“Here, lass, let me.”

Fraser hurried forward to take the logs from her, and she jumped back slightly as his hand touched hers. She bit her lip as though annoyed that she had betrayed her nervousness to him. While Fraser stacked the logs beside the fire, she removed her glasses, which had steamed up in the heat of the kitchen, and began to wipe them on the edge of her cloak. He watched her with interest.

“You should leave them off,” he said. “You look better.”

She promptly put them back on. “I can’t see without them.” She held her hands out to the fire. “The snow is coming down heavily now.”

“Good.” She raised her brows, and he elaborated. “’Twill slow the king’s men down in their hunt for any of the Jacobites daft enough in the heid to get themselves left behind.”

Removing her cloak and hanging it on a peg behind the door, she turned to the fire and to the pot. “I can’t offer you haggis.” She looked back over her shoulder at Fraser with a slight smile. “It’s only boiled mutton. But I have cooked neeps and tatties for you.” For a moment, the emotion provoked by her words threatened to overwhelm him, and Fraser had to clench his fist hard at his side. She had gone to the trouble of cooking traditional Scots food for him. How long had it been since someone—anyone—had thought just of him? Something in his face must have startled her because she added swiftly, “I thought it best to keep up the pretence that I am glad to have you here.”

He laughed, glad to be able to release the slight obstruction in his throat. “I hope there’s plenty, lass. It takes a lot to fill me.”

“That’s what I thought. You are very big.” The ready blush rose to her cheeks. She focused again on her task, stirring the pot and pushing her glasses back up as they slipped down her nose. Within minutes, she had set a steaming plate of food on the table in front of Fraser, together with several thick slices of bread.

“It’s a long time since I’ve tasted anything this good,” he said truthfully. Shyly, she cast her gaze down to her own plate and continued to eat, ignoring the words. He could tell she was pleased, however. “I suppose it’s too much to ask that you might also have a wee dram to wash it down with?”

“Oh, but I do.” Martha jumped up and went to the pantry that was set to one side of the fireplace. “I’d almost forgotten about it. My mother used to say—” She broke off, frowning slightly at the earthenware flagon that she withdrew from the shelves. “Well, there is nothing quite like a drop of whisky in hot water to keep a head cold at bay.”

“Will you no join me?” Fraser asked, when she had poured some of the amber liquid into a goblet and placed it before him.

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like the smell.”

“Lass! You wound me with your words. Ye are talking to a Scotsman. Don’t insult me, share a dram with me.”

Hesitantly, she agreed, holding her breath as she took a tiny sip of the fiery liquor. “Oh, my good Lord.” She spluttered, her eyes watering and her cheeks burning. Fraser’s laughter echoed around the room.

“Hits the spot, does it not?”

“It burns,” she said reproachfully. She raised her goblet to her lips once more, and her eyes met his over the rim. Fraser was fascinated at the gleam of mischief which lightened her habitually serious expression. “I don’t like the taste,” she explained as she took another sip, “but, my goodness, I do like the effect!”

Later, Fraser sat before the fire in the small parlour while Martha set tiny, neat stitches in his shirt, mending the tears that had happened as a result of the skirmish at Swarkestone Bridge. He kept his eyes on the hearth. The leaping flames within cast shifting shadows over his face, which he hoped masked his thoughts. Burning wood crackled, charred and split, sharing its sweet, woodsy warmth. Outside, the snow continued to swirl and dance, turning the rolling Derbyshire hills into an alien, impenetrable landscape that reminded him of home. Martha mustn’t know, or ever suspect, how much this scene of cosy domesticity—so unexpected and unlike his life in recent times—added to rather than soothed the ever-present ache in his chest. It was a hurt that even the finest Scotch whisky would never be able to assuage.

Before bed, he went out to the woodshed and brought in more logs. Martha waited in the open kitchen doorway with a lighted candle while he stomped the snow off his boots. She smiled her thanks and tentatively reached up to brush the melting snow from his broad shoulders. At her touch, Fraser felt like a man who had tamed a wild bird.

Later, in the still, cold night, he was wakened by a sound he could not place. It took him a few seconds to recognise that it was a woman sobbing. His throat tightened as he was forced to listen helplessly to Martha’s anguished dreams. He wished he could find a way to make the reiving bastards who gave all Scots men a bad name pay for their crimes.

Chapter Six

The snow continued to fall relentlessly for several days so that it had proved impossible to go even as far as Delacourt Grange. Martha, never one to remain idle, decided to use the enforced captivity and the bonus of the presence of a brawny Scotsman in her house to finally do something about clearing the cellar. The temporary truce of their first night alone together did not hold up for long.

“No, not there.” Martha frowned at Fraser over the top of her glasses. “I said I wanted it in that corner.”

“Make your mind up, woman.” Biceps bulging under the strain, Fraser placed the old wooden dresser, which had three of its five drawers missing, back down on the cellar floor with a thud. “Ye’ve asked me to move this bloody thing four times, and now you want it right back where it started.”

“You can go if you want. I don’t need a bad-tempered Scotsman under my feet.”

“No, what you need is to be put over my knee so that I can skelp your scrawny backside.” His face hardened with sudden annoyance.

Martha gasped, her own temper flaring. “Try it, Scotsman, and I’ll come after you in the night with my scissors. But I warn you now, next time it won’t be your hair I cut off.” Oh, good Lord, had she actually just said those words aloud? Determined to regain her self-control, she took a deep, steadying breath. It was foolish to allow this big, brash Scotsman to keep chipping away at her dignity. This admirable resolve to remain calm lasted as long as it took him to utter his next words.

“Aye, ye’ve enough temper on ye to try, crabbit one, and no mistake.” There was something about the heat in his stare and the thick, deepening pitch of his voice that flustered her beyond anger, but she didn’t pause to examine the feeling.

“I told you to stop calling me that.” Rosie or Harry could have told Fraser that it was best to avoid Martha when that militant look appeared in her eyes. But neither of her cousins were present to issue him with a warning.

“I’ll not take my orders from a sleekit Englishwoman.” She had to admire the speed of Fraser’s reflexes. He ducked just in time as the old plate she snatched up whizzed past his ear and crashed into the wall behind him. Muttering a series of curses, he made his way toward her. His progress was severely hampered as Martha launched every object she could lay her hands on at him. It became clear, however, that no number of missiles hurled at him were going to deter Fraser. He gave a grunt of annoyance as a boot with no sole bounced off his chest. Temper gave way to fear as she noted the determination on his face, and Martha did something she had never done in her life. Turning on her heel, she ran away. Fraser caught up with her at the bottom of the cellar stairs. Catching hold of her by her wrist and spinning her round to face him, he glared down at her.

“Ye’re a thrawn, stubborn wee lass, no more’n a thorn in my side.”