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followed by an authoritative “shush,” and he realized that there were no intruders. It was the Hay sisters.
    He watched from his bed space as they struggled to maneuver a large oaken tub from its storage nook at the end of the hall, pushing and pulling it down the length of the room, setting it before the fire. The door to the hall was flung open then, allowing him to observe the girls as they carried bucket after bucket of water from the well outside, heating it in an iron cauldron over the fire, and pouring it into the tub until finallyit was filled to Fiona's satisfaction. Two of the girls dragged a screen from another cranny, fitting it about the tub area.
    “Elsbeth and Margery first,” he heard Fiona say. There followed much whispering and giggling from behind the screen as each sister took her turn in the oaken tub.
    Angus Gordon lay quietly, enjoying the sounds, his bed space quite cozy with the freshly built fire blazing away. He, too, came from a large family. Besides his youngest brother, Jamie, he had another brother, Robert, who was two years his junior, and two sisters, Janet and Meggie. His mother had been Margaret Leslie, the daughter of the laird of Glenkirk. She had borne her children over an eight-year period, dying as Muire Hay had in childbirth. How strange, he thought, that both he and Fiona Hay were the eldest of their siblings, and had each lost mothers when they were but eight years of age. At least his father had lived until he was grown, Angus thought gratefully. He had been a good man who grieved hard the wife he had loved and lost, as well as the lovely Muire Hay, whom he had also loved—and lost in an equally cruel manner.
    “Upstairs, all of ye,” he heard Fiona ordering her sisters. “I'll be with ye in a few moments’ time. Flora, good, yer up! Is the bread baked yet? Give the lasses a loaf, some butter,
and
honey before they dress. I want to bathe, too.”
    “Oh Fi! Honey? This really is a grand day,” the laird heard Jean say enthusiastically to her sister.
    The hall grew silent. He could hear the sounds of splashing behind the screen. He could hear Fiona humming softly. Sliding from the bed space, he pulled on his boots and wrapped his kilt about his lean frame. He needed to pee, but first he would bid his hostess a goodmorning. It was simply too irresistible. Striding the hall, he moved around the screen.
    “Good morrow, Mistress Hay,” he said cheerily.
    The emerald-green eyes looked up, slightly startled, but she made no great outcry. “Good morrow, my lord. I imagine we awakened ye, but ‘twas time” she said calmly. Then she washed her face. Little else of her was available to his eyes but her shoulders and upper chest, for the tub was deep and well filled.
    The most incredible urge overcame him. He wanted to lift her dripping from the tub, and kiss her cherry-red lips! He wanted to pull the pins that secured her black hair atop her head, and let it fall over her wet shoulders, where he might bury his face in the soft, fragrant mass of her tresses. Then he wanted to carry her to the dark security of the bed space he had only recently vacated, and make love to her until she cried with the pleasure he would give her.
    Instead he bowed politely to her, saying, “Ye were a verra courteous hostess, Mistress Hay, and I thank ye for yer hospitality. I hope ye will not be offended, but I wanted to repay that hospitality. I sent my brother back to Brae for two whole sheep to be roasted and some casks of wine. By the time ye run out,” he told her with a smile, “the Forbeses and the Inneses will be verra drunk, and fortunate to find their way back down the ben to their own lands.”
    “’Tis most generous of ye, my lord,” Fiona acknowledged as she vigorously scrubbed her neck. “I'll serve yer wine first, for it's certain to be better than the poor stuff my father had in his cellar. Would ye hand me my towel, please?” she requested sweetly.
    Why the little vixen, he