Riding on Gealag, who confidently ascended the steep, rocky path leading up to the massive crest on which lay the Keep o’ the Mòr, Fiona took in deep breaths of the cool, bracing air as she gazed at the magnificent views all around her: gently rolling green hills, a lush meadow in which heather bloomed a vivid purple-pink, the immense mountain called Ben Macdui, and, past Castle Tadgh, a stunning blue loch, long and deep, whose placid surface reflected, mirror-like, the drifting clouds above.

Then she turned her eyes to the drawn-out cavalcade of which she was a part. Inevitably, it seemed, she looked, first and again, at Alasdair Penhallow. Wearing a tartan kilt and a close-fitting black jacket, he led the group riding his big handsome bay, with pretty Janet Reid alongside him perched on a horse she had chosen from the Penhallow stables. To Fiona’s experienced eye it did not seem that Janet had full control over her spirited mount, but there was no doubt that Alasdair Penhallow could very quickly assist her should she require it. Seldom had Fiona seen a more capable horseman, even among her own North Highlanders who were justly renowned for their equestrian skills.

Wynda and Mairi, as did the other women, traveled up the winding path in carts drawn by sturdy donkeys, with servants sitting on a high bench at the front guiding them. Wynda seemed bored, and Mairi, wrapped in an amethyst velvet cloak whose hood she had drawn about her golden head (creating a fetching halo-like effect), clutched her little dog to her and stared fearfully at the precipitous drop that loomed to one side, a scrubby sloping expanse littered with rocks large and small, as if carelessly tossed in a giant’s game of chance.

At length their party came around a bend in the path, and gathered on the broad, level crest which housed the old monastery. Despite her sardonic reply to Cousin Isobel last night, Fiona was, in fact, impressed by the Keep o’ the Mòr—by its sheer size, the looming immensity of its crenellated towers, its brooding splendor. The countless gray, rough-hewn bricks were very faded now, many of its windows only gaping holes, yet still it was impossible not to be struck by a powerful sense of its former dignity, solemn and grand.

Wynda Ramsay yawned.

“How charming!” cried Janet Reid, and flung herself off her horse with such gusto that Alasdair Penhallow just barely had time to catch her, and help set her feet, in scarlet morocco slippers, onto the ground.

Two dimples peeped on alabaster cheeks as she smiled up at him. “Oh, thank you, laird! What are we going to see first?”

“The lower two levels only,” he answered, “as the upper ones may not be safe.”

“Is there a dungeon? I would love to see a dungeon! Chains, and pincers, and all manner of nasty things!” Janet gave a dramatic shudder which set her emerald ear-bobs flashing in the sun.

Fiona couldn’t help it. She just couldn’t. She said chattily: “Yes, for our ancient monks are renowned for their cruel practices toward the worshippers they’d so often throw into their dungeons, aren’t they? And on the slightest of pretexts, too! A late arrival to services, a misspoken verse from a hymnal, and so on. I expect,” she added to Alasdair Penhallow, “the Keep’s dungeon has the customary walls that drip, bloodstains on the floor, bones scattered about, and rats?”

Mairi emitted a little shriek of horror and clutched at her father’s hand, Janet gave Fiona a hard look of dislike, and Alasdair Penhallow laughed.

“Alas, there’s no dungeon. I spent many a night as a lad camping up here with friends, and how we’d have rejoiced in such a thing! We had to satisfy ourselves with ghost stories, though, and the occasional brick falling down as we slept, scaring us out of our wits.”

Janet moved to Alasdair Penhallow’s side and slid her hand around his arm. “I’d be so frightened to do something like that! Unless I had someone to protect me, of course, and then I’d simply love it.”

Goaded beyond endurance, Fiona said: “As long as a brick didn’t fall on your head.”

“Shall we move on?” Janet sidled closer to Alasdair Penhallow, pointedly ignoring Fiona’s remark, and Fiona had just enough time to see the laughter fade from Alasdair’s eyes and into them come a somber, faraway look, as if he’d just remembered something that caused him pain—and then that expression vanished, he smiled down at Janet, and they both turned away.

Everyone dutifully followed in the laird’s wake and it took what little forbearance Fiona had left to remain silent when the subject of hermits came up and was animatedly discussed for a full half-hour; when Mairi (who felt a little dizzy looking down the twisting stone staircase) claimed Alasdair’s arm and crept along with such hesitancy that it took another half-hour for the group to finally convene on the ground floor; when, as they went outside to a pleasant sunny spot where the servants had laid down blankets and set out all the inviting elements of a picnic, Wynda, predictably, exclaimed:

“Dining on pleen air! Comment enshantee! And so fashionable! One might even fancy oneself at the Regent’s Park! That’s in London, you know,” she explained kindly.

“You are a veritable fount of information, Miss Ramsay.” Janet Reid, her face alight with mischief, sank gracefully onto one of the blankets.

