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risked his life to bring back the body of her dear brother. To MacLaren, who was knighted in France for fighting valiantly against the English invaders. To MacLaren, who had been her brother's friend and whom she had secretly idolized in her younger years. She smiled, remembering her childish fancy. She had secretly watched the young MacLaren, thinking he was the most handsome lad she had ever seen. She had planned to marry him at the age of five, until she realized "nun" meant "no man."
       Aila's smile broadened. MacLaren's growth to manhood had done nothing to diminish his appeal. She wondered if his choice in brides had been motivated solely by the size of her inheritance, or if he felt any particular regard for her. The thought of MacLaren wanting her gave her a sudden flush. He had looked into her eyes with such intensity, as if he was the first person to truly see her. Her smile waned as she remembered how he had acted after they had wed. What would it be like to be married to him? Would he be kind or harsh? Questions tumbled in her head.
        Si qua ergo in Christo nova creatura vetera transierunt ecce facta sunt nova.
       The scripture came unbidden to mind. If anyone is in Christ he is a new creation, the old has gone, the new has come. A new beginning? That would be nice. She breathed deeply of the promise in the air. Closing her eyes, she enjoyed the warmth of the sun. It was St. John's Eve.
       Anything was possible. Returning to the castle, a multitude of questionable pieces of advice ringing in his ears, MacLaren decided it was time to meet his wife. Chaumont intercepted him and refused to allow MacLaren to seek her until he was washed and dressed "properly."
       "I dinna come to court her. I've already married her," MacLaren said, arguing he did not bring the garments Chaumont deemed necessary.
       "I've yer clothes here," chimed in Braden, his squire. MacLaren glared at Chaumont with suspicion.
       Chaumont shrugged. "I may have given him a few packing suggestions."
       After MacLaren was dressed to Chaumont's satisfaction, MacLaren was directed to Lady Aila's tower, being warned several times to go to the third floor—not the second, but the third. Lady Graham, it was whispered, resided on the second floor. He wondered at the emphasis but dutifully passed the second floor and continued on to the third. He stood on a small landing before a heavy oak door, wondering what he was supposed to say to his bride. The opportunity had emerged so quickly, he barely had time to think about it, except that it presented a resolution to a problem.
       Graham's proposition for MacLaren to marry his daughter provided MacLaren with much-needed land and fortune from her dowry. And if Graham was to sire no more children, MacLaren would inherit more than he had ever dreamed of owning. The marriage fulfilled his responsibilities by providing support to his clan and land for the knights who followed him. It was the right thing to do, but as he had made his quick decision yesterday, he had considered only Aila's land and Aila's money, not actually Aila herself. Prior to Marguerite, he had taken his knightly vow of purity seriously and so had little experience with women.
       Now, as he stood outside the door, he felt… what exactly? Intimidated? Nervous? He shook his head to bolster his courage and his pride. Such nonsense. You've bedded a countess; you can bed her. People get married every day. This is nothing more than a common business transaction, like buying an apple at the market. With that romantic thought, he knocked on the door and, without waiting for a reply, opened it.
       The room was clean and, apart from a great curtained bed, rather simply adorned. A brush and copper mirror lay on a small table beside the bed. A chest sat at the foot of the bed, and a washing tub, still filled with water, had been placed by the window alcove. It appeared he may have interrupted her in the middle of