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the hall, quietly conversing with his men, holding their rapt attention with the same mastery his sheer presence dominated the vastness of Dunlaidir's great hall.
    Vexation welled in Caterine's breast. Even seated, his bearing marked him as a confident man.
    A leader of men.
    A charmer of women.
    Indeed, if not for the scar running from his left temple to the corner of his mouth, he would have been quite handsome. Marred or not, he made a striking figure and possessed an air of calm assurance she would have found most appealing were he not a Sassunach.
    He looked her way then, almost imperceptibly inclining his head as if he knew she'd been perusing him. Knew, too, the conclusion she'd reached.
    Her cheeks flaming, Caterine swung back to face Rhona. All traces of commiseration gone from her pretty face, the younger woman gave her a slow smile.
    A knowing smile.
    Caterine cleared her throat. "I did not mean to imply he is ungallant," she said, her voice hoarse with the admission.
    It was the best she could do.
    Rhona cast a slant-eyed glance at a glum-faced man slouched in the shadows near the hearth, "He is more courteous than some Scots nobles I shall not name," she vowed, low-voiced.
    "Sir John has good reason to brood with de la Hogue and his minions housing in his keep," Caterine defended her late husband's friend. "We can be grateful we weren't visited by so ill a fate and it wasn't Dunlaidir Sir Hugh took possession of when he came north. God's curse on the dastard!"
    "And I say a pox on any who frown into the soup you offer them," Rhona hissed, her unflagging loyalty coaxing an inward smile from Caterine's heart.
    Outwardly, she kept her expression impassive. "Sir John has suffered much. He lost everything."
    "Were it not for your hospitality, he would be sleeping in the heather." Rhona wanned to a favorite topic. " 'Tis glad of a bed and dry roof he aught be, and not raise his brows at (he food you set before him."
    Tossing a glance at the English knight, she pressed her point. "He is quality. Did you see how tactfully he declined Eoghann's best attempts to seat him with us? You know he only refused because you made it obvious his presence anywhere near the dais end of the hall would displease you."
    Caterine drew a long breath. She had noticed his chivalry toward Dunlaidir's doughty seneschal, just as she'd noted the smooth gallantry he'd displayed when kissing her hand ... and the way her heart had leapt at his touch. But the sour taste of her own bitterness weighted her tongue and kept her from making any such admissions.
    Instead, she tore off a chunk of coarse dark bread— peasants ' bread —but found herself tearing it to bits rather than eating it as she'd intended.
    "Nor did he or his men rumple their noses at the salted herrings and cabbage soup Eoghann set before them," Rhona continued her litany of praise. "They surely received finer fare at Eilean Creag. I vow your sister's alms dish is better fil—"
    "Cease, please." Caterine reached across the table and lifted Rhona's hand away from her chalice. "And stop running your finger around the rim of your glass. It's annoying."
    As if to rile her even more, Rhona snatched the chalice, and, twisting around, lifted her glass at the English knight and his men. When they raised theirs in return, she flashed Caterine a triumphant smile.
    "Aye, most gallant," she declared, plunking down her chalice with a grand flourish.
    "He is English." The objection sounded peevish even to Caterine's own ears. "A Sassunach."
    "A man." Rhona leaned forward. "One who went down on bended knee to offer his services to you. A Sassunach, aye, but with four stout-armed Gaels standing beside him. They do not seem to mind his English blood."
    Smiling benignly, she trailed a finger along a particularly deep scar in the tabletop. "You should joy in such a brave man's attentions."
    / did, Caterine's heart acceded.
    His mere touch had warmed her in places she'd thought forever cold ... until