“I’ve no experience of my own to draw upon, but I’m told that all the best ones are.” Martha patted her shoulder sympathetically.

No matter how hard Martha tried—and she told herself that she did try very hard indeed—it was difficult to avoid a man as large as Fraser Lachlan in a house as small as the old dower house. She was not assisted in her attempts to do so by the fact that he did not seem to notice that she didn’t want his company. He continued to join her for meals and to sit with her beside the fire each evening. Well, just because he had no perception about social nuances didn’t mean that she was going to descend into rudeness. She remained tight-lipped about the fact that she found him a nuisance and instead made him enormous portions of porridge for breakfast. She learned how to make a traditional Scots meat-and-potato stew he called stovies. He seemed particularly fond of this dish and consumed huge quantities of it for his dinner. While at Delacourt Grange one morning, Martha found an excuse to go into Mr. Delacourt’s cellar and surreptitiously removed several bottles of Scotch whisky. She reasoned that Cousin Henry hardly ever touched strong spirits.

She found Fraser jobs to do around the house, and she didn’t ever—really never at all—dwell on what it would be like when he left and the chair on the opposite side of the fire was empty once again. It didn’t cross her mind to wonder if, once the decisive battles were over, he would be going back to a woman somewhere. Or if he would ever taste a meal in the future and find it wanting because it had not been cooked by Miss Martha Wantage. Not once did she cast a sidelong glance in his direction as he sipped Cousin Henry’s whisky and stared into the fire. She didn’t speculate about whether his thoughts included her. No, none of these things crossed her mind because she would, of course, be heartily glad to be rid of him. It didn’t matter anyway, because the snow lay thick as ever on the ground and he wasn’t able to go anywhere.

“Must you go out?” Fraser asked, watching her over his porridge bowl one morning as Martha fastened her cloak around her shoulders. “I went for firewood earlier and the ice is treacherous underfoot. It’ll take your legs from beneath you. Let me do your chores for you today.”

Martha blinked slowly. She wondered if her face revealed any inkling of the effect his words had on her. But how could it? How could he know that, in that instant, she had felt a brief pang of longing for something she would never have? That, with his throwaway last sentence, he had instantly aroused everything she had ruthlessly subdued since she had been forced to leave her home? The yearning for normality, for a man to share her home, hearth and life. Someone to care and utter the sort of words Fraser had just said. Someone who would say “let me”.

“I must go up to Delacourt Grange and see Harry.” She turned resolutely to the door. “He is to start Eton College soon and much of the teaching there will be in Latin. I am not a Latin scholar, but Mr. Dewson, the parson at Matlock, has set Harry a series of tasks to complete in that language. I promised to supervise him while he completed them. I suspect he has not yet started and has been using the weather as a convenient excuse to avoid them…and me.”

“He strikes me as a fine, trickit lad, but one who is not overfond of his books.”

“No, no-one could accuse Harry of being studious. All that interests him is the army. He sees learning as a means of getting him into a cavalry regiment. Oh, he is bright enough.” She laughed as a memory or two came back to her. “I only wish I could persuade him to put as much effort into completing his work as he does into avoiding it.”

Harry, however, with the sixth sense that seemed to characterise him in such matters, was nowhere to be found when she arrived at Delacourt Grange. Jack, when informed of her mission, laughed. “He cannot have gone hunting in this weather, but I’m sure he has found somewhere to hide away from you. Dare I confess, I employed some similar tactics at his age?”

Martha sighed. “I don’t suppose you would care to speak to him about the importance of his studies? He might listen to you where he does not heed me.”

Jack held his hands up with a look of horror on his face. “Acquit me of that task, if you will, Miss Wantage. I was not the scholar in my family.”

Leaving strict messages for Harry to come to the old dower house as soon as he returned, Martha set off again to navigate the icy path once more. She was within sight of the old dower house when, as Fraser had predicted, her feet skittered wildly on a patch of ice and her ankle turned sharply beneath her. For a moment, her arms windmilled wildly. Then she lost her balance and fell, landing hard on the stony surface of the path. After she had glanced around quickly to check that nobody had witnessed this undignified performance, Martha tried to rise. A sharp cry of pain left her lips. Her ankle would not support her, and she subsided onto the snowy ground, grinding her teeth against the pangs that shot through the afflicted joint.

“Ah, din’nae greet, lass.” Appearing as if from nowhere, Fraser was beside her. In an instant, he had one arm around her waist and the other beneath her knees as he lifted her easily into his arms. He drew her close against the comforting warmth of his chest. “I was watching from yon window and saw you take a tumble.”

“I’m not greeting,” Martha mumbled. It was quite nice, despite the pain in her ankle, to be carried so easily. She decided to enjoy it and rested her head on Fraser’s shoulder. It was a position that allowed her to feel the rumble of laughter that started deep in his chest.

“No, of course you’re not, crabbit one. God forbid that you should show weakness, even when you’re hurting woeful badly.” He touched his finger to her cheek and held it up to show her the moisture there. “This’ll not be a tear, will it?”

Once inside the old dower house, Fraser carried Martha into the parlour and placed her on the settle near the fire. Kneeling before her and ignoring her protests, he removed her boots and woollen stockings, untying her garters with a dexterity that made her blush. His fingers were so nimble they must surely have undertaken the same task a few times before. Perhaps for different reasons. She regarded her feet in dismay. While Martha’s left ankle remained as pale and slender as ever, the right was swollen to twice its normal size and was already turning an interesting variety of colours. With a gentleness that astonished her, Fraser cupped her heel in the palm of one large hand and lifted her foot, placing a cushion beneath it. He brought her a dram of Mr. Delacourt’s whisky and stood over her as, shuddering, she sipped it.

“You’re the healer,” he said. “Tell me what else I must do for you.”

“Oh, goodness! It’s nothing. I’ll rest a while and be up and about in no time.”

“Martha.” Fraser leaned over her, planting one hand either side of her shoulders on the back of the settle. She looked up into the tawny, determined depths of his eyes, and her heart gave a nervous little thud. “If you so much as move from here without asking me first, I will carry out my threat to take the palm of my hand to your backside. It will pain you far more than that ankle when I’m done with you. Do I make myself clear?”

Martha thought about protesting. She really should challenge him when he talked to her that way. Maybe it was the shock of the fall, or maybe it was Fraser’s proximity, but the oddest thing was happening to her. Not only did she find she actually enjoyed him speaking to her in such a masterful way, she also liked the thought of those big, warm hands on her buttocks. It would probably be a good idea to steer clear of the whisky in future.

“Yes, Fraser, you have made yourself perfectly clear,” she said meekly, leaning back against the cushions. “How did you come to see me fall?”