He was brought up to see himself as the saviour of the Jacobite cause, the man who would remove the dour Hanoverians from the throne they had stolen. He was a restless, tireless man who sometimes forgot to go to bed, a man who had joined the Spanish army at the age of fourteen, gaining experience for the day when he would embark on his quest to regain his birthright. Landing in Scotland with limited resources and no idea of his reception, he had secured the support of many of the highlanders through the sheer force of his magnetic personality. But there was a darker side to his nature, and as the tide turned against him at Derby and he found himself hunted through the highlands, he became sulky and petulant. He was also drinking heavily and had been unwell for some time. News that the Duke of Cumberland was bearing relentlessly down on him, setting fire to whatever was in his path, did nothing to improve the prince’s mood.

“This is not the place to face the might of the king’s forces, sire.” Fraser’s words to the prince echoed the thoughts of the other men about the table. The difference was that none of the others had the nerve to say them aloud.

“You are saying I should keep running like a wounded dog with my cousin Cumberland snapping at my heels?” the prince asked. His face as he regarded Fraser was haughty.

“Sire, no-one would suggest that.” It was Jack who spoke up this time. “Our forces are depleted and supplies are low. Morale among the highlanders is as low as it can get. Cumberland has had time to strengthen his ranks so that he now outnumbers us. Our Jacobite strength lies in our fearsome highland charge, and given the right terrain, we might yet defeat him, even with his superior numbers. What Fraser is saying is correct, however. This is not the right terrain.”

“What is your proposal?” The prince turned back to Fraser, his handsome face downcast.

“We harangue Cumberland’s forces with dawn raids and night attacks. Weaken them by stealing their weapons, supplies and horses. Wear them out with lack of sleep and demoralise them before we face them. Give the highlanders a chance to bring them down with their famous charge.” Most of the men around the table nodded and muttered their agreement with Fraser’s plan.

“No, I will lead my men into battle. Here.” The prince turned away, hunching his shoulder moodily. His face was set in stubborn lines.

“Then you will lead us into carnage, sire.” With a bow, Fraser walked out of the room. Behind him, he heard the collective gasp of the other men.

All her life, Martha had been brought up to fear the Scots. After the attack on her family and on her person, she had even more reason to view these people as tartan-clad demons. Now she was living among them. Eating with them, talking to them, working alongside them. Making mad, glorious love with one of them. And they were—her mind searched for a suitable word and found several—ordinary, humorous, likable and scared. Scared because they didn’t know what the gathering red-coated forces meant for their traditional way of life. Scared because they sensed that their chieftains were not happy with the prince’s battle plans. Scared because right and wrong seemed to have been lost somewhere and replaced instead by a battle of wills between two power-hungry princes.

She was shocked to hear stories of the casual brutality of her countrymen. It seemed the clansmen were viewed by the soldiers as savages who did not deserve to be treated with anything approaching humanity. Whole communities were victimised as a matter of routine. The English swept the glens, scavenging and thieving, subduing the spirited highlanders by beating the men and raping the women. All with the blessing of their commanders, all done to break the spirit of the clansmen. Fraser, she learned to her horror, had been subjected to an ongoing campaign of savagery since his father’s death. Fraser had inherited the title in his late teens, and since then, the English generals at Fort William had made a concerted effort to break the spirit of the young laird. He had been repeatedly imprisoned, beaten and threatened. But the men who had tried to intimidate him had not broken Fraser’s spirit.

“Aye, the Laird of Lachlan is a strong man. Stronger by far than most,” Rab told her, as he showed her around the inner court of the castle. “The English can’nae understand a will that is toughened by adversity. Although—” his brow furrowed with sadness, “—no man should have to face the sorrow that was wrought upon him.”

They had been standing in a quiet corner of the castle garden, and Martha had followed Rab’s eyes to a spot where, under the sheltering umbrella of a willow tree, there were two graves. Both were marked by simple crosses, and the scrubby grass grew overlong around them. Nearby, a small rose garden that might have been planted for remembrance had been allowed to become a wilderness.

“When did they die?” she asked quietly.

“Three summers gone. Since then it has pained the laird’s heart to return here.”

Martha was surprised at how quickly she had been accepted by Rab, who performed all the old, feudal functions of a castle steward, and Cora, who, it turned out, was his wife. Martha could not have surmised this interesting piece of information about their relationship from their dealings with each other. On the surface, they appeared to dislike each other intensely and spent much of their time in each trying to score points over the other with Fraser. She only knew they were husband and wife because one of the kitchen maids told her, and then, when she studied them more closely, she could detect no sign of affection, or even tolerance, in their behaviour toward each other.

Any fears she might have had that the inhabitants of the castle would view the arrival of two Englishwomen in their midst with suspicion were soon put to rout. Rosie was greeted with delight for her decorative value alone. Martha, with her quiet reserve, was initially regarded with less enthusiasm. Her natural aptitude for management soon asserted itself, however. Since Castle Lachlan had no mistress and a long-absent master, there was very little routine and a great deal of chaos in the prevailing approach to the running of the household. This did not suit Martha at all, and she calmly set about doing something to rectify the situation. Cora, bristling slightly at the arrival of a small, stiff-backed whirlwind in her kitchen, soon allowed herself to be carried along upon a tide of gentle orders and quiet reproof.

At Martha’s instigation, the castle came alive with activity. Stone floors were brushed and then washed to remove all trace of excess dirt, wooden panels were polished with beeswax and the privies were cleaned before being freshly limed, even though Cora protested at such extravagance. The larders were stocked and the bedding darned and laundered. Rugs were taken up and tapestries down, and each was beaten until the clouds of dust sent the young maids scurrying inside to wash the dust from their hands and faces. Dried lavender was strewn among the new rushes on the floor, and old dog bones were prised from between the disgruntled jaws of the hounds and thrown unceremoniously away. New candles were set in every stand, and the sconces were checked to ensure that every gloomy corridor and dark corner was lit.

“Cora must have grown better at household management in my absence,” Fraser said to Martha, as they lay in her bed one night. “I’ve never known her go to so much effort to make the old place look good.” He had tilted her face up to his then so that he could study her expression more closely. “Why the secretive little smile, crabbit Martha?”

“Maybe because I am feeling happy,” she said, following the centre line of his sculpted chest muscles with one fingertip before moving lower to track across the hard plane of his abdomen. She had become quite adept at distracting him.