“There will be only two defenceless women in the house.”

Upon hearing those words, Fraser allowed himself a grim smile and resheathed his dirk. The lethal-looking weapon would not be needed after all. Having already been around the exterior of the house several times, he knew there were numerous places where he could easily gain entry. The big man called Tom would have presented him with no problem anyway. In size they were equal, but in a fight there were few men who could match Fraser Lachlan. No, overcoming Tom would have been child’s play—might even have been enjoyable—but he had gone now. And from the words they had just exchanged, he would not be back until morning. From his vantage point in the dark shadows of the laurel bush, Fraser watched as Tom walked away in the direction of the stables. This was going to be all too simple.

He heard the bolts grind as, obedient to Tom’s instructions, she locked the door. That was the sour-faced one. The one who looked like she had a spike permanently shoved up her skinny arse. Their so-called healer. Heaven help the English if she was the best they had! He hadn’t seen the other one—the young, pretty one who had found Lord Jack in the barn—since they’d taken his lordship inside earlier. That had been as afternoon was giving way to evening. Although Fraser had been forced to hide deeper in the trees as they’d gathered on the doorstep, he had nevertheless been able to observe the scene closely.

“No, I’ll not allow you to bring him in here,” she had said, shaking her head and folding her arms across her chest.

“Would you condemn him to die like a dog on your doorstep?” Fine words from the big man. In another time and place, Fraser might have warmed to him.

“Yes.” She had flashed the words back at him. Even from a distance, Fraser had seen the quiver that ran through her body. He had known a compulsion to burst from his hiding place and take that slender, white throat between his hands. “Can you doubt it, Tom? My father could have told you that the only good Scotsman is a dead one.”

At that point Rosie had dashed off and returned with her father. Mr. Delacourt’s intervention had signalled the start of a long vigil for Fraser. Ignoring the cold had been the hardest, although hunger, thirst and fatigue had all played their parts in his discomfort. Only the thought of what he owed Lord Jack had kept him upright.

Now there was flickering candlelight at two of the mullioned windows while the others were in darkness. A first-floor room at the back of the house had been lit constantly since darkness fell. Another, at the front, also on the first floor, had been black until a few minutes ago. It didn’t take much ingenuity to work it out. The pretty one was in the back bedroom. The sourpuss had gone up to the room at the front after seeing Tom, their protector, out of the house.

Fraser made his way around to the back. That was where he had seen a kitchen window that, if it could be opened from the outside, looked just about wide enough to permit a large-framed man to fit through.

The moon threw enough light on the scene for Fraser to study the window. The wrought-iron frame was divided into four casements, and looked to be hinged on the inside. If he broke the glass, he could easily reach inside and release the catch. But the sound would alert the two women to his presence. Fraser glanced around until he found what he needed. Picking up a large, pointed piece of slate, he came back to the window. Sliding the sharp edge of the stone under the corner of the window frame, he pressed down hard until he felt the catch inside give way. The window sprang open.

Although Fraser was an intruder, the homely atmosphere of the kitchen seemed to welcome him as he climbed over the ledge. Lingering smells of baking and beeswax greeted his appreciative nostrils, and the dying embers of the fire beckoned to him. Shards of moonlight stole through the open window, highlighting a long, scrubbed table in the centre of the room. A greedy moan escaped Fraser’s lips at the sight of half a loaf of bread, a wheel of cheese and a jug of water. Scooping up the jug, he gulped down most of its contents in one long swallow. Droplets clung to his beard, and he dashed them away impatiently. He was just tearing into the bread when the sound of light footsteps descending the stairs reached his ear.

“Is that you, Martha?” Candlelight flickered tentatively in the doorway as Rosie stepped into the kitchen. “I was hungry…”

She looked up from the table to where Fraser stood, her eyes widening in shock. He took a step forward, and she had a moment to assimilate his size. Her eyes lowered to take in the green-and-blue woollen kilt, muddied and bloodied linen shirt, knee-length gartered hose and laced leather shoes of the true clansman. Then Fraser had moved with lightning speed and seized her in a grip of iron. He clamped one hand firmly over her mouth.

“Softly now, pretty lassie,” he whispered as she began to struggle. “It’s not from any thought of doing harm to you that I’ve come here this night.” He had intended the words to reassure her, but panic filled her eyes as one possible, and very sinister, meaning for what he was saying occurred to her. Wildly, she attempted to lunge away from him. Her efforts to free herself were pathetic against his superior strength, but she did succeed in biting his fingers. Hard. With an exclamation, Fraser pulled his hand back. It was the ensuing combination of events—the trickle of blood from his hand coupled with a screech from Rosie that nearly deafened him—that meant he didn’t notice Martha until it was too late. She had already raised the candlestick above her head in both hands and slammed it with all her might into the back of Fraser’s skull before he even knew she was there.

With a thud, the highlander dropped to the floor, his long body stretched full length beside the kitchen table. An ominous puddle of blood was already forming on the stone tiles behind his head.

“Have you killed him?” Rosie asked.

Casting aside the candlestick with shaking hands, Martha dropped to her knees. She tugged aside the tartan shawl that was fastened across the intruder’s chest with a pewter brooch in the shape of a thistle. Unlacing his shirt, she pulled it wide to reveal muscles that appeared to have been hewn from bronze. Pressing her ear to the coppery hair that covered his broad chest, she listened carefully.

“No.” A frown furrowed her brow as she rose to her feet again.

“Well, surely that’s a good thing?” Rosie said.

“I don’t know. It would probably be easier to get rid of a dead body than a live Jacobite. And now we have two of them.” The shaky feeling in Martha’s limbs persisted.

“Must you be so horribly practical?”

“Yes, because one of us has to be. I know your head is stuffed with romantic notions about your heroic invalid, Rosie. At any moment, however, the king’s men could come knocking on the door. And when they do, I don’t know how I will begin to explain to the redcoats how it comes about that my little house is suddenly stuffed full of unconscious rebels.”

Sitting abruptly down in one of the chairs at the table, Rosie began to giggle uncontrollably. “Very well. Since we can’t do much about the rebel in the back bedroom, perhaps we should try and move the one on the floor?”

“He’ll have to go in the cellar. We can lock him in there, he won’t be able to get out, and at least that means he won’t be able to come after you again.” Martha regarded the immobile figure. She wondered whether he had been looking for food or valuables and decided to attack Rosie simply because she chanced to be there. Or had he broken into her house in search of a woman? The thought made her shiver. And why did he have to be so inconveniently large? “It will be impossible to carry him, even with two of us. But, between us, we should be able to drag him down the cellar stairs.”