Paul Fraser’s voice was flat, holding a lifetime of pain in those three words. “The Sassenach bastard hanged my father.” He looked half-wild with grief and anger, and Juliette Andrews’s heart broke for him. Never before had she seen Paul this upset. His cropped black hair was matted, his blue eyes shadowed, as if he hadn’t slept in days. Perhaps he hadn’t eaten, either. All the air seemed to leave her lungs, and she demanded, “What do you mean, they hanged him? Why?” “No’ here.” Paul took her palm as he guided her across the glen and toward the hillside. A small copse of pine trees would hide them from open view, and she followed him into the shadow of the woods. Juliette held on to her skirts, stepping carefully over fallen logs and past the underbrush. Though her family would be furious with her for stealing away alone with him, she didn’t care. In her eyes, there was no harm in it. Paul was seventeen, while she was only fourteen. From the day she’d arrived in Scotland a few months ago, she’d been fascinated by the handsome Highlander.
