“Well, who are you?” The boy had unruly dark hair and an earnest expression that was marred by a frown. He had a look of the pretty little lass, the one who was a daughter of the house. The lad appeared nervous and was clearly trying to hide it behind a front of arrogance. Fraser judged him to be about twelve years of age. A large golden dog followed him out of the undergrowth and clung close to his heels. This animal rolled its eyes at Fraser in an almost apologetic manner.

Remembering his English accent was the easy part. “Fraser—” he broke off. The flaw in their carefully laid plans dawned on him. He was meant to be her brother, but he hadn’t paid attention to the most important detail of all. What the devil was the wretched woman’s name? She looked like a Mary or a Jane. Plain, dull and infinitely forgettable.

“Harry, what on earth are you doing?” As if on cue, the Englishwoman appeared on the doorstep, and the boy glanced around at her with a combination of guilt and relief.

“Well, I don’t know who he is. He could be a rebel or a looter. Or both. What do they call them up on the border? Reivers?”

Briefly, Fraser’s eyes met the woman’s over the lad’s head. He remembered her words. You are a Scotsman. It is the same thing. He wished he could summon up her name as easily. “Harry, this is my brother Fraser. He has come to stay with me.”

Harry looked from one to the other. His thoughts were written all over his face as his gaze took in her delicate frame compared to Fraser’s muscles and the contrast between her mousy pallor and his bold, tawny colouring. “I didn’t know you had a brother, Cousin Martha,” he said eventually.

That was it. Martha. Dull and uninspiring, just like her. “We have been estranged for many years.” Fraser decided it was time to try out the accent. It sounded reasonable.

“We are half brother and sister,” Martha added. “We were not brought up together—” She broke off and Fraser knew what she was thinking. There was a danger of saying too much if she continued.

“Why are you here now?” Harry, regarding Fraser with continuing suspicion, was clearly not convinced.

“Because I heard that the Jacobites had invaded Derbyshire and I wanted to make sure my sister was safe. Is that acceptable to you, young ’un?”

“Oh.” Harry looked rather crestfallen, and in other circumstances, Fraser might almost have felt sorry for the lad. He threw Martha a look as though gauging her reaction. “How long will you stay?”

Fraser laughed. “As long as my sweet sister will have me,” he said, enjoying the way Martha’s eyes flashed at the words. She was forced to hold her tongue because of the boy’s presence, of course, but he suspected he would be upbraided for his impudence later.

“It is an odd coincidence, but a distant cousin of my father’s has also just arrived for a visit.” The boy was no fool.

“I take it his arrival was not expected?” Martha said.

“No. His name is Jack Brown and he was taken ill while travelling. Fortunately, he was quite close by, and he made his way here so that he could recover under my father’s roof.”

“Fortunate indeed,” Fraser said.

“I expect you will meet him soon, if you are to spend any time here.” Harry clicked his fingers, and the dog, who had been sniffing at the trunk of a tree with great interest, came back to his side. “Oh, and Mr. Wantage—” He paused.

Fraser, who had not responded to Harry’s words, gradually realised that Martha was staring frantically at him, her big eyes trying to convey a message. Too late he understood what it was. Hell and damnation! The lad was talking to him—addressing him by what he thought was his name—and he was still waiting for him to respond.

“My name isn’t Wantage, laddie. It’s Lachlan. As…my sister here has said, we are but half siblings. We had different fathers.”

“I’m sure you did. There is certainly no physical resemblance between you.” Harry turned to go. “And next time I see you, I expect you will have contrived to remember without any prompting that your sister’s first name is Martha.”

“That went well,” Fraser remarked as he stepped into the house. “I think we fooled him.” Martha smiled slightly at the sarcasm in his tone.

The scolding he had anticipated for not remembering her name did not materialise. On the contrary, her manner was indicative of her resignation at his memory lapse. It was as if she did not expect or deserve any acknowledgment from him or anyone. The thought disturbed him. He might not have any time for her—might even actively dislike her—but no human being should be made to feel that worthless.

Suddenly he felt tired to his very bones. Nothing else mattered. He tried again to remember the last time he’d slept in a bed. It felt like he had been marching forever. That made him think longingly of his highland home. Resolutely, he turned his thoughts away. Home was not the same place any more. Not since—well, not for a very long time.

“You look exhausted.” Martha’s voice was brisk, almost accusatory.

“Aye. I don’t know how it is, but I find having my head bashed in always makes me woeful sleepy.”

He watched in fascination as a blush tinged her pale cheeks with soft colour. “Dinner will be a few hours yet. You should go and get some sleep.”

“Am I hearing you right, crabbit one? Ye’ll not only feed me, you are also proposing to let me sleep somewhere other than your cellar floor? Such hospitality, and all for a beastly Scotsman, leaves me moved almost beyond words.”

The sourpuss expression returned and her lips thinned. “And yet the words keep coming, each of them more worthless than the last. I am doing this for Lord St. Anton, whose family were good to mine,” she said coldly. “If I had my way, you would be taking your chances with the king’s steel by now.”

She moved to let him pass her in the narrow hall, but he paused, looming over her briefly. Martha pushed her spectacles up her button nose in a nervous gesture, and he heard the click of her throat as she swallowed hard. She cast a scared, fleeting glance up at him, and he noticed again how hard she found it to look him in the eye. In spite of himself, Fraser was increasingly intrigued by this odd, damaged soul who, it seemed to him, was trying just a little too hard to convince the world that she had a lump of stone in place of a heart.

“Aye,” he said, stepping aside to allow her more space. He placed a foot on the first stair. “Sleep sounds like a very good plan just now.”

Hours later, Fraser’s eyes opened. It took him a long time to shake off the mists of a deep sleep and accustom himself to his surroundings. When memories of the last few days did return, he was conscious of a feeling of well-being that was disproportionate to his situation. He sat up, clearing the remnants of fog from his mind. The curtains of the bed were back and a fire raged in the grate. The room was warm and comfortable. Darkness had fallen, but someone had left a candle and tinderbox close at hand. By the fire’s golden glow, he saw that his kilt and shawl lay neatly folded on top of a wooden chest. His dirk had been placed on top of them. The realisation that he had slept so deeply that an Englishwoman who hated him with every fibre of her being had been able to enter the room with a knife in her hand struck him as worrying. At the same time, he found the fact that all she had actually done was lay out his clothes and light a fire to warm his rest oddly touching.

The smell of cooking filled his nostrils. His stomach gave an appreciative rumble, and he rose to investigate. Downstairs, he found the kitchen empty, but a large pot on the fire seemed to be the source of the delicious aroma. His linen shirt, the blood and mud washed away, was drying on a wooden pulley suspended above the flames. As he looked around him, drinking in the homely atmosphere, the door flew open and Martha struggled in. Her arms were full of logs, and the hood of her woollen cloak had fallen back. Huge snowflakes coated her hair and melted into moisture on her face.