Davina floated home on a cloud of happiness. From being bored, lonely and miserable, to being happy, to being sad again, then absolutely ecstatic after meeting Athol, it had been an exciting day. She could not stop thinking about him all the way home and her whole body tingled as she thought of the way he had smiled at her from his warm hazel eyes. How pretty you have become, he had said, you have beautiful eyes. Davina laughed out loud. He did not even mind that she was carrying a little excess weight!

She wondered whether he would ask her father’s permission to court her now and come calling on her to sit with him in front of the fire and drink spiced wine and whiskey. How wonderful that would be. She had visions of herself sitting on the big couch with her head on his shoulder. He might lie there with his head on her lap or she might even sit on his. At any rate, they would be content to say nothing but enjoy the peaceful silence and the close proximity of each other’s bodies. It would be glorious.

Here she found her dream dissolving, however. Despite what Athol had said, there were so many prettier girls out there, all within marrying age, and all slimmer and lovelier than she was. They were the daughters of lairds, barons, gentlemen, and knights. What chance did she have among such competition?

She sighed, feeling sad once more. How thoroughly Athol Murray had upset her equilibrium. Damn him! Even his name was gorgeous, so she tried it on for size. Davina Murray—it was perfect! No, Davina, she scolded herself inwardly, put him out of your mind, for he is quite out of your reach.

When she got home she went straight to her bedroom, where her temporary maid, Morag, took off her riding clothes and turned down her bed so that she could nap for a while. Sleep was the last thing she wanted, but she laid down anyway. She watched as the day faded into night and the clouds shed their load of rain, then she sighed and got up. It was almost time for dinner, and as usual, she was as hungry as a horse.

As she looked in the mirror, she made a promise to herself. I will eat less and become as slim as the Laird Andrew's daughter, she resolved, and if I cannot have Athol, I will have an equally worthy young man. By the time she reached the dining room, her mother and father had already sat down and were waiting for her. Her mother was frowning deeply.

“It is very rude to keep your dinner companions waiting,” Una commented crossly, “even if they are only your mother and father.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling fondly at both of them, "I fell asleep and told Morag not to wake me up.” It is amazing how fluently lies trip off my tongue these days, she thought ruefully.

She usually tucked into her dinner with fervor and enjoyment, but that night she dined slowly and ate only morsels of meat and bread. Una noticed at once. "Is the food not to your liking, Davina?” she asked, concerned.

“In truth,” Davina replied, “the venison is a little strongly flavored, but my stomach is a little upset.” She coughed delicately and Una nodded in understanding. Ruaridh, who was always embarrassed by women’s bodily concerns, pretended not to notice and stolidly went on with his meal.

“I will have Morag wrap a hot stone for you,” Una said. A hot stone wrapped in a woolen blanket was a sure cure for every type of stomach ailment, in Una’s opinion. It helped sometimes, Davina had to admit, but it would do no good tonight when the ache was entirely mythical!

“I met Athol Murray today,” Davina said airily, taking a sip of ale.

“Hmph!” Ruaridh said grumpily, “he is going to make a fine laird, but he thinks entirely too much of himself. Handsome is as handsome does, I say.”

“You just said he would make a fine laird,” Davina pointed out, “so he must be doing something right.”

“The proof of the pudding is in the eating,” Ruaridh said firmly. He loved metaphors, thinking they made him sound wise, but they were mostly clichés. It was one of the little idiosyncrasies that made Davina love him so much.

Her father was in his late fifties now and his formerly charcoal black hair was receding and turning white. His bright blue eyes were fading to gray, and Davina had realized a while before that he was becoming an old man. Sixty was a long life for a man, and Davina had a feeling that she would be saying goodbye to him before long. She would miss him sorely, but her mother would be devastated. He was the love of her life, despite the considerable difference in their ages.

Una was just the opposite. At the age of forty-three, she looked like a woman ten years younger. She was slim and fit, and her dark blonde wavy hair, so much like Davina’s, had hardly a thread of gray in it.

Davina finished the small portion of her meal that she had allowed herself to eat then stood up. “I am going to bed,” she announced, smiling at them and making sure to grimace a little in pain. She kissed them both and went upstairs to her bedroom. The hot stone was there wrapped in two warm blankets, as well as a cup of willow bark tea which she emptied into her chamber pot. It might have been a good painkiller, but it tasted disgusting.

