"I heard ye were keeping a spy here," he growled, "and that she charmed ye into letting her live. Give her to me, Alex, and I'll take her to Perth. They'll know what to do with her."

"I'll do no such thing, Angus. The lady is under my protection. Go home now, and forget about her."

The hooded Highlander eyed her with sinister intent. "She's no lady if she's carrying dispatches to Argyll."

"She had nothing to do with that," Alex told him. "It's a stolen uniform she wears."

The Highlander scowled down at Alex, then turned his menacing blue eyes to Elizabeth. He studied her thoughtfully for a moment. "I can see why ye were so enchanted. She's a beauty to be sure, even in that uniform. Why don't ye let me come inside where we can talk about this. I'd like to see for myself how amiable she can be."

Alex cocked his pistol and took a persuasive step forward. "Ride out of here now, Angus, or I'll shoot ye through the heart."

The mounted Highlander raised both hands in the air. "Calm yourself, friend. I'll not intrude upon yer territory. If ye've already claimed her for yourself ..."

"I've claimed nothing, nor will you, not as long as I live and breathe. Be on your way now."

Angus studied him with cool eyes. "Yer too much like yer father," he said in a low, gruff voice. "Swiftly conquered by a pretty face."

He clicked his tongue and walked his horse away from the cottage. A moment later, he disappeared into the forest like a phantom, and Elizabeth let out a tight breath.

"I take it he was a friend of yours?"

"No' a friend," Alex replied. "He's a ruthless warrior with a heart made of ice." He swung around and eyed her with intensity. "Put your coat on, lass, and gather up yer weapons. We need to leave here. Now."

"Why? Will he return?"

"I can't be sure, but if he knows of your presence here, others might have learned of it, too. I canna promise you'll be safe. I must take ye to Edinburgh and deliver ye to your uncle."

Elizabeth needed no further bidding. She hurried to don her brother's red coat.

For the whole of the morning, they rode together on horseback through deep forests and steep-sided glens, making their way steadily south towards Edinburgh. At noon, they stopped to rest in a private glade and eat a small lunch of oatcakes and cheese, while the horse nibbled on sweet green grasses and drank from a shallow burn.

While they sat side-by-side on a fallen log, they spoke of many things the politics of the rebellion, their families, the death of Elizabeth's parents. She was pleased to learn that Alex's mother and father still lived, and were as passionately in love as they had been on their wedding day. Alex was the eldest of nine children, and he adored all his siblings. He had lost only one the younger brother who had followed him into danger.

It seemed impossible to imagine that a person could be so blessed during this time of war and rebellion. There was an abundance of love in Alex's life. He was very lucky, for there was no such abundance in hers.

That night, under the light of the full moon, Alex and Elizabeth reached a crofter's cottage on the edge of a fast flowing river, a few miles southeast of Falkirk. A black-and-white sheepdog barked at them as they emerged from the wood and crossed the meadow, but his tail began to wag when they were greeted a few moments later by their hosts in the stable yard trusted friends from Alexander's youth, a couple recently married and expecting their first child in the spring. Their names were Mary and Scott MacGregor.

Alex embraced them fondly and introduced Elizabeth, assuring them that her soldier's uniform was not a reason for concern. They seemed to trust him completely, and invited Elizabeth, without hesitation, into their home.

A short time later, they were all gathered around the table before the fire, enjoying a hearty supper of rabbit stew and dumplings. Alex arranged for a trade with the MacEwens: Elizabeth's uniform for a plain homespun skirt, a light shift, and stays. By the end of the evening, she could have passed for any typical Scottish lassie, born and bred in the Highlands. As long as she kept her mouth shut, no one would ever have guessed that she was born in England, and had crossed the Scottish border a few short weeks ago as a nurse with the British army carrying a dark cloud of vengeance in her heart.