“Merci,” said Wynda, as one benevolently acknowledging a compliment from a pitiful ignoramus.

“Yes, a fount.” Janet burst out laughing, and accepted from one of the servants a tall crystal flute of champagne.

Fiona sat by herself on a blanket at the furthest edge of the group, and proceeded to peacefully enjoy some very nice ham sandwiches as well as a generous serving of strawberries and two thick delicious slices of a fruit cake densely studded with almonds, currants, and raisins.

“My!” Janet Reid commented sweetly from afar. “You have quite the appetite, don’t you, dear Miss Douglass? And yet you’re so very slim! One might almost call you skeletal! I wonder, really, if you might not have a tapeworm.”

“Very possibly,” Fiona replied affably, and helped herself to a large wedge of buttery golden shortbread.

“I suppose,” Janet went on, a little less sweetly, “you’re sorry not to see haggis today, or the offal pot. Aren’t those the traditional dishes you Highlanders love to eat?”

Fiona wavered within herself. Mind your tongue, rise above. Her resolution held for exactly three seconds and then she said:

“Oh, dear me, no, Miss Reid. You mistake us for a clan that actually cooks its food. We normally eat our food raw. Why, we snatch the fish from Wick Bay with our bare hands, and eat it just like that, barefooted on the beach. Head, skin, guts, and tail. Still wiggling. Yes, it’s a simpler life we lead in the wilds of the north.” Reflectively she concluded, “I daresay that’s where we get the tapeworms from. Eating live fish. Or perhaps it’s the carrion. So hard to resist.”

Hastily Cousin Isobel put in: “Now, Fiona dear—”

She was interrupted by Janet Reid as a servant, refilling her champagne glass, misjudged the speed at which he poured and the frothy liquid overflowed, dripping onto the hem of her soft woolen pelisse. “Fool! Get away from me at once!”

Apologizing profusely, he stepped back, and another servant quickly came forward with a cloth to dab at the hem.

“It was but an accident,” said Alasdair Penhallow, pleasantly, and Janet smiled at him, saying with unshaken self-confidence:

“Oh, indeed, laird, but Mother says one has to be firm with the servants, or they’ll try to take advantage. Drinking up the spirits and thieving from the larder, you know.”

“On the other hand,” interpolated Fiona, in that same reflective manner, “one may, it’s said, catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. Or is that only your philosophy with the opposite sex, dear Miss Reid?”

Janet narrowed her green eyes, but before she could reply her mother said proudly, “My Janet is as clever as can be, laird! Once she caught a maid with a roll in her apron pocket and dismissed her on the spot—with such an authoritative air for one so young!”

Janet’s father added, with a fond twinkle in his eye, “She’s a brave one too, laird! Not the least bit afraid of bugs. Always squashing them, as bold as you please!”

“And so lively!” Mrs. Reid went on. “She insisted on making her debut at fifteen, and argued her case so convincingly, how could we refuse her?”

“Never saw such a girl who could hold her breath for so long without passing out,” said Mr. Reid, smiling at Janet.

“Oh, Papa, do stop boasting! It’s dreadfully embarrassing, and I simply loathe putting myself forward. The last thing I want is to make the other young ladies feel inadequate.”

“No use hiding your light under a bushel, puss.”

“It’s very true,” Isobel said judiciously, “but speaking of bugs, it seems only right to mention that they are all too often found living in bushels. Or would it be more accurate to say bushel baskets?”

“Well, if we’re to talk of bugs,” said Wynda Ramsay, “it’s outré to squash them, in my opinion.”

Fiona took another wedge of shortbread, and bit into it. She considered pointing out that certain types of spiders, for example, were actually very useful and ought not to be harmed, but why inject a note of dull common sense into this diverting conversation?

“And yet, Miss Ramsay,” Janet said sweetly, “what would you do if someone dropped a bug down the front of your gown?”

Wynda looked amazed. “A lady would never permit such a thing. Mon doo! It would be very poor form.”

“Then let us hope it never happens to you.”

“Now, Janet, I know your playful nature,” said her mother, laughing. “It’s so delightful! But surely you wouldn’t . . .”

“Oh, Mama, of course not,” replied Janet at once, demurely. Too demurely, and Wynda said, losing a little of her stateliness:

“At Miss Eglinstone’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, one of my acquaintances attempted to apple-pie my bed, and was very sorry afterwards.”

“And while we’re on the subject of apples, I once bit into one and found a worm,” Isobel said, with the air of one determined to steer the conversation into less controversial channels.

“Half a worm?” immediately inquired Duff MacDermott.

She glared at him. “An intact worm.”

“Lucky for the worm.” He laughed.

Then, rather to Fiona’s regret, Mairi said in a small, piteous voice:

“Laird, I’m getting cold. Please may we go?”

“You’re cold?” Janet swung around. “But it’s so delightfully warm up here in the sun, Miss MacIntyre!”

“Yes, but I’m delicate, you see, and very sensitive to the weather.”

