“We must away down to the loch side for the final test,” Iona said, linking Martha’s arm on one side and Rosie’s on the other.

They accompanied the procession of women and children out across the drawbridge to where the men were gathered. Once outside, they were joined by an older, dour-faced man, whose expression would have soured the milk before it even left the cow.

“This is my husband…Sir Donald,” Iona said. Martha managed to hide her shock that such a vibrant, young woman was tied, not only to a man old enough to be her father, but one who looked, moreover, as though enjoyment was an alien concept to him. A glance at Rosie’s face told her that her young cousin shared her surprise.

The men were gathered at the loch side, and all attention was on a group of younger men who were bare-chested and barefooted, clad only in the long hose known to highlanders as trews. Fraser was among them, and he turned his head, grinning in Martha’s direction and miming that he was cold.

“What are they doing?” she asked.

“These are the winners of the strength tests. Now they must run to the other side of the loch before swimming back,” Iona said. “The winner will be declared lord of the games.”

“But they’ll freeze.” Martha looked out across the loch. There was something sinister about waters so quiet and dark. She remembered Fraser’s comment that this loch was said to be bottomless. The thought of him being drawn into those endless depths made her shiver.

“Young Angus seems determined to win.” Iona nodded in the direction of a tall, young man. “’Tis woeful afeared he is that yon lassie’ll favour him no more if Fraser chooses to look her way.” The lassie in question was called Brenna, and she was the blonde girl whose hand Fraser had sought for the first dance of the previous evening. Martha observed the longing looks Angus cast at Brenna, and the dark glares that followed when she bestowed a glowing smile on Fraser. Martha’s own heart grew a fraction heavier.

“I’m cold,” she murmured, intent on escaping the situation. As she turned away, her head was bent and she wasn’t looking where she was going. She was soon brought to a halt by a large, immovable object. Since this object consisted mostly of muscle and smelled deliciously familiar, she knew immediately what—or rather who—it was. Fraser caught her by her upper arms and steadied her.

“Where are you off to, crabbit one? Not sneaking away again, I hope?”

“No, I was going inside to fetch my cloak.” She wished he wouldn’t smile at her quite that way. A fluttering heartbeat did nothing for her attempts to maintain her composure under the gaze of the curious highlanders.

“You look tired…almost as if ye did’nae sleep too well last night,” he said, the smile deepening into something that held a trace of wickedness. And a little something more.

“You should know,” she fired back swiftly. Biting her lip, she glanced around to see if anyone had heard. Fortunately, there was no-one close enough.

“Oh, I do. It was good, was it not?”

Instantly, the words and the accompanying look sent a dart of pure lust shimmying to her very core. “Stop it.”

“Stop what? Stop wanting you? I’ve tried that, Martha. I tried it with every fibre of my being when we were first at the old dower house together. It does’nae work.” A shout went up from the loch side, calling the men to the start line. Fraser sighed. “Hurry back. I want ye here when I win this race.”

“I’ve no desire to watch you kill yourself.”

“Ah, crabbit one, never did I think to hear you express such concern for the welfare of a hated Scotsman.” Fraser put his hand to his bare chest and covered his heart in a half-mocking gesture.

“It’s not that…I just don’t want to have to nurse you. I suspect you would prove to be a troublesome patient.” His laughter followed her as she ran lightly into the Tower House.

When Martha returned to join the spectators, the race was underway. The light was already fading into that uniquely Scottish midafternoon twilight, and the runners were too far distant for her to be able to distinguish Fraser in the group. Jack, who had not fared well in the strength contest due to the lingering effects of his injury, joined them.

“I’ve never known Fraser to lose at this,” he said, scanning the shoreline with narrowed eyes. “Not since the first time we did it, when we were both only fourteen.”

Martha refrained from pointing out several reasons why winning the race might not be an easy task for Fraser this time. Firstly, he was no longer fourteen. Indeed, he was almost twice that age. Secondly, although he had not been as badly injured as Jack, it was not so very long ago that he had sustained a severe blow to the head. The memory made her wince. Finally, only she knew—and was certainly not about to reveal to anyone else—that, in addition to getting very little sleep, Fraser had also been engaged in some very strenuous activity the night before. All in all, his chances of victory appeared slim.

She was surprised, therefore, when the first swimmers came into view and an excited shout went up. “The laird is in the lead!” There was a rush toward the banks of the loch, with several people, including Auld Rab, coming perilously close to tumbling in.

“It’s going to be close,” Jack said, as another swimmer drew level with Fraser.

“It’s young Angus,” Rab called. “Who’d have thought a wee stripling laddie could challenge the laird?”

Martha cast a glance at Brenna, who stood with her hands clasped at her breast and her eyes shining. The girl could not lose no matter what the outcome of this contest. Although she was the favourite to secure the heart of the laird, it would do her cause no harm for Fraser to see another handsome suitor fighting for her attention. It might even prompt him into an early declaration. And, if by some chance, Fraser did not ask her to be his bride…well, Angus was a fair catch in himself.

Around them the shouts were reaching a crescendo as, neck and neck, the two swimmers thrashed their way to the finish. It seemed to Martha that the two men touched the bank at precisely the same second.

“The laird wins,” Rab declared without hesitation.

This blatantly partisan announcement produced cheers from Fraser’s supporters and catcalls from those who felt that Angus deserved the title. Fraser, who had dragged himself from the icy waters, crawled on his hands and feet up the bank and collapsed onto his back, his chest heaving. After lying for a few minutes with his arm flung over his eyes, he rose and went back to the water’s edge, where Angus was struggling to lever himself out. Leaning down, Fraser stretched out a hand to the younger man, hauling him out of the water and up the bank. Other swimmers were finishing now and collapsing onto the grass around them.

“’Twas a good race, lad,” Fraser said, holding out his hand.

Angus gazed up into Fraser’s smiling face with an expression of loathing. He ignored Fraser’s hand. “Aye, ’twas a good race for cheats, my laird.” His voice was shaky with shock and anger.

Jack stepped forward. “Steady, lad. Think before you speak.”

Angus dashed a trembling hand over his lips. “I’ll not be silenced. Not when we all know what he is.” He drew a deep breath. “Aye, our fine laird! Nought but a lecher and a cheat. A man who wants a young bride to warm his bed and gi’ him lusty sons but who can think of nothing but his whey-faced English whore—”

He had hit the ground before he could finish his sentence. One moment the young Scot was spitting out jealous venom, the next he was flat on his back on the grass with Fraser’s bare foot planted firmly in the centre of his chest. Even across the distance of several feet that separated them, Martha could see the cold fury in the hazel depths of Fraser’s eyes.

“Let us get one thing straight here, laddie.” Fraser leaned over Angus, but his words were clearly intended to reach all those present. “I understand your hurt, and because I understand it, I am prepared to let your comments about me pass. But there is a lady here about whom, if you must speak of her at all, you will only ever utter words of respect. Do I make myself very clear?”