"Will we reach Edinburgh tomorrow?" Elizabeth asked in a quiet whisper, as Alex approached to say goodnight. He would sleep in the stable, while she would enjoy a soft pallet by the fire.

"Aye, he replied. "We will reach your uncle's shop by late afternoon."

"But I don't know where it is, exactly."

He chuckled. "How many book shops can there be in Edinburgh, lassie? I would guess only one or two."

In the glow of the firelight, his eyes shone with vitality, and his hair fell in thick, shimmering waves on to his broad muscular shoulders. She felt rather intoxicated by his chivalry. How remarkable, that they had met on a battlefield only two days before and had tried to cut each other in half. It seemed impossible to imagine for in all the unforgettable moments since, Alexander MacLean had revealed himself to be a gentleman in every way. She had never felt more safe and protected.

Suddenly she realized that everything she'd ever believed about Scotland and its savage breed of Highland warriors meant nothing to her now. All she saw before her was a courageous and decent man who loved his family and wished to live honourably.

A man who sent a heady rush of desire and yearning into her blood.

She gazed wondrously at the beautiful pewter brooch that was pinned to the tartan at his shoulder, and reached out to touch it. How would she ever say goodbye to him tomorrow? She was not ready for that.

"Sleep well," he said, then leaned forwards to kiss her lightly on the lips.

The startling sensation of his mouth upon hers compelled her forwards, and what began as a tender kiss goodnight exploded into a powerful rush of unexpected passion. Her lips parted, and he responded by sweeping his tongue into her mouth, sending ripples of pleasure straight down to her toes. His hand slid around to the small of her back and he tugged her closer, roughly, crushing her breasts up against the solid wall of his chest as he groaned deeply and devoured her mouth with his own.

Gripping the fabric of his shirt in both fists, she held tight, fearing that her knees might buckle under the dizzying onslaught of her emotions. She had never been kissed like this before, and she had no idea how to manage it.

Quickly, he brought the kiss to an exquisite finish and took a step away from her. They stared at each other in dazed bewilderment. Heaven help her. She did not know what to say. There were no words.

"That was ... unexpected," he whispered.

Her heart began to race. What was happening between them? She was losing sight of all propriety, and wanted to pull him closer and drag him down to the floor. She wanted him to feel the weight of him on top of her. She wanted it with a primal madness she could not begin to comprehend.

Swallowing uneasily, she loosened her grip on his shirt, and dropped her hands to her sides. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

He chuckled. "No need to apologise, lass. Yer lips were sweeter than anything I've tasted in years."

She blushed and dropped her gaze to the floor.

"I've never met a woman quite like you before," he said, "and for that reason, I must leave ye now, because ye look too pretty in that frock, and ye smell good, too. I fear that if I doona back away now, I may do something far worse than just kiss ye goodnight."

Elizabeth shivered with excitement and longing. "Would that be so terrible?"

His eyes smiled at her, then he toyed with the hair over her ear, sending delightful shivers of desire across her flesh. She turned her cheek into the warmth of his wrist and let her eyes fall closed. All the hardships of the world seemed to float away like dust on a summer breeze, as she breathed in the musky scent of his skin ...

"I really must go now," he whispered in his deep Scottish brogue.

She did not try to stop him, for what she loved most about him was his integrity, and she did not wish to tempt him into doing something he might later regret.

"Goodnight," she said.

He paused at the door and spoke in a quiet, husky rumble. "Good night, Elizabeth."

She let out a soft sigh of besotted rapture, and then, to her hazy disappointment, he was gone.

A moment later, while still greatly aroused from their intimate encounter, Elizabeth settled down on the soft pallet by the fire, pulled the woollen blanket up to her shoulders, and watched the flames dance in the grate for quite some time before she finally managed to fall asleep.

That night, she dreamed only of Alexander MacLean's handsome face in the firelight, and the irresistible magic of his touch.

