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refreshed from her night at the inn. Not that he had time to enjoy the sight. He had more pressing issues than this annoying woman who called herself a witch.
    “A warning, my lady. You might refrain from trying another of your spells, lest you find yourself on a distant mountain top, or swimming in a strange loch.”
    Though there wasn’t even the hint of laughter in his eyes, she knew that he was having fun with her. “You’d best mind your tongue, sir, or I might be tempted to try one of my spells on you.”
    “I believe you already have. How else to explain why I didn’t have you banished the moment I saw you?”
    He turned away and stalked off to join the workers, leaving her to stare after him.
    One of the women from the village called out to him, “With your permission, we would like to take the tapestries back to the village, to see if they can be mended.”
    “Aye.” Andrew nodded. “Though I’m not certain any can be salvaged.”
    “Some are badly burned. But others are merely charred. Most of our women are deft with needle and thread, and we wish to do what we can to restore the castle to its former beauty.”
    “That’s kind of you, Mistress. I am most grateful.”
    Just as the woman walked away, one of the men summoned him to settle a dispute over the best way to remove one of the larger timbers.
    As Andrew joined him, Gwenellen followed the women inside the castle which, she learned, was composed of two buildings; one an ancient abbey, which was largely unused; the other a newer addition built within the past hundred years to serve as both home and fortress.
    Soon she was caught up in the scrubbing and polishing, sweeping and cleaning. Sleeping chambers on the upper level were stripped of their sooty linens and window coverings and scrubbed to a high shine before fresh rushes were added to the floors. In a corner of the walled garden, village lasses were busy hanging the wash that fluttered in the breeze.
    So many people, Gwenellen thought. And all of them working toward a common goal. She found the work oddly satisfying, and was soon laughing and chatting with the others.
    In the great hall charred timbers were hauled away, while in the nearby forest new ones were cut and hewn before being loaded onto wagons. Along with the timbers, the village men loaded several stags that had been brought down by hunters’ arrows.
    While crofters planed and shaped the giant timbers, and struggled to set them into place, the stags roasted over several fire pits.
    By the time evening shadows began to gather, the rooms of the abbey were warmed by fires burning on the giant hearths. The fragrance of bread baking and meat roasting perfumed the air.
    Andrew clapped his hands for silence. “My friends. You have labored long and hard. Before you return to your homes, you must allow me to thank you. The women have prepared a feast. And Duncan has unearthed several casks of fine ale.”
    With shouts and cheering the men and women eagerly followed him into the great hall and settled themselves at long tables, while the younger lasses hurried about serving food and ale.
    Andrew disdained the lone head table, choosing instead to sit at a table in the middle of the room, surrounded by the people who had worked alongside him throughout the long day.
    It occurred to Gwenellen that even without any visible sign, it was apparent that Andrew Ross was a leader among these people. Despite the anger that simmered just beneath the surface, and the soot that once more stained his clothes, as well as the raw and blistered hands from his painful labors this day, there was about him a manner, a bearing, that set him apart as a man others would respect.
    Duncan stood and lifted his goblet, waiting until the others grew silent. “We are truly sorry for your loss, Andrew. Your father was a fine man, and a fair one.” The old man glanced around at his friends and neighbors. “Many of us lost loved ones who had attended your family, and we