He was naught but a boy, but his bayonet was as sharp any other.

Rolling across the ground, Alex shifted his targe to the other hand to deflect the thrust of the blade. The weapon flew from the soldier's hands and landed on the grass, but before Alex could regain his footing, a sabre was scraping out of its scabbard, and he suddenly found himself backing away defensively, evaluating his opponent's potential skill and intentions.

Blue eyes locked on his, and the courage he saw in those depths sharpened his wits.

Carefully, meticulously, they stepped around each other.

"Are ye sure ye want to do this, lad?" Alex asked, giving the boy one last chance to retreat with the others in his regiment. "I've done enough killing this morning. I doona need more blood on my hands. Just go."

But why was he hesitating? The dark fury of battle still smouldered within him. What difference would it make if he killed one more? All he had to do was take one step forward and swing. The boy was no match for him. He could slay him in an instant.

"I'm sure," the lad replied, but his sabre began to tremble in his hands.

Alex wet his lips. "Just drop your weapon and run, boy."

"No."

Alex paused. "You're a brave one, aren't ye? Or maybe you're just stupid."

All at once, the young soldier let out a vicious battle cry and attacked with a left-handed manoeuvre that cut Alex swiftly across the thigh.

He gaped down at the wound in bewilderment.

Musket fire rang out in the distance. The morning chill penetrated his senses, steeled his warrior instincts.

The next thing he knew, he had used his targe to strike the lad in the head, and whirled around with a fierce cry of aggression. The young redcoat stumbled backwards. His sabre dropped from his grasp.

Then, as if it were all happening in a dream, the soldier's tricorne hat flew through the air, and long black tresses unfurled and swung about. The boy hit the ground and rolled unconscious on to his back.

Alex's eyes fell immediately upon a soft complexion and lips like ripe red cherries. All thoughts of war and the Jacobite triumph fled from his mind, as he realized with dismay that he had just struck a woman.

Twelve hours later ...

Elizabeth's eyes slowly fluttered open. Groggy and disoriented, she blinked up at the thatched ceiling above her, while an explosion of pain erupted inside her skull and drummed against the side of her face.

Laying a hand on her swollen cheek, she attempted to wiggle her jaw back and forth. It did not appear to be broken, but her cheekbone was surely cracked.

Moaning with agony, she sat up on the cot and looked around the small room. Where the devil was she? A single candle blazed on a table by the bed. A grey woollen curtain covered the door to the rest of the cottage if this was in fact someone's home. She had no idea. The floors were made of dirt, the walls built of stone. It could as easily be a stable or prison.

Again, she cupped her cheek with her hand and winced at the pain, but she would endure it, for she must leave this place immediately and return to Argyll's camp. She could not remain here in Scotland. She'd rather die than linger here.

Rising awkwardly to her feet, she inhaled deeply. She limped towards the curtain and dug deep for the strength and fortitude she would require to walk out of here and travel God knows how far on foot.

Oh, sweet Lord! Her entire body felt bruised and beaten. What had happened on the battlefield? The last thing she remembered was slicing that Highlander's leg open with her sabre. What had happened since then? How in the world did she get here?

Sweeping the curtain aside, doubting if she would ever know the answers to those questions, she suddenly found herself staring up at him directly.

"Goin somewhere, lassie?"

Elizabeth sucked in a breath. Heaven help her, it was him. The golden-haired warrior Scotsman, standing before her like a monstrous guardian.

He was taller than she remembered. Bigger and broader through the chest, and his eyes burned with savage, dangerous intensity.

"That I am, sir," she firmly replied. "Step aside. I mean to leave here and return to my countrymen."

She glanced down at the heavy claymore belted around his waist, and made a mental note of the dagger in his boot, as well as the pistol and powder horn he carried, which was strapped across his chest.

His green eyes flashed with a strange mixture of amusement and irritation, while he took in her soldier's uniform from head to foot. "If ye are referring to the pathetic flock of red-coated sheep that follows a German king a king who can barely speak a word of English then I'm afraid I canna let ye go anywhere, lass."

Her heart began to pound, and her mouth went dry. Quickly she looked down at his leg, curious to know how much damage she had inflicted with her sword, but his kilt cloaked any sign of injury. As far as she could ascertain, he was in perfect fighting condition, while she was ready to drop to the floor in a dead faint, on account of the pain in her head and the sheer fright induced by his intimidating presence.

"What is it that you plan to do with me, then?" she boldly asked. "Do you mean to keep me as your prisoner?"

He chuckled at that. She glared at him with bitter rancour, but the passion of her grimace caused her great pain. She groaned and covered the side of her face with a hand. "God in heaven, what did you do me? My face feels like it's been smashed up against a rock."

The Highlander glanced over his shoulder, as if to check the door for prying eyes and ears, then ducked under the top of the curtain to enter the small room. Elizabeth had no choice but to back out of his way.

She suddenly found herself trapped up against the wall, while he blocked the only exit. The curtain fell closed behind him.

"I apologise for that," he said. "I dinna know ye were a woman."

She raised her chin. "What difference should that have made? I was trying to kill you."

His arresting green eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were intrigued by her reply, and it was not until that moment that she realized he was impossibly handsome. He had a face that could only be shaped by an artist, with finely carved cheekbones and a rugged, square jaw. The lips were moist and full she would almost call them beautiful and those long lashed green eyes ... They possessed a mysterious gleaming power that rendered her speechless. She couldn't think. All she could do was stand before him like a bumbling fool and attempt to contemplate the origins of such divine physical perfection. Bestowed upon a Highlander, no less. Was there no justice in the world?

