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leaned out quickly and snagged the sack before it hit the choppy water, but his rescue lowered the gunwales sufficiently that he was splashed with freezing brine for his troubles. Neither of the other human occupants uttered a word of reproach, but the two sheep bleated pathetically and began to mill about in their tight quarters.
    “Oh, hullo!” a young voice called down from the cliffs. Arms waved violently. “Did you get it?”
    “Aye! And right sorry I am, too,” Colin shouted back, as he wrung out his plaid, which he had draped carelessly around himself. The boatman, another giant MacLeod, and MacJannet—both of whom had only had their boots wetted—grinned at him. Colin ignored them. “You’re throwing your head up before the shot and pulling to the left.”
    The lad laughed. “So Frances says. You must be the new Master of the Gowff. Frances! Come meet your new—” The boy turned his head away and the words were lost to the wind.
    At that moment the boat pulled up against the only bit of available sand, and Colin quickly alighted, leaving the snickering MacJannet to cope with their traps, and Olaf MacLeod to deal with the transfer of livestock. The other sheep, he had been told, would be brought in from the larger vessel a few at a time by rowboat, the cattle lowered into the ocean and forced to swim for the shore. It seemed a certain way to lose the valuable animals, but he had to assume that his seagoing cousins knew what they were doing. Ponies could swim, perhaps cattle could, too, and to be fair, he could not see how they would convince a large bovine to stand still in a rowboat with the sea heaving up and down.
    Colin looked up from his wet knees to see two spots of bright red hurrying down the gray cliff face, and he moved swiftly to intercept the children. The scree looked treacherous and such haste did not suggest a mature degree of caution.
    “ Bonjour !” called a softer, sweeter version of the voice that had hailed him earlier.
    Dark hair had slipped its modest arisaid and whipped about in the wind. The lady skidded to a halt only a handsbreadth from Colin’s outstretched arms. Her clothing, accent, and very air declared her as French, whoever her father might have been.
    The lady was also not a child.
    She said breathlessly: “We did not expect you so soon.”
    “We’ve had favorable winds,” Colin answered in French, returning the ball to the lad and then making his obeisance to the lady. “Colin Mortlock, at your service, Mistress Balfour.”
    Delightful eyes, the color of Highland whisky, moved over his face. Colin noted that though she wore a traditional leine, the delicately pleated garment was fashioned of silk rather than linen or wool, and it draped most gracefully over her bosom. Her embroidered kirtle was long, but not so great a length as to drag upon the ground—a sensible precaution as the rough terrain would quickly shred the delicate material.
    She also had small pearls for teeth and a lovely smile to accompany that softly accented voice, which he wished to hear speaking his name in tones of solicitude. But before she could address him a second time, the first of the sea-traumatized sheep ran bleating past them, distracting her from more pleasant conversation.
    “What is that?” Mistress Balfour demanded, startled and dismayed, as she pulled her skirts aside before they were wetted by the sopping animal.
    “That is a sea-sickened sheep.”
    The seaweed-draped creature ran straight up the hill and into the recently vacated sand pit. It complained mournfully and began to roll about, kicking up the sand and sending gritty showers down upon them.
    “But it is an unfair hazard,” Frances objected, stepping away from the granular rain. A second ewe ran past, apparently no happier than the first and every bit as determined to cover herself in sand. “I was preparing to take my shot. How shall I manage with these creatures milling about?”
    “Now, be not so downcast.