Martha lifted her chin defiantly. Life had taught her the hard way how to hide her fear. She wasn’t about to start displaying it now. “Is that what you will do to me, Scotsman? Then what? Will you rape me? Isn’t that what your kind do to the women of the enemy?”

She felt his whole body stiffen with anger. His mouth—the beautiful mouth that had prompted her touch—thinned into a hard line. When he spoke, his voice was as cold and remote as the mountains of his homeland. “I’d not take you, Englishwoman, neither in rage nor in wanting. Not if my life depended on it.”

His words should have reassured her, but to her chagrin, Martha felt the blush deepen. What did you expect, Martha Wantage? The insidious whisper sneered inside her head. You are so plain that you can repulse even a depraved, undiscerning Scot. Although “plain” was too generous, the demon of self-hatred in her mind decided. “Ugly” perhaps, or “hideous” suited her better.

The highlander was speaking again, drawing her attention back to him. “Lucky for you, I’ve no time to waste on banter. I’ve no wish to spend a minute longer than I need on this hated soil. And being a more considerate jailer than you, I’m going to bind you to that chair over there, rather than leave you to take your chances on the floor with the cold and the rats.”

“Rats?” The word came out on a squeak, and she cast a quick glance around into the darker reaches of the cellar.

He laughed. “Aye, rats. You are English so you should feel at home among them.”

He carried her over to the chair as easily as if she had been a child and thrust her down onto it, holding her in place with one huge palm flat against her shoulder. Swiftly and adeptly, he looped the rope around her waist, securing her firmly to the chair, with her arms at her sides. Unlike her own clumsy attempts of the previous night, Martha decided it was obvious that he had done this before.

“Hold still, wench,” he said, as she started to struggle. The hand at her shoulder clamped down harder just as she jerked back. Martha flinched at the sound of her gown tearing under the grip of his strong fingers. She was looking up into at his face so that, even in the dim light, she saw the shock register on his features as he stared at her damaged flesh.

“A souvenir from your countrymen,” she said, surprised at the calm tone of her own voice. His expression was inscrutable. Something that could have been disgust, but might have been pity, flickered in the hazel depths of his eyes. Given a choice, she’d have preferred disgust. “I was fifteen years old when a party of reivers pinned me down and set fire to me.”

“I am no reiver.”

“You are a Scotsman. It is the same thing.” She kept her gaze steady on his.

For a moment she thought he wanted to say more. With a muttered curse, he turned back to the task of securing the restraints. “With any luck your friends will find you before you starve to death.” He turned back at the top of the cellar stairs. “Although ’tis hard to tell with one as skinny and pale as you are, Englishwoman. You would appear to be halfway there already.”

White teeth flashed in a grin that held no humour. Then he was gone and she was plunged into darkness.

“The wound appears free from any infection.” Fraser heard Tom’s voice as he paused outside the bedchamber with his ear to the door. Deciding that now was as good a time as any to make his presence known, he pushed the door wide and strode into the room.

“What the devil…?” Tom spun round from his position beside the bed, where he was examining Lord Jack’s injury and changing his bandages. Strolling forward in an unhurried manner, Fraser placed a forearm like the trunk of a young tree around Tom’s throat and jerked it tight. At the same time, he pressed the tip of his dirk under the other man’s chin. Tom’s face instantly went a deep shade of beetroot. Rosie gave a little shriek and started forward, but Tom held up a warning hand and she stepped back. Glancing over her shoulder, she looked to Fraser as if she was weighing up the option of escaping to get help.

“Stay where you are, lassie. You’ll not get another chance to find a sleekit wee witch to bash me on the head and lock me away.” Fraser pushed the blade deeper and a thin trickle of blood tracked down Tom’s neck and onto his shirt.

“Fraser.” The voice from the bed was quiet, cultured and very English. Fraser turned to stare at Lord Jack, a combination of surprise and joy flooding through his veins. He loosened his stranglehold slightly and felt Tom draw a shuddering breath. “Do let my rescuer go, there’s a good fellow. You’ll have these fine people thinking we are desperate ruffians who have forgotten our manners.”

“Lord Jack, my God! I thought ye were close to death.” Almost absent-mindedly, Fraser released Tom.

Although Lord Jack was alert and lucid, his fine features were deathly pale and etched with pain. He held out a hand toward Rosie, saying in formal tones, “I should kiss your hands and feet in thanks for rescuing me, sweetheart. Unfortunately, my current incapacity prevents me from doing so. I am Jack Lindsey and I will forever be your most humble servant. I must also apologise for the conduct of my friend here. He can be somewhat overexuberant at times.”

Echoing his formality, Rosie placed her hand in his. “I am enchanted to meet you too, sir. My name is Rosie Delacourt.”

A twinkle lit the blue depths of his eyes. “You are so beautiful that I thought you must be a dream, Miss Delacourt.”

“Aye, it’s all very well starting one of your flirtations, my lord,” Fraser said, unimpressed with these formalities. He cast a frowning look at Tom and then allowed his gaze to travel over Rosie’s blushing features. “But who’s to say they’re not on the side of the German Elector? Or looking to get a reward for placing our heads in a noose?”

“If they were after the reward, they’d have handed me over to the redcoats as soon as they found me. If they were for the king, they’d have done likewise or left me to die. They are on our side, man.”

Reluctantly, Fraser was forced to acknowledge the reason of this argument. He was tired of this place. Weariness and hunger assailed him. His head throbbed, and all he wanted now was to feel the soil of Scotland beneath his feet once more. “Well in that case, we can go. The prince is barely four days’ ride ahead of us.” He turned to Tom. “If Lord Jack is right and you follow the true cause, then ye’ll give us horses and food for the journey?”

“I daresay my master might give you any assistance he can render,” Tom agreed. “But Jack here cannot ride. Even if he could use his arm, he has lost so much blood that his recovery will take some time.”

“Is it the truth he speaks, my lord?” Fraser felt the frown crease his brow. Surely fate could not be so unkind as to trap them here indefinitely?

“It is. I’m as weak as a kitten.” Jack’s eyes, when he lifted them to Fraser’s face, were full of regret.

“How long then? Days? A week? Speak out, man.” Fraser turned his frustration on Tom, grinding the words out impatiently.

“Weeks, at least. I can’t say for sure, but you’ll see the new year arrive here in Derbyshire, my lord. February may well have made its appearance before you have enough strength to ride any distance.”

Fraser swore long and low under his breath.

“There is a lady present,” Jack reminded him.

“Oh, aye. Your pardon, miss.” He nodded at Rosie. “But we can’nae wait that long. No, we must be away tonight. The morrow at the latest. I’ll care for you on the road. They’ll be looking for you, my lord. I told you ’twas folly for you to show your face at Swarkestone.”

“So you did. How nice for you to be proved right.” Jack bit his lip. “You must go, Fraser, but I’ll not endanger you by coming with you and slowing you down.”