“What an affliction you must find it,” Janet said, looking at Mairi as if she were a clump of thistledown about to blow away in the wind and scatter into a thousand little pieces of fluff. “I never feel the cold,” she added casually, but rather spoiled the effect by turning her glance meaningfully on Alasdair Penhallow.

She might as well have declared, thought Fiona, something like: Only a robust young lady will do for the wife of the great Penhallow!

Alasdair stood up. “Of course, Miss MacIntyre, we’ll leave at once,” he said courteously, and extended his big hand to her to help her up, her small white one seeming to disappear within it.

Lithe as a spring doe, Janet Reid jumped to her feet, shaking out her skirts, and said dulcetly, “Laird, do send a servant to assist Miss Douglass to stand. She’s not as young as she used to be, I fear.”

“Dear, dear, how right you are, Miss Reid,” responded Fiona, and allowed a servant to help her rise. She thanked him, and went on pensively, “I do hope I don’t expire of old age on the way back to the castle. So outré.”

“Yes,” agreed Janet, with poison in the sweetness, “I hope so too.”

As their group slowly made its way toward the horses and donkeys, Janet gaily darted about, joking with Duff MacDermott, flirting with Alasdair, hanging heavily on her father’s arm. Then she danced off to a low stone retaining wall and jumped onto it. As they advanced, the wall rose steadily higher until Janet was nearly over their heads but easily she balanced upon it, arms held out wide, her skirts fluttering in the breeze and displaying (for those who were interested) quite a bit of her shapely legs in elegant silk stockings.

“Janet!” called Mrs. Reid, a little nervously. “Do come down, darling!”

“Yes,” added her father, “go back, puss, to where the wall is lower.”

“I don’t believe in going back!” answered Janet, laughing. “I’ll come down at once.” And fearlessly she jumped, landing on her feet with the agility of a rope-dancer.

There were screams from some of the ladies and Duff MacDermott cheered, exclaiming: “Ach, the spirit of the lass! As bold as Scáthach herself!”

At this comparison of Janet Reid to the legendary warrior woman of Gaelic lore, Fiona said nothing, only looked on thoughtfully as a crowd gathered around Janet, praising, remonstrating, admiring, congratulating. Fiona went past them to where Alasdair Penhallow supervised the grooms as they made ready the horses, the donkeys, and the carts. He himself was checking one horse’s billets and girth, but straightened when she came close and quietly said:

“Laird.”

Alasdair looked down into the slender face of Fiona Douglass. Her eyes, he noticed, were now gray and grave.

“Aye?” he said neutrally.

She paused. “How do I say this tactfully? I’m not certain that Miss Reid selected the ideal horse for her abilities, especially since she’s now in a very—ah—high-spirited mood. Perhaps you might keep close to her on the ride back, as you did on the way here?”

He had had that very thought, but said, silkily, “And perhaps you might wish to ride on the other side of Miss Reid? Not only could you supervise her, you could continue to bait her as well.”

To his surprise, in Fiona Douglass’s expression there flickered what seemed to be genuine remorse. “Yes, it was very wrong of me. I shouldn’t have done it. As for Janet, I don’t suppose she can help herself, especially given how monstrously her parents indulge her. And she’s so young.”

“Here again we find ourselves discussing age. Why is that, I wonder?”

Her expression abruptly hardened. “That’s a very good question, laird, and it reminds me. Why aren’t you married? Being well on the way toward middle age, after all.”

“As a wise and mature lady once said to me, Miss Douglass, it’s none of your business.”

“True. Though naturally I’m curious. By the way, do you suppose Janet really will drop a bug down Wynda’s gown? If I were Wynda, I’d watch out.”

Alasdair looked at Fiona Douglass, standing so straight before him, so tall and slim, with that unusual silvery-blonde hair in a fat, shining braid down her back. He was conscious of a feeling of annoyance, and in the back of his mind he took a moment to ponder exactly why he felt that way. Felt bothered. Especially since he’d already made up his mind that she was off his list. In weeks, or even days, she would be gone from Castle Tadgh. Gone forever, and good riddance, and life would resume its easy, enjoyable, predictable course. He answered:

“The way Janet’s been looking at you, she may well drop a black-widow spider in your vicinity. And possibly apple-pie your bed, too.”

Surprising him again, Fiona laughed. She said, “You could be right. I’ll have to be on my guard.”

By now, annoyance was positively rippling through him. “As much as I’d like to stand around here all day chatting with you, Miss Douglass, I should probably go back to checking on this girth.”

“You’re right again,” she replied, unperturbed. “Don’t forget the billet.”

“I won’t,” he said coldly. “When I’m done with it, would you like me to inspect your rig?”

“No, laird, thank you. I prefer to do it myself.” And off Fiona Douglass went toward her big white horse, who greeted her with a friendly nicker.

