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grip of a Cameron sword,” she said. “The very sword that split Laird Robert Kerr betwixt the eyes at Culloden.” As the only ranking Englishman to have been killed at the Battle of Culloden, Lord Robert had a certain degree of fame here that he’d likely never earned south of Hadrian’s Wall. His death had become the one victory any Highlander could find in the whole disaster. And a relic from what had killed him—well, they were everywhere, and she’d yet to set eyes on one she believed to be the genuine article.
    â€œThat’s nae off any sword, Miss Fiona,” young Diarmid protested.
    Tormod cuffed the footman on the back of the head. “Dunnae ever accuse a lass of lying,” he grunted. “Especially nae this one.”
    â€œI apologize to ye, Miss Fiona,” the servant said, scowling. “Ye ken I meant ye nae offense.”
    â€œNone taken. But even if I cannae prove it to ye,” she continued, “think of the bragging rights and the free beers ye’d earn fer producing this at the Fair-Haired Lass. And ye’ve walked all the way oot here, anyway.”
    The lads from the village and the castle muttered together for another few moments, before Tormod nodded. “We’ve an agreement, then. Whoever finds the cow, gets the leather. But ye’re paired with Brian Maxwell, Miss Fiona. Ye’re the one least likely to knock him on his arse.”
    She nodded, not surprised. “Let’s get moving, then.”
    As the others split off to search, Fiona straightened her green muslin skirt and tromped off south toward the edge of the bogs. “Thank ye, Miss Fiona,” Brian said after a few minutes of scanning the muddy ground for tracks. “I swear the gate was latched last night.”
    â€œThe gate’s nearly a hundred years old. It wouldnae hurt ye to replace the ropes holding it shut. Ye cannae let her wander, Brian. The next time she eats Mrs. Garretson’s onions, someone’s likely to turn her into a beef stew.”
    As Brian grumbled again that the red was a good cow and he’d done as he’d said, his son Brady came trotting up from the direction of Strouth. “I came all the way up along the river,” he reported, matching pace with his stouter father. “She’s nae in the village, Da’. And I went through the MacKittrick gardens on the way back here just to be certain she hadnae wandered in after the flowers again.” The boy grimaced. “I saw the blacksmith oot searching to the west. I’m thinking ye’ve enough peepers trying to find her. I should go back to Strouth, to keep a lookout.”
    Fiona stifled a grin. “Tessa Dinwoddie’s oot riding this morning, I hear. Though with the fog coming in, I reckon she’ll have to go back home before long.” Half the stable boys at the castle had suddenly needed something that could only be found in the village this morning, and she could swear some of the footmen had vanished, as well. That was why she’d only been able to round up five men to help her find Brian’s cow. Tessa Dinwoddie’s bouncing bosom was a powerful draw.
    Brian cuffed his son on the back of the head. “Ye’ve better things to do than ogle a lass’s bosom, ye half-wit.”
    â€œI’ve a cracked millstone to inspect,” Fiona said, “so if I’m looking fer the red, Brady, ye’re to do the same.”
    â€œIt is cracked, then,” Brian put in. “I heard a rumor aboot sacks of grain piling up again.” He spat over his shoulder. “Bad luck, it is. The third stone in two years.”
    â€œIt’s a blasted drunk stone dresser who didnae file doon the stones evenly his last visit. Nae poor luck. He’ll mend it fer free this time, or I’ll try the stones on his skull.” Fiona topped the low rise overlooking the edge of the waterlogged expanse with its dead trees and leaf-covered