It had been almost ten years since Elizabeth saw her Uncle Charles, and she was not entirely sure he would recognize her when she walked into his shop. In the years since her mother's passing, they had exchanged very few letters, for he and her father did not agree on much of anything. Her uncle had the "unmitigated gall" to marry a woman from the Scottish Lowlands, and for that reason, they never shared the same political opinions. Hence, Elizabeth's connection to her uncle slowly dwindled away to nothing over the years. To be honest, she was not completely certain he still lived.

It was late afternoon by the time they rode into the crowded streets of Edinburgh. As they trotted through the tight congestion, past the street vendors who were shouting to sell their wares, the stench of stale rubbish assaulted Elizabeth's nostrils. Alex enquired about the bookshop, and they had to ask four people before an older man in spectacles and a tricorne hat was able to point them in the right direction.

Exhausted and hesitant about her future, Elizabeth locked her arms around Alex's waist and rested her cheek on his shoulder. With silent assurance, he steered them through narrow, winding streets.

At last, they came to a tiny bookshop on a busy lane, with a sign out front that said Morrison's Books. She knew they must be in the right place, for that was her mother's maiden name.

"I believe this is it." Elizabeth dismounted and stood on the walk for a moment, glancing over all the books in the paned window.

Alex tethered the horse to a post, then came to stand beside her. "I give ye my word that I will not leave ye," he said, "until I am satisfied that ye are in good hands."

A young boy ran by in a panic, cradling a chicken in his arms. Elizabeth jumped, and realized she felt rather panicked herself. She turned her eyes to Alex, and felt a terrible pang of dread in her belly, for she was not yet ready to leave him.

While the cold November wind lifted his long dark hair off his tartan-clad shoulders, he did not speak a word. Elizabeth shivered in the chill.

"It's time to go inside," he finally said, then took a step forward and opened the door.

"Elizabeth! My word, is it really you?" Her Uncle Charles came bounding down a creaky set of stairs with an open book in his hand. "What in God's name are you doing here?"

He was still as tall and slim as she remembered, but he had aged since she last saw him. His hair was bone white and pulled back in a braid, his skin had grown wrinkled, and he wore spectacles on his nose.

Carefully he navigated his way around tables piled high with dusty books and approached her. He removed his spectacles. "You look so much like your mother."

Elizabeth's heart swelled with both sorrow and joy, as her uncle pulled her into his arms and lovingly embraced her.

"I am so happy to see you," he said.

"And I, you," she replied, weeping and laughing at the same time.

Eventually he stepped back and fixed his spectacles on his nose. "I learned of your father's death," he said, "fighting for King George. I am sorry, Elizabeth."

She dropped her gaze. "Thank you, but I am afraid there is more bad news. James was killed as well, three weeks ago. I am the only one left of our family."

Charles laid a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. "No, Elizabeth. You are not alone. You have family here."

She clung to her uncle's steady gaze. He tapped her nose with the tip of his finger, as he used to do when she was a child, then glanced away, towards the door, where Alex was waiting.

"Who is this man?" her uncle asked. "And why does he carry such a big sword into my bookshop?"

Alex strode forwards. "My apologies, sir. I am Alexander MacLean of Duart Castle, and I fought in the battle at Sherrifmuir. That is where I met your niece."

"He has been my protector, Uncle," she quickly explained. "I was lost and alone after James was killed. Alex found me on the battlefield and saved my life. He has delivered me here safely, so I owe him a great debt."

"As do I, it seems." Charles reached out to shake Alex's hand. "Thank you for bringing my niece home. I should like to repay you somehow."

Alex shook his head. "There is no debt, sir."

"My wife is upstairs tending to our children," Charles replied. "Will you at least stay for supper?"

Elizabeth's heart began to pound, for she knew what Alex's answer would be. The time had come. He was going to leave her now, and she would have to say goodbye.

But she was not ready. She did not want to see him go ...

Alex paused. "I'm afraid I must return to Perth as soon as possible."