"Aye, and ye fought bravely," he said. "But what were ye doing on the battlefield, lass? It's no place for a woman. And I doona know why you're in such a hurry to return. I know of no British officer who would take kindly to the fact that you're wearing a stolen uniform."

Elizabeth frowned. "First you bash me in the side of the head, and now you call me a thief?"

He inclined his head at her. "Aye, and a damned foolhardy one at that."

Moving further away from him, along the wall, she crossed to the bed and sat down. "All right, so I stole it, but I was fighting for my country."

He palmed the hilt of his sword. "I think ye were fighting for more than that, unless ye know King George personally."

"Of course I do not."

"Then I reckon it's something else that got prickly under your corset, because I doona believe it's as simple as that. Yer regiment was ordered to retreat, but there ye were, leaping out from behind a rock, coming at me with vengeance in your eyes."

Her gaze lifted. "Is that how it looked to you?"

"Aye."

Nodding her head, feeling almost sick from the violent impulses that had plagued her on that battlefield, she curled her hands around the edge of the mattress. "I don't suppose you have anything to numb this pain?"

He was quiet for a moment, then disappeared through the curtain and returned with a bottle of something, which he uncorked with his teeth. "Moncrieffe Whisky, the best in the Highlands." He held it out to her.

"Do you not have a glass to offer a lady?"

He chuckled softly. "Is that what ye are now?"

Their gazes locked, and all the blood in her body seemed to rush to her head.

She swiped the bottle from his grasp, tipped it up and guzzled a few deep swigs. The spirit sizzled and burned down her throat, left her gasping for air.

"That ought to numb at least something," the Highlander said under his breath, as he took the bottle away from her.

Elizabeth waited a moment for the spirit to flow through her body, then worked hard to relax her mind. "Thank you."

The Highlander gave no reply. For the longest time, he simply stood patiently before her.

"Feelin' any better?" he asked.

"Yes." Cautiously, Elizabeth lifted her eyes again and took in the finer details of his clothing the colours and woven textures of his kilt, his brown leather sporran, the loose-fitting linen shirt and the plaid that was draped across his shoulder and pinned with a pewter brooch.

"Where am I, exactly?" she asked. "And what time of day is it?"

There was no window in the room, so she had no idea if it was morning or night.

"Doona worry," he replied. "You're safe here. This house belongs to a friend. And it's nearly ten."

"Ten at night?" Her heart began to race. "I've been unconscious all day?"

"Aye. To be honest, I wasna sure ye were going to survive."

"No thanks to you." She laid her hand on her cheek again.

"Ye had it coming, lass. Ye said so yourself."

Massaging her neck to squeeze out some tension, she had no choice but to surrender to the truth in his words. "I suppose I did."

She was keenly aware of the Highlander's movements as he approached the bed and sat down beside her. His nearness caused her senses to quiver and hum.

"Are ye going to tell me what you were doing out there on the battlefield," he asked, "and how ye came into possession of that uniform?"

Elizabeth set both hands on the edge of the mattress, and sighed heavily. "It belonged to my brother."

"Yer brother ..." he replied with some scepticism.

"Yes."

"Where is he now?"

She shot an angry look at him. "Where do you think?"

The Highlander regarded her intently, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet and low. "I'm very sorry, lass."

She scoffed. "Well! There it is at last exactly what I was looking for. An apology from a Scotsman."

"I dinna know your brother, so I canna apologise for anything. I was merely offering my condolences. And I doona think an apology was what you were looking for when ye tried to stick me with your bayonet."

She looked down at his lips and could not escape a heavy sense of defeat. "No, I suppose not."

"Vengeance comes with a price, ye know."

Elizabeth's heart began to ache. She wasn't sure how she would have felt if she had actually killed a man Scottish or otherwise. "No, I don't know," she replied. "Until these past few months, I didn't know anything about war and violence and killing, but now I've seen more of those things than I ever wished to see."

He took his time before responding. "When did your brother die?"

"Three weeks ago."

"Did ye witness it?"

Her eyebrows pulled together in a frown. "Yes. I was a nurse, doing what I could for this war. Is this some sort of interrogation?"

"Aye."

She recognized the steady purpose in his eyes and felt all the tiny hairs on her arms and legs stand on end. "What do you want from me?"

"I need to know your connections, lass."

Elizabeth swallowed uncomfortably. "Why?"

"Just tell me."

"Fine. Our father was an infantryman, but he died a year ago. My brother wanted to make him proud, and seek his own vengeance I suppose, so he signed up to follow in his footsteps and help crush this foolish rebellion."

"Foolish. Ye think the people of Scotland fight for no good reason?" The Highlander stared into her eyes for the longest time, then he tipped the bottle back and took a drink.

Elizabeth accepted it when he held it out to her, and took another drink.

"Ye should get some rest," he said, rising to his feet. "Ye canna go anywhere tonight. It's too dangerous, especially in that uniform, and if anyone finds out what you're hiding under it, you'll be no better off."

She arched a brow. "My shapely figure, you mean?"

His gaze flicked over the curve of her hip, then he turned to go. "Goodnight, lass."

Elizabeth quickly stood. "Wait. Are we alone here, or are there others? Am I being held prisoner?"

He kept his back to her. "Aye, there are others, but for now, it's just us. Get some sleep."

"But I've been sleeping all day," she argued, "and I'm hungry."

He halted at the curtain, while she waited uneasily for his response, wishing she knew what he meant to do with her.

At last, he glanced over his shoulder. "Follow me, then. Ye may sit at the table for a while and have some supper."

With that, he passed through the curtain and held it aloft, his eyes never leaving hers as he waited for her to join him.