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woods.
    “Have ye heard about a grandparent or an uncle or aunt?” he asked.
    “No, only Boswell.”
    “So we will find out about your other relatives before ye claim blood ties to any of them. And I still think ye must have a link to Meg Macbain and Rachel Munro.”
    Dory didn’t answer because the brook came into view. It plunged from a rock face to the right, splashing onto wide, moss-covered boulders to sluice into the gully that had been cut over the ages. Farther to the left downstream, the brook widened with a few pools gouged into the hard packed earth on either side.
    “I need to wash the fire from me,” she called to Ewan and headed downstream. Surely they could give her a few minutes to wash the mats from her hair. She’d been able to wipe off much of the soot but the smoke still clung to her hair and skin.
    Dory kicked off her boots and waded into the churning eddy created by a boulder in the middle of the stream. Her toes squished into the silt and splashed water up her bare arms. She’d taken a sliver of honeysuckle-scented soap she’d found in a drawer in the Rosewood Manor room and ran it up and down her arms and legs, washing the grime from yesterday away. Oh how she wanted to strip the rags away and truly bathe. Perhaps… she glanced downstream and caught sight of a small wooden bridge.
    She waded toward it, soap clutched in one hand. Would Ewan leave her if she took too long? He’d promised to see her to London. He wouldn’t just up and leave without a warning. “I’ll just be a minute!” she yelled toward the wagon.
    A muffled sound stopped Dory just a foot from the quaint arched bridge. Weeping? She crept through the water silently to the wooden planks. A slight woman sat on the other bank, knees drawn under her chin, hands covering her eyes. Halting sobs hiccoughed out from her.
    “Do you need help, miss?” Dory asked.
    The girl’s head snapped up with a screech and Dory held out her hands, the one still holding soap. “No fretting. I’m just washing up and heard your weeping.”
    The woman pushed upright and stood. By the look of her rich gown, she was wealthy, might even have a title. Her fair hair was swept to the side and dangled all the way down to her narrow waist. She was of low height but made up for it with grand presence. She swiped away her tears, though they’d soaked a spot on her skirts over her knees. “I do not require the help of commoners,” the woman said and sniffed.
    Dory couldn’t help but smile at her. She looked like a ruffled, indignant kitten.
    “Are my tears humorous to you?” The woman placed her hood back on her head.
    “Nay, miss. I’m just glad you have spirit.” Dory nodded. “That spirit will get you through whatever your tears are about. Excuse me for interrupting.”
    Dory bowed a bit, feeling suddenly foolish. She’d definitely need some guidance before arriving at court. Did one bow or curtsy? And what did one call the king? Your grandness? Your supreme majesty? Your uppity arse who wants to kill my family? Maybe Ewan would know.
    “Spirit won’t help me,” the woman wailed, fresh tears pouring from her red eyes. “Nothing will.”
    Dory watched her. Should she stay or go? “If you would tell me what ails you, perhaps I could help.”
    The young woman wiped a lacy bit of fabric across her runny nose. “Can you make me pregnant? And while you are at it, make the child a boy.”
    Dory wiped an arm across her forehead. Maybe the heat was getting to the woman. “I am no man, miss, and only God can give you a son.”
    She opened her huge eyes. “I have prayed and prayed and still…” She waved her hand down across her abdomen. “Still nothing.”
    Ah, the woman was infertile and wished to give her husband a son. “Perhaps it is fault with your husband, m’lady.”
    She shook her head. “I am not married yet, but if my family keeps pulling strings, I will be within the year.”
    Jitters at the thought of wedding? Dory had no