosie, in spite of her grief, had offered her help—but Martha would not leave Fraser’s side. It was as if her presence was a talisman, that she could somehow will him, through her very determination, to live. She had snatched a few short hours’ sleep in the chair next to his bed, dashing away to bathe and change her clothes and dash back again within minutes. She must have eaten but could not remember what or when.
Her constant vigilance and attention were paying off. He was improving. It wasn’t just her imagination. Fraser’s wounds were beginning to look better. Once or twice he had opened his eyes and looked directly at her. This morning, she had been sure she had even seen a hint of a smile in his eyes.
“Who is this Englishman?” she asked now, raising her eyes from Fraser’s face with an effort.
“Name of Tom Drury, or so he says. He asked for Mistress Rosie—” Rab broke off in surprise as Martha jumped up.
“Stay here. See if you can get him to take some water. I will be no more than ten minutes.”
Martha lightly descended the staircase, pausing halfway down the last flight to study the familiar figure in the great hall below her. It was indeed Tom Drury. He was standing with his back to her, prodding the logs in the fireplace with one booted foot.
“Good day, Tom,” Martha said, coming forward into the room.
Tom swung around at the sound of her voice, surprise settling over his features as he studied her face. “Martha, I barely recognised you. Scotland has been kind to you, I think. Although the tales I have heard of events over the past few days would suggest otherwise.”
“I have bad news on that score.” She gestured for him to be seated. “Jack was killed in the battle at Drumossie Muir.”
“Ah, no!” Tom shook his head. “He was a fine man. And Fraser?”
“So badly injured he may as well have been dead. But there is hope for him yet.”
“With you nursing him, Martha, he stands a better chance than most. Miss Rosie will have taken Jack’s death hard.”
“Very hard,” Martha agreed. “They were very much in love. It is good to see you again, Tom. Your arrival will cheer her.”
“I doubt you will say so when you know the reason for my coming,” he said, his expression serious once more. “I bring bad tidings. Mr. Delacourt is unwell. It is his heart, I am afraid. It appears he sustained a severe shock, but he has not been able to relay the nature of what happened to anyone, so sickly has he been.”
“Was it to do with the battle here? It must have been a shock to have learned of it.”
“We had not learned of the battle when he was taken ill. I only heard the news myself when I arrived at Inverness. No, he was taken ill immediately after a visit from Sir Clive Sheridan. After Sir Clive departed, I found Mr. Delacourt in a state of collapse in his study. I have a suspicion that Harry may know more about what has happened than he is letting on. The lad has been uncharacteristically quiet and looks like a rabbit caught in the light of a hunter’s torch of late. I have left Mr. Delacourt in his and Mrs. Glover’s care, but I confess I made this journey in the hope that I might find Miss Rosie already wed and you able to return to Delacourt Grange to be able to nurse him. ’Tis long-term care he needs, I fear.” Tom sighed. “But I see that events here have overtaken me.”
“Yes, indeed.” Martha filled him in on some of the detail of the battle and its aftermath, including just how serious Fraser’s injuries were. He listened in silence. In turn, he told her that upon their departure from Derbyshire, Fraser’s plan had worked. Although the young sergeant had continued to insist that Captain Overton had been shot by a woman, the family’s story that neither Rosie nor Martha had been at home at the time and that a fierce highlander had been holding them hostage had won the day. The local magistrate had pronounced that the captain had been murdered by this desperate rogue who had then fled back across the border. Both women would be safe to return home to Delacourt Grange with no fear of reprisals for the events of that night.