As the cavalcade wound its way down the steep path, Fiona, from her vantage toward the back of it, swept her glance over certain members of the party. Sitting tall and straight in his saddle, Alasdair Penhallow kept Janet Reid close to him, and she, in turn, seemed to amuse and delight him very much, for very frequently did his laugh ring out.

Mairi sat huddled in her velvet cloak, her little dog on her lap, her mother’s arm snugly around her.

And there was Wynda, on her face once more a rather bovine look of ennui.

She looked again at Alasdair. She liked how he had, before the return journey began, gone over to talk a little with both Wynda and Mairi. Irritating he might be, but he did have good manners. Goodness, how red his hair looked in the bright sunlight!

She heard a faint little clucking noise, and realized it was Cousin Isobel, sitting alone in one of the pretty carts. With her graying curls flying loose from her coiffure, she was having a conversation—an argument?—with Duff MacDermott who rode alongside her, and he alternately chuckling and gesticulating frowningly. Isobel, in turn, looked rather like a plump little hen pecking at him.

A wry smile curved Fiona’s mouth. Now there was a well-suited couple, each of them, evidently, equally itchy. All that was needed was for him to scratch her arms, and her to scratch his beard, and it would be a match made in heaven.

When her amusement at this silly notion faded away, Fiona’s thoughts drifted on without direction.

Her visit to the stables, early in the morning, had been a fruitful one, for she’d been pleased to see that they were well-kept, well-staffed; the Douglass horses were well-tended. And the head groom, a grizzled, barrel-shaped fellow named Begbie, had stoutly promised to rid her carriage of fleas.

When it was time, Cousin Isobel could travel home in comfort.

Home.

Was she herself looking forward to being back there? To the massive old keep in Wick Bay, always turbulent with Father’s shifting moods, ever filled with the shadows of her own disappointment?

She heard in her mind Alasdair Penhallow’s voice:

Here again we find ourselves discussing age. Why is that, I wonder?

Was it possible that she was, in fact, rather jealous of Janet Reid? So young, so lovely—so attractively plump—and with so many years of promise, of potential, ahead of her?

Fiona rolled this unpleasant idea around in her mind.

Good heavens, had she somehow become a sour old maid?

She was only twenty-seven.

Or, stated another way, she was all of twenty-seven.

Were the best years of her life behind her?

You face in the wrong direction, lady, you stare at the moon, ever changing.

The solemn, eerie voice of little wall-eyed Sheila now insinuated itself into her head.

You look but you do not see. Turn about, lady, turn about.

Despite herself, Fiona shivered a little in the brisk breeze that swirled about her, playing with the hem of her gown, the white ruffles at her wrists.

Her slender—bony—wrists.

My! You have quite the appetite, don’t you? And yet you’re so very slim! One might almost call you skeletal!

She really shouldn’t have teased Janet Reid like that. Father was right about her sharp, sharp tongue.

Janet, boldly jumping off that high stone wall, landing as gracefully as a bird.

Sheila’s eerie voice, directed toward Janet:

You leap, but should not. You go, but you ought not.

Fiona’s shiver turned into an involuntary shudder, and she turned her eyes again toward the head of the cavalcade, to where Alasdair Penhallow rode next to Janet Reid, whose emerald ear-bobs glittered so brightly in the sun that it almost hurt to look at her.

There was a tour of the castle one afternoon; then, on a warm halcyon morning, a walk through the gardens, which were exquisite, followed by another picnic, this one by the river. Those who cared to could fish, and nearby, from a gracious old oak tree hung a wide wooden swing, on which Mairi joyfully allowed herself to be swung back and forth until suddenly she got nauseous, and had to lie down with her head in her mother’s lap.

On the next day, they all visited an impressive waterfall.

The day after that, the men went shooting while the ladies hung back and watched; later, there was an archery competition on one of the wide lawns, and here the men were to watch while the ladies drew their bows.

Fiona looked over at Janet who, wearing a charming gown of snow-white lawn, was inspecting a cluster of arrows laid out on a table. Here, she thought, might be an opportunity to improve relations between them. She joined Janet and said in a pleasant tone:

“Which do you prefer, Miss Reid, those blue ones or the white ones?”

Janet turned on her a sparkling look of challenge. “Why? So you can have the ones you like better?”

Rise above, Fiona reminded herself. “Some people favor broader fletches. I was wondering what you’ve found most effective.”

“It’s hardly information I’d like to share, Miss Douglass.”

Fiona tried another, more neutral tack. “You’re from the Lowlands, I believe? I’ve heard archery is very popular there.”

“Well, and what of it?”

“You’ve played the sport for a long time?”

“Oh, yes. But you, of course, have the advantage over me in that regard, Miss Douglass.”

With an effort, Fiona kept her voice pleasant. “Inevitably, I fear. Have you lived in the Lowlands all your life?”

“Yes, but I’m looking forward to a change in the very near future.”

Rise above. “Have you brothers and sisters back home, Miss Reid?”

