The task was more difficult than she had envisaged. The highlander was indeed a big man, and in his current state, he might as well have been a carcass at the local meat market. By each taking a wool-encased ankle, they were able to haul him to the cellar door. The effort required to achieve this left them both breathless. The cellar stairs proved even more fraught with problems. In the end, Martha went first, supporting the highlander’s ankles, while Rosie attempted to slow his descent by holding on to his shoulders. This ploy was unsuccessful, and they lost control of their burden halfway down the stairs. The three of them ended in an ungainly heap on the cellar floor.

“Well at least he broke our fall,” Martha said, clambering off the highlander’s body and shaking out her nightdress.

“Oh.” Rosie’s face was a picture of shock as, with rounded eyes, she turned to her cousin and then looked back at the man. In the tumble down the stairs, his kilt had ridden up to his waist, revealing the fact that he was naked beneath its rough plaid folds. “He’s very—” Rosie paused, “—muscular, isn’t he?”

“Rosie!” Martha, following the direction of her gaze, hurried to rearrange his clothing.

“Well, it’s very difficult not to notice something like that. I had heard that they didn’t wear anything beneath their kilts, but I didn’t think it could really be true.”

“He must be very hardy. It gets awfully cold in Scotland during the winter,” Martha said, her practical mind taking over. Then, realising that the conversation had taken a most inappropriate turn, she became purposeful again. “I think we’re going to have to tie him up. If we don’t, he may be able to break down the door. I’m sure there’s some rope down here.”

“Have you ever tied anyone up?” Rosie asked in a doubtful voice, when Martha finally unearthed a coil of heavy twine.

“No, but how difficult can it be? If we wind it round and round his body so that his arms are trapped at his sides, that should hold him. Anyway, he may not wake up for a good, long while.”

“He may not wake up at all. You hit him very hard.”

Martha bit her lip. She’d never hit anyone in her life before, and she had hit him very hard. She tried out a defiant tone of voice. “Well, he shouldn’t have been in my kitchen, and I dread to think what he might have done to you if I had not hit him when I did.”

With much panting and manoeuvring, they completed their task, by which time they were even more breathless and very red faced. Their captive resembled a large trussed turkey lying on his side on the hard-packed earth of the cellar floor. Martha surveyed him critically.

“Let us go back to our beds, Rosie. If he survives the night, we can decide in the morning what we should do with him,” Martha said, as they made their way back up the stairs. Rosie, perhaps predictably, insisted on returning to watch over her patient.

Sleep eluded Martha. Small wonder, she thought, given the events of the day. But, surprisingly, it was not the thought of the danger posed by the presence of two fugitives under her roof that drove her slumber away. Much as it shamed her to admit it, her mind persisted in returning to the strong thighs and buttocks she had glimpsed beneath the highlander’s kilt. Her pale cheeks flamed at the memory of the way her eyes had insisted on lingering on the more private parts of his body before she had righted his clothing. Did all men’s—her mind fumbled for a suitable word—things look like that?

She gave a sudden snort of laughter and buried her face in her pillows to hide it. It had been bigger than she expected and was an unexpected reddish-purple colour, lying thick and flaccid against his thigh. Her attention had been held by the blatant masculinity of his flesh, evident even in his helplessness. She excused her curiosity on the basis that it had been driven by a patriotic desire to snatch up her sharpest kitchen knife and liberate the globes that nestled in their thatch of reddish-brown hair from his scrotum before flinging them into the trough that contained the pig’s food. Regretfully, she had not taken the opportunity, when it was presented to her, to rid the world of the reproductive abilities of this particular Scotsman. “You are a cowardly, squeamish old spinster,” she told herself crossly.

Determinedly, she turned her thoughts in a different direction. One that had been troubling her more and more often lately. Rosie’s words, spoken in temper, had stung, but they were true. Martha might live here, but it is your house, Papa. Martha felt a tug of emotion so strong it shocked her. What will I do when I am forced to leave? Thoughts of injured rebels and vengeful soldiers paled into insignificance in comparison with the fear and sadness which gripped her at the prospect.

Rosie had long ceased to need a governess, and her younger brother, Harry, was destined to leave home and go to Eton College soon. I will not be a poor relation, dependent on my benevolent Cousin Henry for my every crust. Martha’s fierce pride had already made that decision for her. She would go—seek out a new post in a new place—long before she became a burden. But the thought of leaving here terrified her. The only other place she had ever thought of as home had been taken from her in the cruellest manner imaginable. It is all the fault of that highland devil. Memories that had lain dormant for so long had been brought storming back to life by the sight of him.

As dawn began to tint the sky with pastel hues, Martha rose. She had always known that the Scots brought no good in their wake. A mere day ago, the most serious concern she’d had was that her best chicken wasn’t laying any eggs. Now, she might be facing this new day as a murderess.

Chapter Three

Cautiously, Martha made her way down the cellar steps. Because there were no windows, she carried a branch of candles into the dark space with her, holding it at shoulder height. She was able to view the whole of the cellar in the flickering light. Several centuries’ worth of clutter accumulated by the Delacourt family crowded the area. Broken or discarded furniture, old chests and stacks of picture frames lined the walls. To one as organised as Martha, the cellar had always been the cause of much tongue-clucking. But for Mr. Delacourt, it was next summer’s job, and because out of sight was out of mind, she too had let it be. Now that it needed to do double duty as a prison cell, she viewed it afresh and found it most unsatisfactory.

Her prisoner had not been obliging enough to die in the night, although he continued to lie still and quiet. Exactly as she had left him. A jolt of compassion—unexpected and unwanted—shot through her. It was one thing to kill him outright in the heat of the moment as, having broken into the house, he was in the act of attacking Rosie. It would be quite another to leave him to die like an injured animal on the dusty floor of the cellar. Even if he was a Scotsman. The wound to the back of his head, encrusted now with dried blood, was vicious. In the gloom of the candlelight, his strong features appeared lifeless. Pursing her lips, Martha considered him for a moment and then went away to fetch what she needed.

On her return, she set about cleaning the blood from the gash the candlestick had made in the back of his skull. Her task was hampered by the poor light, the fact that she had to kneel on the cellar floor, and the length and thickness of his red-gold hair. When she had completed this undertaking to her satisfaction, she sat back and surveyed her handiwork grimly. Having never been called upon to hit anyone over the head before, it had been difficult to judge the amount of force required. In the cold light of day, it would appear she had been somewhat heavy-handed. The injury was severe, and when he recovered—if he recovered—he would have a nasty headache and a lasting scar.