Every breath in her body came short. Her knees went weak under the weight of her anguish.

His eyes locked with hers, and neither of them spoke for what seemed an eternity. He palmed the hilt of his sword, and she wet her lips, feeling as if someone was slowly ripping her heart out of her body. She should say something. She should beg him to stay, just one more night ...

"I wish good fortune to you both." Alex bowed slightly, then turned and headed for the door. It opened and closed with the tinkle of a bell, and before she could work out what to do, he was gone.

The whole world fell silent, except for the beating of her heart in her ears, like thunder over her head.

No ...

Picking up her skirts, she dashed around the tables piled high with books, and ripped the door open on its hinges. She hastened out into the street. Her eyes darted left and right. His horse was already gone. Crowds of people and carriages obstructed her view in both directions. Where was he? And why hadn't she told him how she felt? How could she have let him go?

"Alex!" She rushed down the street, shouldering her way past hordes of people who blocked her way. Reaching the corner, she stood up on her toes. "Alex!"

But he was nowhere. He had left her to return to his home in the Highlands, and it was not likely she would ever see him again.

She laid her hand on the corner of a building, rested her forehead against it, and closed her eyes. A flash memory of the first moment she saw him on the battlefield came hurling back at her, and she remembered the frightening sound of their steel blades clashing against each other, and the fury in his eyes before he struck her down with his targe ...

Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined the battle would turn out quite like this. She had not expected to surrender so completely to her enemy in heart, body and soul.

It was a particularly wet spring in the Highlands, and by the end of April, Edinburgh was an utter sea of muck. Elizabeth had spent the winter mourning the death of her brother, while helping her uncle in his bookshop, assisting customers and organizing his inventory. Her cousins two boys and one girl, all under the age of ten lifted her spirits with laughter and games, but each night, after she read them their stories, she retired to her own chamber and whispered a quiet prayer for the safety and happiness of the Highlander who had rescued her from her vengeance. He never ventured far from her thoughts, and she often wondered what he was doing at any given moment during the day. While she was gazing out her window at the moon and the stars, was he, too, admiring the night sky from somewhere on the Isle of Mull?

She liked to imagine him riding his horse through a lush green glen, his dark hair blowing in the wind, his tartan pinned at his shoulder with that exquisite brooch she had once touched and admired. Eventually she began to think she was idealizing his memory, turning him into some sort of god-like, mythical hero, and she tried very hard to push him from her mind.

Then one day, on a clear afternoon at the end of April, while she stood on a stool dusting the books on the highest shelves the door of the bookshop opened and closed. The hanging bells chimed with their familiar hollow sound, and she heard light footsteps across the plank floor as she so often did, but she did not look away from her task, for her uncle was out front.

Something, however something she could not begin to explain caused her heart to beat a little faster. All the tiny hairs on her arms stood on end.

Lowering the dust cloth to her side, she stepped down from the stool and peered around the tall bookshelf. A dark-haired Highlander stood with his back to her while he spoke to her uncle. He wore a kilt, with a sword sheathed at his side.

Was it Alex? A hot fireball of excitement dropped into her belly, and she sucked in a breath to steady herself.

Do not be foolish, Elizabeth. You're dreaming again. Surely it couldn't possibly be ...

Then he turned around and met her gaze, and her heart exploded with a burst of radiant bliss. It was him! Her handsome, heroic Highlander!

What was he doing here? What did he want?

Struggling to contain the juddering thrills that were dancing up and down her spine, she swallowed hard and smoothed out her skirt, before taking a few tentative steps forward to say hello. They met in the centre of the shop, where sunlight streamed in through the windowpanes, creating a sparkling beam of hazy, dreamlike rapture.

"Alex."

She could think of nothing else to say.

His eyes filled with joy. "Ah, lassie. I'm pleased to see that ye did not forget me."

Elizabeth laughed out loud. "Forget you? Are you mad?"