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gaze automatically found Catriona as de Courcy dismounted with her in his arms. No wonder John had chosen this man to marry her. With his wealth, her future would be secure.
    De Courcy instructed one of his men to escort his guests inside while he saw to his betrothed. Branan heard Catriona protest again as he carried her to the stairs, but couldn’t hear her words. He scowled. Her future would be secure, but what of her heart? Catriona’s free spirit would find little comfort in de Courcy’s overbearing nature. Many men did not approve of a woman having a spark of independence, but in the short time Branan stayed with the de Reignys, Catriona’s fire had entranced him.
    Branan joined Duguald and Gavin. The rest of the men walked to the barracks and servants took their horses. De Courcy’s steward escorted Branan, Gavin, and Duguald into the great hall.
    Further evidence of de Courcy’s wealth assailed Branan inside. A massive fire roared in a huge hearth in the cavernous hall. Expensive tapestries adorned the walls and a giant oak table filled the center of the room. Branan paused simply to appreciate the craftsmanship of the wood. The chairs were equally as fine.
    Duguald noted his gaze and chuckled. “’Tis a goodly piece of work.”
    “Aye,” Branan replied. “It would take us years to complete one like this.” He ran his fingers lightly along the grain.
    The steward escorted them to a small room where they could refresh themselves. Branan removed his armor and donned a clean inar and trews, and wrapped his plaid over his shoulder, tucking it into his belt. Soon, the small group had rid themselves of dirt and returned to the hall.
    “Thank you for your patience,” de Courcy said as he descended the stairs. “I have granted my betrothed use of my mother’s former solar. The maids will tend to her and see that she eats.” He paused at the table as a servant handed him a cup of wine. “Although she will never admit it, I know she is exhausted.”
    Branan could only agree with de Courcy’s observation.
    “Come; sit and refresh yourselves. Our meal will be served soon.”
    Branan sat at the table. The servants brought them bread and cheese. He found the wine a bit too strong for his pallet, instead enjoying the finely made ale.
    They spoke little except of trivial things during their meal. Gavin carried the conversation, asking about de Courcy’s money-making ventures. Over the course of the evening, Branan discovered de Courcy a shrewd man when it came to profits, and definitely not a slouch when it came to tactics.
    Brackenburgh, although a defensive castle, existed primarily for trade. Its locale near the River Petteril, close to the fork of the king’s roads, one of which lead north to the Barony of Carlisle and the other northwest leading to the Barony of Allerdale, gave it a perfect position to serve both goals.
    The meal finished and the table cleared, most of the servants departed except for a few who would tend to their cups. De Courcy sat back, his dark eyes glittering as he looked at Branan.
    “John told me much about you, but I fear he never told me you were a laird.”
    “He didna ken of it,” Branan said softly. “I didna either until Uncle Duguald brought me to Dun-ArdRigh.”
    De Courcy arched an eyebrow then nodded. “So your lands have been keeping you busy.”
    Branan nodded. “Our primary income is in wool production.” He fingered the plaid he wore. “Our women are fine weavers and their work is prized. The wool that my men and I wear is the pride of our clan.”
    “This pattern you wear is one of the finest, MacTavish. I hope to pursue purchasing your clan’s weaving for resale. We shall both make tidy profits.”
    Branan couldn’t resist the smile he shot at de Courcy, yet he made a mental note to request that the women change the thread count. When they sold to other clans, the weave changed subtly. It should be more apparent when sold to the English or even