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again.
    Elizabeth understood, and so she quietly directed her servants to bring a small table for their guest. She took the large bowl of stew from Albert and set it before the Scot, putting a spoon into his hand as the serving man placed a loaf of bread and a large wedge of cheese before the guest. “Eat first, and we will talk afterwards,” Elizabeth said.
    Baen MacColl nodded gratefully and, crossing himself, quickly began to spoon the hot stew into his mouth as rapidly as he could. It was obvious he had not eaten in many hours. Did her mother not offer  the messenger hospitality? Elizabeth wondered. How unlike Rosamund. Or perhaps the Scot had not reached Claven’s Carn at all.
    It was a very long ride. She watched, almost amused, as he tore off pieces of the bread, mopping up the gravy even as she had earlier. He took a knife from his belt and sliced himself several wedges of cheese, which he ate both separately and in combination with the bread. Finally, when every morsel had been eaten, Baen MacColl sat back with a gusty sigh.
    “You have a good cook, lady. I thank you for the supper,” he said.
    “Have you had enough?” she asked him. “It seems to me that it would take a great amount of food to fill up such a large man. I would not offer you poor hospitality.”
    He looked at her and smiled a slow smile. “You have no need to apologize for your board, lady. I am well fed.” And then the smile turned into a little grin as he said, “For now.”
    Elizabeth laughed. “Very well then, Master MacColl. Now tell me why you have returned to Friarsgate. Did you not reach Claven’s Carn?”
    “Nay, but I did meet your mother, lady. She was out hunting with her lord. She opened the packet, and then said that while it was addressed to her, the message was not for her, as she was no longer the lady of Friarsgate. You are. So I turned about and came back, but the snow caught me. There was no place where I might shelter with my horse, and so I just kept riding until we reached your house.”
    “You were fortunate!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “The snow and the dark surely compromised your trail.”
    “I have a knack for tracking, lady. If I’ve been to a place once I can always find my way back no matter the circumstances,” he told her.
    “I’ll make up your bed space, sir,” Elizabeth said. “I hope you are not needed elsewhere, for you are going to be with us at least a week, if my weather sense is correct, and it usually is. This storm will last several days.”
    “What of your sheep?” he asked her.
    “Safe in their barns,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll not lose my new lambs to the wolves or the weather.” She stood up. “Continue to warm yourself.
    I’ve suffered that chill now gripping you. It goes right to the bone.
    When I have arranged your sleeping space I will bring you something that will remove the cold.” Then she hurried off.
    A fair and most competent lass, Baen MacColl thought as he watched her. He wondered where her husband was. He was a lucky man to have such a wife. She was a good manager, and a country man needed that kind of a helpmeet. He moved his chair closer to the fire and leaned forward, stretching his hands out to warm them. He was beginning to feel his toes again, and the stiffness was leaving his fingers. Well, if he must be stuck somewhere for a week this was not a bad place to be. The company was pleasant, the food good, and the bed space cozy.
    “Here. Drink this,” Elizabeth Meredith said, handing him a small pewter dram cup.
    The Scot took it from her hand, eyes widening as the aroma of whiskey touched his nostrils. He swallowed it down, and immediately was suffused with swift warmth that rose up from the pit of his stomach. He looked at her questioningly.
    “My stepfather is the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn. He thinks no house civilized without a barrel of whiskey,” Elizabeth explained. “I prefer my ale, or even wine, but whiskey does have its uses, doesn’t