Even though it had been an unusual and exciting day, Davina fell asleep at once. However, her dreams that night were haunted by a beautiful pair of hazel eyes.

It had been a strange day for Athol too. He rarely had a day to himself, for a start, and it had been an unexpected pleasure to encounter Davina, whom he remembered with fondness from a few years before. She had grown up to be a pretty girl, although her plumpness was a trifle off-putting. She was good to talk to, though, and he could imagine that they could be good friends in a brother-and-sister kind of fashion. He looked forward to seeing her again.

---

Damn it! He thought suddenly, as he remembered that he had asked his friend Lyle for dinner and he was late. He lit his lantern and spurred his horse Jock into a faster trot since a canter was impossible on the winding, stony path. Then he went home, fabricating excuses all the way there.

Lyle Shaw was Athol’s best friend in the whole world. They had known each other since they were five years old and had the same riding teacher. He was the son of a local gentleman whose estate was not quite as large as Blairmore. Their friendship had grown stronger over the years but they had always been fiercely competitive. Physically, they were exact opposites. Athol was tall, broad and dark, while Lyle was shorter, wirier and extremely fair.

When they were ten-years-old they would arm-wrestle over who would eat the last honey cake, take bets on who could throw stones further, and of course run races to see who came in first. It was usually Athol who won these since he was taller and stronger, but Lyle could beat him in other ways. He was an expert chess player and Athol had never won a game against him. His sword and fencing skills were superb as was his command of French, Latin, and Greek.

As they became older, the rivalry shifted focus slightly. They became more interested in impressing the opposite sex and, despite his good looks, Athol did not win every maiden by any means. Lyle was intelligent, funny as well as being a good listener, and he knew how to flatter. Athol, having been bested in so many contests of the heart, finally began to realize that he would have to employ some of Lyle’s tactics and learn to listen to what others had to say instead of enjoying the sound of his own voice. His mother had been right. The world did not revolve around Athol Murray.

So, they both grew up to be strong men and, although Athol had to constantly wrestle with the demon of vanity, at least he recognized it. When he forgot, Lyle was always there to remind him. Lyle was there now, sitting at the dinner table talking to Athol’s mother Lorina, who looked up at him with a face like the onset of a thunderstorm.

“Good evening, Athol,” she said cuttingly, “I see that the stomach cramps have gone. What a stroke of good fortune!” Lorina’s sarcasm had always been her best weapon, but Athol had learned to reply in kind.

“Indeed, Mother, ‘tis a miracle!” he said joyfully. “One minute I was moaning in pain and the next minute—poof! It was gone!”

Lyle was laughing helplessly by this time and despite herself, Lorina joined in. When Athol’s father came in he looked no less angry, but he sympathized with his son's need to get away and be alone for a while. Athol now carried a load of responsibility on his shoulders and Duncan knew from experience that it was not easy, since he had done it himself for many years. Nominally, Duncan was still the laird, but ninety percent of the work was done by his son.

“Guess who I met today?” Athol said, pouring himself an enormous

tankard of ale.

“Enlighten us,” Lyle replied, disposing of what seemed like half a salmon in three bites.

“Davina Anderson,” Athol answered. "I have not seen her for three years. She looks very pretty if a little on the round side. Still, maybe she will improve with time.”

Lyle frowned at him with narrowed eyes. “One of these days a woman is going to turn her nose up at you,” he warned, “and I hope I am there to see it. There are other handsome men around here, you know!”

Lorina was silent but smiled. Lyle was almost a member of the family and had earned the right to be brutally frank.

“Anyway,” Lyle went on, "I see her quite frequently at Mass. She’s a very pleasant girl and will make some man a good wife someday.”

“Aye,” Athol conceded, “she is pleasant, I’ll give her that. I told her she was pretty, which she is, but there are plenty of lovelier maids out there.”

“No doubt there are.” Duncan frowned. “But looks fade, as yours will, my boy, and a bad heart can hide behind a pretty face.”

Athol sighed. He imagined that his demon was laughing at him.