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pleasant surprise, Rheade took her hand. “If the decision were mine to make, ye could stay at Dunalastair or go home to Oban, but my brother rules here. We must await his return.”
    A chilly wind suddenly gusted through the Hall, bringing grit swirling in its wake. A bone-jarring bang drew every eye to the door. A massive man stood there, his long red hair a nest of serpents that metamorphosed into a thick beard. It nigh on covered his whole face. A deep scowl furrowed his brow and Margaret’s racing heart told her this ferocious Highlander was the chieftain.
    “What have we here?” the giant boomed.
    Servants who’d been loitering around the tables scurried off to the kitchens.  
    Glenna leapt to her feet and rushed to the newcomer’s side. “Welcome home, husband.”
    He looked at his wife briefly then shouldered her away. “Who are these strangers?” he shouted, striding towards the head table.
    The odor of acrid male sweat assailed Margaret’s nostrils. Tannoch’s plaid was soiled and torn, his léine filthy, his socks bunched around his ankles. This was Rheade’s brother? He looked like a wild barbarian.  
    Despite the fear leaping about in her belly, she remained seated.
    Rheade came to his feet, but didn’t let go of her hand. She was glad of his strength, though she feared he might crush her fingers. “Our guests are from Oban,” he said, his jaw clenched. “Sir David Ogilvie, his wife Lady Edythe and their niece Lady Margaret—”
    Glenna trotted to her husband’s side. “ Lady Margaret is betrothed to the traitor Robert Stewart,” she pronounced loudly.

TANNOCH'S RETURN

    Tannoch brought his fist down on the table, causing trenchers and utensils to dance. “Harboring traitors are ye, brother?” he spat at Rheade.
    Members of the search party had followed him into the Hall. Among them Rheade recognized a handful as his brother’s cronies, men of similar disposition to his own. The scowls on their faces bespoke the failure of the hunt for the assassins. It would take only a word from the chieftain for them to descend on the Ogilvies like ravenous wolves. “Our guests,” he asserted loudly, “are not traitors. Lady Margaret is an unwitting victim of Robert Stewart’s crime.”
    He glanced at Margaret as he spoke, loosening his grip on her fingers when her face twisted with discomfort. He was impressed she had held her ground and remained seated. It took guts to withstand Tannoch’s temper. Her courage was admirable, but the fear marring her lovely face angered him. “She was unaware of the assassination,” he insisted.
    Tannoch flattened both hands on the table, leaned forward and glared at Margaret. “How could she nay ken? All o’ Scotland is aware our king was slain.”
    To Rheade’s surprise, it was Sir David who replied. “I must protest. We spent the previous sennight travelling from Oban, encountering nary a soul. How were we to hear of it?”
    Tannoch wasn’t known for welcoming strangers and reacted predictably to the auld man’s words. “And how are we to be sure ye didna come east at the behest of Robert Stewart when he believed his dastardly scheme to take the Crown would be successful?”
    “That’s hardly credible, Tannoch,” Logan said, shaking his head. “These are worthy folks caught up in a deadly web not of their making. They are horrified by the murder.”
    Tannoch glared at his youngest brother. “And ye are such an expert, Logan. Barely out of breechclouts.”
    Logan clenched his jaw, but said naught.
    Tannoch’s ragged appearance and slurred speech led Rheade to believe he had already imbibed more than enough whisky on the journey home, probably in an effort to blunt the frustration of failing to capture the fugitives. The Grampians in winter were hard enough on a man. Reason wouldn’t prevail. Time for another tack. “Ye are our chieftain, brother. We took it upon ourselves in yer absence to act as hosts on behalf of the clan and to extend the