Half an hour later, Martha hardly recognised the tall,
powerfully built man who strode into her kitchen through
the open back door. It was only the bandage on his head
and his badly cut hair that alerted her to his identity.
Somehow, the severely cut breeches, shirt and jerkin Tom
had lent him only accentuated the breadth of Fraser’s
shoulders and the strong muscles of his thighs. It was
plain from his expression, however, that he did not
approve of his new attire.

He plucked at the cloth of his breeches with distaste. “I
look like a cursed lowlander. ’Tis unmanly and a reproach
to my heritage for me to appear in public without my
sporran, kilt and dirk.”

Privately deciding that Fraser had far too much manliness
for any garment, Martha disregarded this comment. “Sit
here while I cut your hair and shave you,” she said,
indicating a seat at the kitchen table.

He regarded her with suspicion. “Must I present my throat
to you while you’ve a blade in your hand, wee crabbit
one?”

“Yes, and I do wish you’d stop calling me that. I lived
in Northumberland until ten years ago. I know exactly
what it means.”

“Aye, ill-tempered, unpleasant and all-round
disagreeable.” He grinned, a gleam of genuine humour in
his eyes. “It suits you just fine.”

Ignoring the look she threw at him, he took a seat and,
leaning his elbows on the table, made no further comment
while she removed his bandages and trimmed his hair into
a semblance of order. The red-gold curls clustered close
into the nape of his neck and over his ears, and Martha
concentrated on her task rather than his proximity. He
smelled of masculinity. It was a warm, earthy, musky
scent that was out of place in her kitchen. Whenever she
moved into the line of his vision, she was conscious of
his unwavering stare on her face.

“Northumberland was once a part of the kingdom of
Scotland,” Fraser said. Martha gritted her teeth and did
not respond. “Aye, and is it not true that the
Northumbrians are known for their wild and revolutionary
ways? Before the stabilising influence of a Scottish king
on the English throne, was it not known as the most
lawless county in the land?”

“At least we know who our enemies are, unlike the
highland clansmen who seem determined to annihilate each
other,” she said.

His jaw tensed at that, and he lapsed into silence so
that the only sound for several minutes was the click of
Martha’s scissor blades.

“How old are you?” he asked. The question was so
unexpected that the scissors made a jumpy arc that came
perilously close to his ear before Martha got them back
under control.

“That has nothing to do with you,” she said in her best
teacher’s voice. He waited, and eventually she
capitulated. After all, what did it matter? “I am six and
twenty.”

“Past the marriageable age, ’tis true, but not quite at
your last prayers. Why is it that you try so hard to
appear older?”

That was going too far. No-one had ever spoken to her
that way before. Ignoring the peculiar lump his words
brought to her throat, she attempted to change the
subject. “Where are your other clothes?”

“Why?” He leaned back slightly, watching her now that she
had finished her task.

“They will give your identity away. I don’t want them to
be discovered.”

A savage fire blazed gold in the hazel depths of his
eyes. “That’s right. They are my identity. I’ll not let
you dispose of the only things I have left of my name, my
pride and my honour.”

“I was going to offer to wash them and store them safely
until you are able to wear them again,” Martha said
placidly. “Believe it or not, I do know the significance
of the kilt and the tartan to your countrymen.”

The fierce look faded slightly. “You grew up on Lord
Jack’s estate, at St. Anton?”

“Yes, on the northern part of the estate, close to
Bamburgh. My father had land there and farmed cattle.”
She didn’t need to explain what that meant. Although
Fraser was a highlander and, therefore, hailed from an
area far to the north of the border between England and
Scotland, he would know and understand the practice of
reiving. Conflict between the kingdoms of England and
Scotland was as ancient as the lands themselves, and
cross-border conflict was bloody, brutal and relentless.
Families living on either side of Hadrian’s Wall existed
in the certain knowledge that bloodshed, treachery and
grief would come their way. The border traditions, passed
down through generations, did not die out when King James
I, great-great-grandfather of Bonnie Prince Charlie, to
whom Fraser had sworn allegiance, united the two crowns.
Reiving—raiding for cattle, sheep and anything else that
could be transported—was a way of life that continued
unabated. But theft was the lesser evil of reiving.
Murder, rape and kidnap were all part of daily life on
the border.

“Tell me about the reivers who hurt you.” His voice held
more compassion than she would have imagined possible.
What had wrought this odd change in his approach? Never
trust a Scotsman. Her father’s words rang in her ears. It
was sound advice, and yet Fraser seemed genuinely
interested. He had a knack of triggering a chain of
warring emotions in her breast. It was most unnerving.

Martha bent her head, unable to speak. Instead of trying,
she busied herself by picking up the knife in preparation
for shaving him, but her hand shook so hard that the
blade was a silver blur. Fraser watched her thoughtfully,
then reached out and clasped her wrist. Carefully, he
removed the knife from her grasp.

“On second thoughts, perhaps it might be best if I do
that myself?”