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from Wales, it was huge, two stories high. Such height was necessary because the charcoal and iron ore were poured into the closed furnace from above. Then, from below, a set of bellows blew the furnace to the great heat required to melt iron from the ore. A huge iron wheel, turned by water running along a lade from the River Moidart, powered the bellows.
    Although that particular bloomery had been in operation little more than a month, the clinker dump—the pile of slag from the reduction process—was vast. He walked past it to the sheds behind it, where the ore and charcoal were stored. A short distance beyond that, men were building a second kiln to produce the charcoal from the cut wood.
    Charcoal burned hotter than fresh-cut wood, which meant more sustained heat from even the softest timber, but a solitary kiln could not produce it quickly enough, so presently they were burning only small amounts of charcoal compared to the tons of wood they burned. With two kilns, he would be able to produce more of his own bricks, too, which would eliminate the necessity of purchasing any more in Wales. Scotland produced few bricks, so at the rate the bloomeries were sprouting, there would be a good market for the ones he did not need himself right here, just as there was a market in England for his gravel and the tobacco he shipped duty-free. Sir Renfrew was an entrepreneur with an eye to the main chance.
    He was mentally measuring the pile of charcoal in the shed when MacKellar found him. “I’ve brought yer reply from Mingary, sir,” the man said, touching his cap and holding out the folded missive.
    Breaking the wax seal that bore Kintyre’s signet, Sir Renfrew read the earl’s bold, black scrawl swiftly and with increasing annoyance, then looked up to find his henchman eyeing him warily. “Hold yer whisst, man,” Sir Renfrew said. “I’ve never yet killed a messenger for bringing me bad news.”
    “It’s bad then, sir,” MacKellar said, adding with a frankness that Sir Renfrew would put up with only from one who had served him long and faithfully, “I feared it. The earl’s a proud man, they say. Still, he offered me hospitality, so I couldna be certain of his mind.”
    “He’s a Highlander, MacKellar. He’d not deny ye hospitality, even if he were one that still acts as if the incident at Glencoe happened yesterday instead of nigh onto seventy-five years ago.”
    “I’m kin wi’ the Campbells,” MacKellar said, “so I’d no blame him if he refused me. My family had naught tae do with it, mind, but it was a Campbell who began it by claiming hospitality and then betraying his hosts when he led the soldiers in to murder them in their beds.”
    Grimacing, Sir Renfrew said, “Ye’re but one man, MacKellar, and if ye think that even an army could attack Mingary in the middle of the night without warning, ye paid little heed to the place.”
    “Nay, then, it couldna. I saw no men-at-arms on the walls, but the castle sits on a promontory high above sea and forest, and his dogs would give warning, sure enough. I never saw the like o’ them, I can tell ye. As big as ponies, some are.”
    “Aye, so I’m told.” Sir Renfrew stared at the missive in his hand. “We must do something to bring Kintyre to his senses, though. I ha’ made him a generous offer, and this reply offends me. I must show him it’s not wise to do that.”
    “Will ye write him again, then?”
    “Nay, I willna repeat myself, MacKellar. Did ye see Lady Bridget?”
    “Aye, sir, I did, for she was in the courtyard with her maid when I arrived, and I’m thinking she’s as bonnie as ever they say she is.”
    “Then I shall wed her.”
    “Um…begging yer pardon, sir, but I did hear…” MacKellar fell silent.
    “Speak up, man. What did ye hear?”
    “Well, they do say that Lady Bridget has a temper, sir, that she is not kind.”
    Sir Renfrew dismissed the criticism with an impatient gesture. “What about it? D’ye think I canna tame