“No, and aren’t I lucky? How tedious it must be.”

“I’ve always felt lucky to have sisters.”

“Well, and there we go—differing yet again.” Janet smiled, showing all her teeth in a grin that struck Fiona as rather feral. “It’s been lovely having this time with you, dear Miss Douglass. But if you’ll excuse me? I’d like to concentrate on choosing my arrows. I intend to win, you see. Win everything, if you know what I mean.”

“Miss Reid, it’s only a silly competition. And I’m not your rival.”

“Well, you’re mine.” And Janet deliberately turned her back to Fiona.

That was that, then. Fiona was very fond of archery, but withdrew from the event and sat on the sidelines to watch, a goblet of cool lemonade in her hand. Looking on the bright side, she’d at least made the attempt. Also, nobody had dropped a bug down her gown.

So far.

Teas, nuncheons, dinners; long, festive evenings in the Great Drawing-room during which the company was treated to performances on the pianoforte by Wynda, whose playing was mediocre despite years of lessons, and also by Janet, who demanded her turn despite very little training, and whose playing was even worse (although glowingly acclaimed by her parents). Mairi sang in her high, sweet, true little voice, and sometimes Alasdair Penhallow joined her, his own deep voice harmonizing very pleasantly.

After one such duet, Alasdair thanked Mairi MacIntyre, smiling, and looked around the room. He’d already spent a half-hour conversing—if one could call it that—with Wynda Ramsay, whose mangled French made it sometimes difficult to follow her, and then another half-hour with Janet Reid, who was bubbling over with excitement about tomorrow evening’s ball, and so it would have been less than civil of him to not go and talk with Fiona Douglass. Besides, they’d barely spoken a word since his curt rebuff at the Keep o’ the Mòr.

Looking very self-contained, even rather aloof, she was sitting in an armchair near a window, her head bent over some sewing. She was wearing a white muslin gown, its hem and sleeves embroidered in gold thread, and with the dark green window-hangings behind her creating a vivid contrast, and her pale hair illuminated by flickering candlelight, she reminded him a little of a figure in a painting, perhaps something soft and infinitely subtle by Vermeer.

She looked up as he approached.

“May I join you, Miss Douglass?” he asked, a little warily.

“If you like, laird,” she said politely, and went on sewing.

He sat down, crossed one leg over the other, and watched her needle flashing in and out of a length of soft crimson flannel. Well, now what? What could they talk about? He’d be circumspect, this time, and avoid any mention of age and marriage. There was always the weather. Christ’s blood, not that, he’d already discussed it ad nauseum with a dozen people tonight. What else? Miss Ramsay had, as far as he could tell, been talking about London, unaware of the fact that he’d never been there and would never, ever set foot anywhere in the whole of England, as he despised everything Sassenach. So London as a conversational topic was decidedly out. Miss Reid, for her part, had gone on and on about dancing. He enjoyed dancing, but to listen to someone soliloquizing about steps, and slippers, and all the dancing-masters she’d had, because they’d had to let go one after another—because they all fell hopelessly in love with her—

Alasdair shifted restlessly in his chair. It occurred to him that this extended house party was starting to get on his nerves. He’d initially welcomed having a leisurely thirty-five days, but now they were, frankly, starting to drag. Maybe he should make his decision sooner, rather than later. Wouldn’t it have been nice to have had more than four—no, three—viable candidates?

His mind leaped back to fifteen years ago, to the girl for whom he would have cheerfully moved heaven and earth.

To Mòrag.

But she was dead and gone . . .

With an iron inflexibility Alasdair brought himself back to the present moment. To the here and now, to reality, to the Tome’s decree, and to his own desire to remain in the here and now, alive.

Fiona Douglass said, “That was a charming rendition of ‘Annie Laurie.’”

She’d given him some purchase, and he seized upon it. “Thank you. Do you like to sing?”

“Not really.”

“Do you play an instrument?”

“No. My mother tried to interest me, but I’m not very musical, I’m afraid.”

“Nor interested in cards, either? You’ve not been joining in.”

“No. Quite the dull stick, aren’t I?”

He groped for something else to say. “Dancing?”

“No.”

This was not encouraging. “What do you like to do for fun?”

“I like to ride. And read. And work in my garden. I enjoy sewing and knitting, too.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, I do like food.”

“And?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“I like to ride, and to read, too, Miss Douglass. And I’m fond of a good meal also. But it wouldn’t be enough for me.”

Fiona shrugged, as if indifferent. “To each his own.”

He leaned forward. “Do I detect, perhaps, a hint of criticism in your voice?”

At last she looked up from her sewing, brows lifted. “Why on earth would I criticize you, laird? We’re parting ways soon enough, after all.”

She was so cool, so composed. So incredibly annoying. He said, edgily, “I could choose you.”

She laughed. “Against my will? Dear me. What a delightful marriage that would be.”

He couldn’t stop himself, and replied, with mockery playing in his tone, “After nearly a week together, you haven’t changed your mind about me?”

