Finally, he reached the laurel hedge he had seen from the hillside. This bordered the Elizabethan property. The bushes would have been at shoulder height for most men, but for Fraser it was easy to see over their leafy barrier. All was quiet and he assumed this was because of the late hour—the lengthening shadows suggested dinnertime was nigh—and the inclement weather. The main entrance to the manor house was some distance away to his right, along a sweeping drive, so he had judged his arrival as planned at the rear of the property. On the whole, he seemed to be on the edge of a small, well-kept country estate. The layout was not ideal. Given his choice, Fraser would have preferred a secluded cottage or farmhouse with only one entrance to watch. He was hardly in a position to be nitpicking over details, however. This would have to do. Approaching the outbuilding, he discovered it was, as he had hoped, used as a barn. It was also empty. Uttering a sound midway between a groan and a sigh, he lowered Lord Jack carefully onto the mound of hay that filled about a quarter of the space. With relief Fraser noted a flicker briefly cross the marble stillness of Lord Jack’s closed eyelids.

Straightening his aching back, Fraser took stock of his surroundings. There was a half-loft above his head and a ladder resting against the wall leading to it. He weighed up the possibility of carrying Lord Jack up there to better conceal him from prying eyes. Although his shoulder muscles throbbed in protest at the thought, he climbed the ladder. It was worth checking what was up there. It was clean and dry, with fresh straw piled high. The ideal hiding place.

Water was the most pressing need right now. Then, if he could tend Lord Jack’s wound and scavenge some food, perhaps they could rest here for a day or two before setting off for the border in the prince’s wake. Fraser’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a girlish voice uplifted in song. With a muttered curse, he moved stealthily to the edge of the half loft so that he could look down on the lower floor of the barn. A neat, grey mare came into view just outside the doors. It was horribly cold now, and the December sky beyond the barn had grown ominously darker.

“Oh, do let us hurry, Cleo. I am so dreadfully late already.” The girl’s exclamation carried on the ice-laden air to Fraser. She dismounted and urged her mount into the barn. The horse gave a startled whinny, throwing up its dappled nose in alarm.

The girl peered further into the barn to see what had startled the horse. Although the hood of her cloak was drawn up, Fraser, trapped in his role of observer, could see her face clearly as she turned her head his way. He saw the look of shock that crossed her pretty features when she noticed Lord Jack. It was understandable. An unconscious man in the hay barn was not, after all, an everyday sight. She bit her lip nervously and glanced around her, clearly wondering what to do next. Hesitantly, she knelt on the floor beside Lord Jack.

“Miss Rosie.” A man’s voice rang out. “What are you thinking of, sneaking Cleo in here instead of bringing her around to the stables?”

“Hell and the devil confound it!” Fraser managed to bite back the curse that sprang to his lips so that it came out as a mutter instead of the shout it wanted to be. The big man who strode into the barn carried a lantern. Fraser slid quickly back from the edge of the loft floor, away from its beam. So much for his plan to find a peaceful place in which to hide out. It seemed he had stumbled instead across a bustling thoroughfare.

“I didn’t want Papa to know I had been out riding. He forbade it after he heard of the invasion—” She broke off. From the angle of his unique vantage point, Fraser could see that her features were white and strained as she looked over her shoulder. “The reason matters not any more, Tom. There are more pressing matters to attend to.”

“There are indeed.” The man, apparently unsurprised by the sight before him, cast a critical eye over Lord Jack. “Is he dead?”

The girl looked at him from her kneeling position and shook her head. “Not yet, but he needs care urgently.”

“Who is he?”

“I know not. As you can see he is quite young and—” even from a distance, Fraser could see the blush that tinged her cheeks, “—very handsome. See how he wears his hair confined at the nape of his neck by this black velvet ribbon? His nails are neatly manicured, and his clothing, although stained with the dust of travel, is very fine. He wears this ring too, which looks like an eagle with its wings outstretched in flight. It is made of gold and the stones that make up the bird’s eyes are rubies, I think. All of these things must denote his status as a gentleman, don’t you agree? But the left shoulder of his coat, here—” she pointed, “—is black with dried blood, and there is a hole in the cloth, which is charred at the edges.” She paused, regarding the man she had called Tom thoughtfully. She had not pointed out the obvious. Although it was now splattered with his blood, Lord Jack wore the white cockade of the Jacobites pinned to his chest.

Aye, Fraser thought, with a touch of savagery. ’Tis not so very hard to guess my lord’s secret, is it, wee lassie? It seemed fair to assume that the events of the last few days were enough to make everyone in the county of Derbyshire view their friends, neighbours, even close family members through new and suspicious eyes. Although many English people supported the Jacobite cause, it was not safe to do so openly. The white cockade, a common sight in the highlands, could have led to imprisonment for the wearer in England any time these last fifty years. Now, it spelled certain death on either side of the border.

“No need to hush up on my account, miss. This here gentleman will have been with the young chevalier, the one they call Bonnie Prince Charlie, and his highland brigade at Swarkestone Bridge, or my name’s not Tom Drury. A Jacobite battle here in the very heart of England—who would have thought such a thing possible? There’ll be a hefty price on this man’s fine head now that the prince is in retreat and headed back over the border. We must get him hidden away.”

Fraser’s hand clenched on the handle of his dirk. So that was the game. “But ye’ll not live to claim that price, big man.” The words were a promise uttered under his breath.

On the barn floor below him, Rosie gave Tom a look of glowing gratitude. “Can you carry him to Delacourt Grange?”

“Aye, I could do that easy enough. But I’m thinking that would be a certain way to bring all of us—this gentleman, you, me, your father and brother, and probably all of the servants as well—to the gibbet and the end of a noose before the week’s out. No, what we need is somewhere to hide him while his injuries are properly tended and he has time to recover away from prying eyes.”

Their eyes met and held. It seemed to Fraser, watching them carefully from his bird’s-eye viewpoint, that they had one thought that was shared between them but which neither wanted to voice. It hung oddly in the icy air. In the end, it was Rosie who spoke. “There is a priest hole in the old dower house. And there is also one there who is gifted in the art of healing.”

“’Tis a plan indeed, but one she won’t like.” There was a definite edge of trepidation in Tom’s deep voice. “You know she hates all men, Miss Rosie. And she hates Scotsmen most of all.”

“Leave her to me.” Despite the bravado of her words, Rosie’s voice shook slightly. Tom seemed inclined to dispute the matter, but she had already turned back to Lord Jack. With a shrug of resignation, Tom bent and swung the injured man up into his strong arms.

We will look back on this, Fraser thought, and laugh about this day and how you were carried about like a sack of grain or an obstinate child, my lord. Pray God, we will.