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been interrupted, for it seemed she might have inherited her grandmother's unpredictable tongue after all.
    "We have not yet met," said the man just entering. He bowed with a small man's grace. De la Faire moved away a fraction of an inch, as if to get a better view of the interloper. "I am Lord Samuel of the clan MacKinnon." His face was round, his hair bright as copper.
    "I have no wish to disturb you if you are otherwise occupied."
    "Nay, not at all," she said, glad for the chance to move out of the Frenchman's reach, and sidle along the wall to the next window. "Monsieur de la Faire was kind enough to show me about the castle."
    " 'Tis quite impressive, is it not?"
    "Aye."
    MacKinnon smiled shyly, his teeth flashing against his short-cropped beard. "I will not keep you," he said. "I only wished to say how I enjoyed your performance of the evening past."
    "Thank you, my lord."
    "You reminded me of my daughters when they were wee small things."
    "I am not that small, my lord."
    "Nay. Just full of life and energy."
    "How are your daughters?" de la Faire asked.
    "They are well. Well indeed."
    "And your wife?"
    A shadow crossed MacKinnon's brow. "Aisla died some months past."
    "I am so sorry," said the Frenchman. "I had not heard. An illness?"
    A moment of taut silence stretched between the two men.
    "An accident. Her horse threw her on the way home one eve."
    "Home from?" de la Faire asked. But MacKinnon had already turned toward Cat.
    "Again, I beg forgiveness for my interruption, Princess."
    "I am not really a princess," she told him.
    "The title fits. Will you allow me to escort you back to the hall? Or to your chambers mayhap?"
    Out of the frying pan and into the fire, she thought. But the fire did not look quite as hot as the pan.
    "Catriona."
    She raised her gaze to the doorway, only to find Rory striding toward her.
    "Grandmother needs you."
    "Grandmother?" Her heart beat wildly. "Is she well?"
    "You'd best come," he said, but she was already rushing toward the door, skirt hiked up in one hand.
    Rory strode alongside her into the hallway, down the long corridor.
    "What happened? Is she in the great hall?"
    "Nay. She is in your chamber. I helped her there when I saw you were not about."
    "Is it her heart? Is she breathing well?"
    " 'Tis probably worry for you. Where have you been?"
    "Discovering the lay of the castle."
    "It did not look as if that was all you were discovering."
    She gave him a sidelong glance as she trotted down the stone stairs. "I have no time for your jealousy, Rory."
    "But you have time for the Frenchman, and the round- faced laird?" he asked, but she was already at her chamber's door.
    It creaked open beneath her trembling fingers and she rushed across the room. Marta lay on her side, one gnarled hand cushioned beneath her frizzled hair.
    "Grandmother!" Cat fell immediately to her knees. "Grandmother, what ails you?"
    The dark, ancient eyes opened. "What is amiss?" she asked, moving to sit up.
    "Nay. Lie back. Are you feeling better?"
    "Better?" She turned a baffled scowl on her granddaughter, then at Rory, who remained tense and unapologetic in the doorway. "I am as old as dirt and I long for a peaceful nap in my own cart. Yet I feel as well as can be expected," she said. Turning her gaze back to Catriona, she softened her expression. "But what of you? Have you learned anything?"
    "Nay, Grandmother," she said, refusing to acknowledge Rory's duplicity. Forever and always he had been the jealous one. When in truth, that right should have been hers. "I have learned nothing, except perhaps..." She smoothed Malta's white, crinkled hair away from her forehead. "Perhaps I have learned what is most dear to me in all the world."
    The bead-bright eyes glittered. "There is little point to getting sentimental over a rumpled old witch like myself, child."
    "I could not bear to lose you too."
    Marta covered Cat's hand with her own. Her fingers felt dry and smooth against her skin. "All will be well, little