“No.”

To his surprise, the cynical humor faded from her expression and she looked at him very thoughtfully.

“But I’ve seen how other women respond to you. As if—oh, I don’t know, as if you’re the sun, ever shining, and they’re flowers seeking your warmth.”

“Very poetic.”

“A garden metaphor. It seemed to fit.”

“Yes, but comparing women to flowers? A wee bit stale.”

“True. I suppose it’s the colorful gowns that made me think of it. The point is that women like you. And you obviously like them.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I didn’t say there was. There’s no need to be defensive.”

“I’m not,” he said, defensively.

“We’ve wandered off track. I’ve also observed how you wear your authority absolutely, but lightly. That you have a nice way with servants. That your clan obeys you without reserve. That you have great material wealth, and you live in a marvelous home in a breathtakingly beautiful part of the world. And yet . . .”

“And yet what?” he asked, more sharply than he intended. And yet. Together they were two of the most irritating—defiant—troubling words in the world. God’s blood, but Miss Fiona Douglass got under his skin in a way he didn’t care for one iota. “Should I prepare myself for a catalogue of my faults? Or a further recitation of all the scurrilous gossip you’ve heard about me?”

Fiona blinked, as if she’d abruptly been jerked from a dream, and focused on his face, on the fiery gem-like brilliance of his eyes. She’d gone and let her tongue run away with her. Again. She’d just been about to say And yet there’s something missing in you.

Quickly she looked back down at her sewing. At the soft flannel bed-gown she was making for Nairna in her forthcoming confinement. For the baby she had conceived with Logan Munro.

Fiona almost laughed out loud. And with a certain bitterness. She was a fine one to talk about something missing.

“And yet nothing, laird,” she said, and to her then came rushing a confusing torrent of thoughts and emotions: a strong desire to change the subject, a painful feeling of vulnerability, a sudden strange wish to see that hard look in his eyes soften. She went on, a little shakily and almost at random:

“Speaking of gardens, what do you—”

But here was Janet Reid, young and lovely in her emeralds and silk. “Oh, laird, won’t you show us that card trick again? We all want so much to see it!”

And she swept him away.

Fiona kept her eyes on her sewing, glancing up only once, when she heard the now-familiar sound of Alasdair Penhallow laughing. Apparently he’d made the jack of spades appear and disappear seemingly at his will. Sitting on the arm of his uncle Duff’s chair, his white teeth displayed in an engaging smile, Alasdair held the deck in one long-fingered hand as he swept a mock-complacent half-bow while the others applauded.

“Again!” cried Janet Reid playfully. “I’ll learn your ruse, laird, I swear I will!”

“Never, Miss Reid,” he answered, just as playfully. “I must keep some of my secrets intact.”

“To be sure, to be sure!” chimed in Duff MacDermott, chuckling, lifting his brandy glass in salute. “Come hell or high water, a man’s life is his own!” He saw Isobel frowning at him and added facetiously, “Begging your pardon, ma’am, at my rough language!” Then he finished his brandy at a gulp and managed with only partial success to suppress a burp.

It was at this precise moment that Fiona realized she was getting tired of this absurd event at Castle Tadgh. Being around Alasdair Penhallow was getting increasingly less pleasant, for somehow, he seemed to make her question things about herself —her life—in an unsettling way.

Well, so what if she was a dull stick?

It was nobody’s business but hers.

Fiona looked back down again at the crimson flannel she’d selected with such care—its color would set off to great advantage Nairna’s white complexion and dark hair—and felt her heart twist within her. Grimly she went back to her sewing, and was glad, glad, when the evening was over and she could escape to her luxurious bedchamber, shutting the door firmly behind her. But some ten minutes later, as she sat at the dressing-table, brushing out her hair with long strokes of the brush, there was an agitated tap on the door.

“Yes?” Fiona said reluctantly, already knowing who it was.

“My dear, may I come in?”

“Certainly, Cousin.”

Isobel opened the door and hurried inside, very nearly quivering with outrage, and plunked herself in the little chair next to the dressing-table. “You’ll never guess what that awful man told me!”

“Which awful man?”

“Why, Mr. MacDermott, of course!”

“Ah.” Fiona didn’t stop brushing. “Let me guess. He loves you and wants to marry you,” she said flippantly.

“My dear! What in heaven’s name are you saying? If I didn’t know better, I would think you’ve been imbibing! No, Mr. MacDermott—who decidedly had been drinking! Did you see how many brandies he consumed?—told me that the local gentlemen are placing bets among themselves as to whom the laird will choose!”

“Oh, who cares? Some men do that sort of thing all the time. I remember one night Father went outside with his cronies, put down a pan of oatmeal, and they bet each other as to how long it would be before a raccoon would come along and eat it.”

“Really?” inquired Cousin Isobel, diverted. “Who won?”

“Nobody. One of the dogs got out and ate it.”

