“And how fares Miss Rosie in all of this?” Tom asked.
“Not good, as you would expect,” Martha said. “And I am caught up in caring for Fraser so that I feel I have not enough time to spare for her.”
“Perhaps it would be as well if I took her back to Derbyshire with me so that she can undertake the care of her father? ’Twould occupy her mind and get her away from this place which must hold only bad memories for her now.”
When this plan was put to Rosie later, she nodded her agreement, her eyes brightening with a rush of tears. “Yes, I would like to go home. To be with my father and Harry again and have my familiar things around me.” Martha thought sadly that she had grown up too suddenly. The carefree girl was gone—probably for good—and a solemn young woman had, overnight, taken her place. “But what of you, Martha? If we leave you here alone, how will you find your way back to us again once Fraser is fully recovered?”
“From what Tom has said, it seems that your father’s health must be our first priority. You must go to him without delay,” Martha said. “But there is no-one here who has any inkling about how to care for their injured laird. If I leave him to them, they will no doubt attempt to boil him in oil or apply bat droppings to his head by the light of a full moon. I will stay until he is out of danger and then I will make some plans.” She was deliberately vague, but she saw understanding in Rosie’s eyes. Drumossie had changed all their lives. Martha’s plans would be whatever Fraser wanted of her.
When she returned to the laird’s bedchamber, Rab hailed her with something that, in another man, might almost have been called pleasure. “Even though he did’nae open his eyes, he’s been muttering and moaning the whole time ye were away.”
“’Twas as if he sensed ye’d gone, my lady,” Cora added.
Martha sat on the bed next to Fraser, taking one of his hands in hers. With her other palm, she felt his brow. It was cool, and she allowed herself a sigh of relief. In his enfeebled state, a fever would be the worst thing. He immediately became calm under her touch.
“’Tis like a miracle,” Cora sighed.
“Whist now, woman. ’Tis nought of the kind,” Rab said. “The laird knows his lady.”
Martha refrained from sharing her opinion, which was that, even in his semiconscious state, Fraser probably recognised competence and was fearful when deprived of it. Instead, she set about explaining that Rosie would be leaving the next day and asked Cora to organise a room for Tom for the night. Rab went away at the same time as his wife, explaining that he wanted to make sure that their visitor’s horse was safely stabled.
Left alone with Fraser, Martha felt suddenly, achingly tired. The events of the last days and weeks crowded in on her in a rush, and tears of exhaustion stung her eyelids.
“Sleep,” she murmured. “That’s all I need. Just five minutes.”
Removing her shoes and taking care not to disturb him, she slipped under the coverlet next to Fraser. Within minutes, she felt the welcome embrace of sleep claim her.
Through the inky darkness of unconsciousness, Fraser opened his eyes. His whole body ached and his left side was on fire. He lay still, trying to make sense of his surroundings and to understand the debilitating feebleness of his limbs. The swirling fog gradually receded, and the events at Culloden came back to him clearly. Was he really here—in his own bed—or was this another cruel trick of his weakened mind?
Gradually, the realisation that not only was he in truth back at Castle Lachlan, but that he was not alone in his bed intruded on his thoughts. Turning his head, her scent informed him that either he was in the grip of slumber or Martha was lying next to him. Fraser could just make out her shape in the gloom of a dimly lit afternoon. She lay curled on her side, fully clothed, facing away from him. Although the movement caused exquisite agony to tear through him, he slowly edged toward her and closed the gap so that he could fit his body into the curve of hers. Pressing his face to the silken skin at the nape of her neck, he inhaled her familiar fragrance. She was as sweet and warm as honey. Comforted by her nearness, he sank at last into a sleep that included no nightmares. This time, he dreamed only of Martha.
The next morning, after a restless night, Fraser thrashed from side to side in the bed, his face red and his skin burning. He muttered incoherently and groaned every now and then as though consumed by pure agony.
“He has a fever.” Martha studied his face. This had been her worst fear. He was a strong man, but his injuries were devastating. He would need every ounce of his strength to fight this.
“He should be bled. We need the leeches, my lady.” Cora compressed her lips in a stubborn expression.
“Let us do it my way first,” Martha said firmly. Although bleeding was commonly used, her mother had not held with it as a means of reducing fever, and Martha did not agree with it either. “If he shows no signs of improvement by nightfall, you may use the leeches with my blessing.”
To Cora’s consternation, she pulled back the bedclothes and stripped Fraser of all his clothing except for a fine linen shirt. Throwing wide the casement windows, she extinguished the fire in the room. Finally, she set about bathing his long, sinewy limbs with cool water.
“What we need to do is induce him to start sweating. That will break the fever and release him from its grip,” she explained to Cora. “There are herbs that will bring on sweats. If you bring me angelica, elderberry and rosemary, I can make an infusion from them. The difficulty will be to get him to drink it while he is in this state.”
Martha spent the remainder of the day alternately sponging Fraser’s body or bathing his face with cool water or painstakingly feeding him small amounts of the herbal infusion from a spoon. As evening fell, she could see no discernible difference in his condition, and Cora was beginning to mutter more loudly about the leeches.
Fraser gripped her hand, and the heat from his fingers startled her. He muttered something incomprehensible, and Martha wanted only to soothe and reassure him that she was there. “Get well, my love.” She leaned over and pressed her mouth to his burning lips. “I love you, my Scotsman.”
His eyes fluttered open and he stared up at her. For a moment there was no recognition in his eyes, then comprehension dawned. “Oh ’tis you, Englishwoman.” The tender look she knew so well was gone. His lips—the lips she loved, the lips that had anointed every part of her body—twisted into a cruel sneer. “Another kiss of hate, is it? But it has been repaid in full, has it not? I’d heard it said that vengeance was worth the wait. Now I know ’tis true. To hear you say that you love me, that this Scotsman is your master, that was worth biding my time for.” His eyes rolled up, showing the whites, and he turned his head on the pillows.
Could that really be it? Had her worst fears just been realised? She had heard that venom in Fraser’s voice once before…when they first met. Shock numbed her emotions at hearing it again. Without warning, feeling came flooding back, tearing into her heart and causing her to gasp at the intensity of the pain she felt.
Fraser didn’t want her. Cruelly, he had been using her body for revenge. He had exploited her inexperience and her maidenly longing for him only as a means of repaying her for that kiss and for her words of hatred. He had made her love him only so that he could mock that love and throw it back at her as he had just done. In his fever he had spoken the truth at last.
Aware of Cora’s eyes on her face, curiosity burning through the little woman’s every pore, Martha straightened her spine. Pride forced her to hide her hurt. Mechanically, she smoothed the sheet to cover Fraser. Her hands busied themselves as she mopped his heated brow once more and redressed his wounds.