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her consent. She had to have time to think, to devise a plan. Perhaps she could persuade the king against the union. But what argument could she use? Edward would not approve of her keeping Isobel from Rodney.
    Homelea’s kitchen, a wooden structure, was attached to the stone house by means of a covered wooden corridor. Kathryn entered the warmth of the kitchen, the room that, despite its separated location, seemed to Kathryn to be the heart of her home. Perhaps because of the woman who ruled there.
    â€œIs there something amiss, lass? Are we running short of drink?” Anna, Homelea’s cook and Fergus’s mother, prodded.
    Leaning against the wall for support, Kathryn took several deep breaths before answering her long-time servant and friend. “No, there is plenty.”
    â€œWhat brings ye to the kitchen, then?”
    Away from Rodney, her headache began to recede. Kathryn rolled her eyes and, hoping to hide her turmoil and desperation, she made a face. Moving toward the older woman, she answered, “Too much overeager company.”
    Cook had served at Homelea since before the death of Kathryn’s mother, and not much escaped her notice. “Lord Carleton, I would guess?” She snorted as if to punctuate her disapproval.
    â€œYes.” Kathryn fought to control her agitation. “King Edward has betrothed us, and Rodney is counting the days until he gains control of Homelea. But I don’t want to marry him. I can’t.”
    â€œAye, lass. He’s a mean one. I fear for my son if you marry that man.”
    â€œI’m afraid Fergus would kill Lord Rodney first.”
    â€œI fear it, too.”
    Kathryn rubbed the tenseness in the back of her neck. She was not in the habit of questioning authority, or questioning God. But marriage to Rodney was more than she could bear. The need to escape overwhelmed her. “I cannot face him again, Anna. Not until I’ve had time to think.”
    â€œRunning away never solved anything, lass. Ye’re a countess now. Time to act like one.”
    â€œMaybe tomorrow, Anna.” The kitchen no longer felt like a sanctuary, and Kathryn grabbed her work cloak from the pegs on the wall and hurried from the castle. Outside the mist had lightened somewhat although there was still no sign of the sun. Head bowed, she headed to the stable, shoulders slumped under a burden of responsibilities and emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.
    In the stable with her beloved horses she sought solace. She opened a stall and stepped inside, idly stroking the sleek chestnut hide of her favorite mare, hoping to lose her confusion and her grief in the comfort of the familiar action. Despite the sure knowledge that she would one day be reunited with Papa, she missed him here. Needed him here, now.
    â€œPlease, God. Deliver me from Rodney. Please help me protect Isobel.” She hugged the patient horse’s neck and cried the first tears she had shed this endless, difficult week.
    How long she stood thus, she didn’t know. Eventually the horse in the next stall nickered. Kathryn raised her head to see Anna’s son, Fergus, entering the stable. As her childhood friend came to stand by her, Kathryn dashed her sleeve across her eyes in a futile effort to erase the telltale signs of grief.
    Fergus took her in his arms. “’Tis all right to cry, lassie. God knows ye’ve kept it inside these many days. And it will no’ be getting any better, I’ll wager.”
    He pulled a shivereen of cloth from the folds of his plaid and offered it to her. She thanked him and blew her nose as he led her to a bench outside the saddle room. The pleasant fragrance of hay and the earthy odor of the horses filled the barn. He sat beside her. “The mourners have left, except for that scum, Lord Rodney.”
    She didn’t correct him for his slur upon the nobleman. Only a year in age separated them, and they’d long ago discarded the