“Well, that simply proves my point about betting! At any rate, Mr. MacDermott says that Janet Reid—and by the way, I’m nearly positive she cheated during the archery competition!—is the frontrunner, and that you and Wynda Ramsay are tied for last. It’s outrageous, and so I told that man, but he only laughed. I vow I had to stop myself from tweaking that beard of his!” Isobel’s eyes now shone with tears. “Fiona, dear, I’m so sorry we ever came here! I practically forced the girl who brings my chocolate in the mornings to tell me all about Alasdair Penhallow, and the things she said! I absolutely cannot repeat them to you. But the drinking, and the wenching! I’ve never been more horrified in my life. Why, for his birthday celebration last month—no. I cannot repeat it. But the drinking, and the wenching! I know this sounds dreadful, but I’m glad you’re last! I wish we could leave tomorrow!”

Fiona’s hand halted, and, not for the first time, she puzzled over Cousin Isobel’s lightning-fast thought process—if it really could be considered a thought process at all. Were little Sheila standing by, she would in all probability say, You are a leaf in the wind, madam, blown hither and yon, without rudder or sail. Then Fiona went back to brushing her hair, with long, deliberate strokes. “If it’s a comfort to you, Cousin, I couldn’t care less where I’m situated in the rankings. But given that I’m faring so poorly, the odds are good you’ll get your wish.”

Isobel brightened. “That is a comfort to me, dear! Now! What are you going to wear to the ball tomorrow night?”

“Oh, good heavens, what a bother. You know I don’t dance. I’d much rather stay here and have a bath and read a book.”

“But all the local gentry are to come, and there’s to be a full orchestra—and I heard they may play some waltzes! Oh, I’d love to try that. It’s been so long since I’ve danced . . .”

“You have my permission,” said Fiona, bored, and stood up. “Now, may I escort you to the door? I’m to bed, for—” She smiled a little, but very ironically. “For I need my beauty sleep, you know.”

This had instant appeal to Cousin Isobel, who at once departed in a hurried bustle, only pausing on the threshold to adjure Fiona, most earnestly, to sleep on her back, by far the best preservative of the female complexion. When Fiona did get into her bed, she blew out her candle and promptly turned onto her side. And stared, without expression, without hope, into the darkness.

The ball was a huge success, and Mairi MacIntyre was indubitably the belle of it, looking so much like a fairy princess in her shimmering white gown that Janet Reid was catapulted into a barely contained fury. From her seat among the matrons and dowagers, Fiona observed with mild interest as Janet threw herself into every dance with a coquettish energy bordering on abandon, and also she noticed that while Alasdair Penhallow danced every dance—although not with her, for she adamantly refused all offers including his—he also was several times in deep discussion with little clusters of the local gentlemen, their voices low and their faces serious.

It was a new glimpse of the great Penhallow: no smile, no laugh, no light riposte or lively flirtation.

What, Fiona wondered, was going on?

Her curiosity was heightened when, the next morning, she went to the stables to have Gealag made ready for a ride and was informed by Begbie with gruff politeness that the laird had forbidden such activities for all his guests.

Not long after that, at breakfast, Duff MacDermott told everyone to remain inside.

“Oh, but why?” said Janet, scowling. “We were to hunt today, and I was so looking forward to it!”

“Laird’s orders.”

“Where is the laird? And if these are his orders, he ought to be telling us himself!”

Looking goaded, Duff said, “There’ve been some problems from the Dalwhinnie clan. They’re notorious horse-thieves—and worse —and in the last day or two have gotten too close to home for the laird’s comfort.”

“What do you mean by ‘worse’?” cried Mairi, her face as white as snow.

Janet laughed scornfully. “How stupid it all is! I’m not afraid in the least! I think it’s terribly exciting!”

“No, it’s dreadful!” worriedly put in the father of Wynda Ramsay. “What is being done?”

“The laird and a goodly number of his men are patrolling as I speak, and he’s set other men to guard the castle and the stables. But as a precaution, he asks that everyone obey him in this matter.”

There were nervous murmurs among the guests, and many went immediately to their own quarters, as if to barricade themselves from harm. An ominous quiet seemed to descend upon the castle, and the air itself to vibrate with unease. Fiona saw Cousin Isobel, anxious and fluttering, to her bedchamber, then went to her own rooms where she changed out of her light morning-gown into a heavier day-dress, fastening underneath it a large pair of heavy cotton pockets. Hardly fashionable, but very practical, especially at a time like this.

Fiona pulled on her tall sturdy boots, braided her hair, and removed from one of her trunks a flat leather case. In it were her pistols. Carefully she checked them, loaded them, slid them into her pockets. Finally she wrapped a large, warm tartan shawl about her shoulders, and made her way downstairs. When she came to a side hallway that led outdoors and to the stables, she encountered Duff MacDermott emerging from stairs that, she assumed, led to the cellars, for in each hand he carried a tall bottle of some spirit or another.

