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he did the container from which the spirit flowed. It was a finely crafted bottle, inlaid with red jewels around the neck. Grabbing the vessel, he walked over to his private chest from which he pulled a smaller bottle. He had intended the special contents of the small bottle for Laird Graham, but these were desperate times. He admired the small bottle in his hand. 'Tis the lovely thing about poison; it takes so little to leave a man dead.
       He liberally poured the contents of the small bottle into the larger jeweled carafe, smiling at his cleverness and MacLaren's impending demise. He paused for a moment, considering what might happen if Aila should also drink the poison, but rejected the notion with a shrug, confident Aila did not drink whiskey. Satisfied with his reasoning, he rang the bell and told the servant to deliver the gift as a wedding present later in the evening. MacLaren's marriage to the Lady Aila was going to be much shorter than anyone anticipated.

Five

    MACLAREN RECEIVED REPORTS FROM HIS MEN, WHO had questioned the nearby crofters. No one had seen anything. Most were gone to the town of Carron for St. John's Eve, and those who had stayed behind were too frail to be outdoors. Whoever had perpetrated the brazen daytime attack had chosen the time and place carefully to minimize the risk of detection. He called for his men to mount up, and they began the journey back to Dundaff.
       Though unsuccessful in their hunt, MacLaren's men were pleased to be active again, and they rode back to the Graham stronghold in good humor. Of late, MacLaren had directed his men to plant his fallow fields, and while his men would follow any command, they were weary of playing farmer.
       MacLaren had returned from France last autumn with this band of war-weary soldiers and landless knights who had followed him in his campaigns against the English and continued to follow him now. MacLaren rode in silence, Chaumont by his side. The men behind him talked and laughed freely, engaging in the easy banter of men who knew each other well. Most had been his companions for years in France. Though many were from other clans or even other countries, they had become his friends, his family, his clan. He would do anything for them—including marriage.
       "We have cause to celebrate, lads," Chaumont said with a smile. MacLaren knew where this was going and concentrated on the dirt path ahead of him.
       "MacLaren has taken a wife." Chaumont was enjoying the moment with unabashed glee. His procla mation was greeted with stunned silence from the men. MacLaren gritted his teeth for what was to come.
       "MacLaren married?" asked one man.
       "But he declared he would ne'er wed," said another.
       "It canna be so."
       "Who did he marry?"
       "The lovely Lady Aila Graham," replied Chaumont in his smooth voice.
       More silence.
       "Heiress to all of Dundaff," Chaumont added.
       Cheers shook the leaves from the trees. Men gath ered around MacLaren, celebrating his—and to large extent their—good fortune. MacLaren accepted their felicitations with stoic resolve. It was certainly good news for his men, but MacLaren was unsure his fate was equally bonnie. Worse yet, MacLaren found there was no end of advice to be given to a man newly married. Even men who were confirmed bachelors now seemed experts in the field of matrimony. As they continued back to Dundaff, MacLaren was assailed by their enthusiastic, if not helpful, comments.
       "'Tis important ye master her early so she dinna give ye no strife," said a gangly youth MacLaren felt sure would kiss the feet of any comely lass who gave him but an ounce of notice.
       "Ho, ho! Big talk from a lad what's more afeard o' the lasses than the English," mocked Rory, a stout fighter who had been married for as long as MacLaren could remember. He gave MacLaren a knowing nod. "Treat her fair now, lad, and she'll do right by ye."
       "Nay, a woman will bring