“Here now, lass!” he sputtered. “What’re you about? Can’t leave the castle! Laird’s orders, don’t you know!”

“Stand aside, old man,” answered Fiona coldly. “If you believe I’m going to allow the Douglass horses to be harmed, you’re even stupider than I thought.”

“There are guards, and grooms!”

“Yes. But they’re my horses, and I take care of my own.”

Duff was plainly so astonished—and also, perhaps, already half-drunk—that he made only a feeble resistance as Fiona strode past him.

She met with stouter opposition when she reached the stables, but brushed it aside with such cool implacability that reluctantly, the men allowed her to go inside. She checked on the Douglass’s carriage horses. Satisfied, she found a stool and placed it just outside Gealag’s stall. Softly she spoke to Gealag, who with a troubled whinny had stuck his great white head over the gate; she stroked his velvety ears and forehead, gave him some chunks of sugar, and at length he calmed, relaxed. His head drooped and he seemed almost to lapse into an easy slumber.

Fiona sat on the stool, pulled her shawl tightly around her to ward off the morning chill, and waited. Aside from low-voiced exchanges among the men from time to time, all was quiet. The long hours ticked by, and still Fiona sat, upright, listening.

Then, as the cheerful yellow sunlight of afternoon reached its peak, she heard in the distance faint, hoarse shouts and the muted crack of muskets firing. She slid her hands into her pockets and groped for the reassuring feel of cool metal.

The men muttered; moved about, shuffled their feet as if longing to be out and into the fray.

“Stay at your posts, lads,” one of the guards commanded. “The laird said we must stay.”

“Aye,” Fiona heard them say, “Aye,” and was impressed by their instant obedience.

Suddenly, startling her, there was a commotion from within, protests from the men, and Fiona caught the high-pitched sound of a woman—a girl—laughing.

Oh, Lord in heaven, no, she thought angrily, standing up.

Floating to her from across the vast stables came Janet Reid’s voice, gay and vibrant.

“Move, you dolts! I saw them from my window! I’m going to show the laird that I’m just like Scáthach!”

The sound of rapid hoofbeats. A triumphant peal of laughter.

“Marston, get your horse, quickly, man, and you, Waldroup, get my own!” barked that same guard, “the rest of you stay here,” and for a few seconds, Fiona was so furious at Janet she considered the simple expedient of doing nothing. But she remembered her own words to Alasdair Penhallow—I don’t suppose she can help herself, especially given how monstrously her parents indulge her . . . And she’s so young — and thought of her little sisters, and in a flash she had pulled open the stall door, thrown a bridle over Gealag’s head, was on that broad white back, astride it, and riding after the foolish, the terribly foolish Janet Reid.

Fiona burst into bright sunlight, and saw ahead of her Janet on a raw young piebald too strong for her. Nor was Janet a capable enough rider to be on him without a saddle. The piebald bolted, veering toward a cluster of men in ragged tartans, their faces painted blue and all of them wielding muskets and swords. Janet screamed, a high, desperate sound that carried all too clearly over the shouting, and to her right came an answering shout from—quickly Fiona glanced to the side as she bent low over the racing Gealag—Alasdair Penhallow, riding fast on his bay toward Janet, a large group of his men right behind him.

Fiona saw him say something over his shoulder to the men, and several of them immediately separated, making straight toward the blue-faced men, and he continued toward Janet, whose screaming seemed to go on and on, as frantically she pulled on the piebald’s reins. Behind Fiona came hoofbeats from the stable, but not quickly enough; she herself gained on Janet, got closer, but when she was about fifty feet away, watched helplessly as the piebald, plainly resenting the desperate rider sawing clumsily on its reins, twisted its mighty head and reared up on its hind legs, sending Janet tumbling to the ground, where she lay very still.

Within seconds, Alasdair Penhallow was there, had leaped from his horse, knelt down by that unmoving form. There was a whoop from behind him and a crack, and Alasdair abruptly pitched forward. One of the Dalwhinnies, some thirty paces away, grinned and dropped his musket, then reached for the other one strapped across his chest. He cocked it. Aimed it at Alasdair. Wanting to be sure the laird was dead.

But he hadn’t reckoned on Fiona, who had swiftly brought Gealag to a halt, slid to the ground. Pulled out from her pocket one of her pistols, and without hesitation shot the blue-faced man in the heart. Looking surprised, he dropped the musket and crumpled to the ground. Fiona pulled out her other pistol and held it steady, keeping watch, waiting until Alasdair’s men had killed—been killed—and captured any remaining Dalwhinnies, and it was all over.

It wasn’t till much later, when Fiona was alone in her bedchamber, that she cried, covering her face with hands that still smelled of gunpowder and steel.

Cried without making a sound, and for a very long time.

Then, slowly, carefully, she washed her hands. Dried them, and her face, too.

And she went to find Janet’s parents, to see if she could do anything to help them.