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needled, Caterine into believing her. Trouble was, Caterine did not want to believe her. Not this night.
    Nor on the morrow.
    And most especially not as long as a tiny and annoyingly persistent ember of hope nestled deep inside the hidden-most reaches of her lonely heart.
     
    **
     
    Something was sorely amiss.
    Nigglings of unease crept up and down Sir Marmaduke's spine as he surveyed the imposing curtain walls of the cliff-top fortalice that was the end of a long and harrowing journey.
    Dunlaidir
Castle
sprawled high atop a massive rock formation jutting far into the North Sea , and attached to the mainland by a narrow ridge of land. Sheer cliffs fell straight to the sea on all sides making the stronghold near impenetrable ... if only someone manned the empty gatehouse guarding the castle's sole means of access.
    But naught more daunting than wheeling seabirds, a few hardy weeds, and a stiff sea wind, occupied Dunlaidir's most important defense.
    No men-at-arms strode forward to question the approach of Sir Marmaduke and his four companions.
    The gatehouse stood neglected, leaving the way into the stronghold's more vulnerable inner heart wide open.
    Twisting in his saddle to face the four Scottish knights behind him, Marmaduke peered sharply at each man. Their faces reflected his own wariness, and their posture as they sat their sturdy Highland garrons bespoke keen alertness.
    " Duncan claimed Dunlaidir possessed a stout garrison," Sir Lachlan, the youngest of the Gaelic warriors commented. "It would seem they are no more."
    Marmaduke nodded at the recently dubbed knight, then cast another quick glance at the seemingly deserted gatehouse. In the distance, Dunlaidir's crenellated curtain walls rose proud against an iron-gray sky, yet not one sentry could be seen patrolling the impressive ramparts.
    "All appears abandoned, yet I vow unseen eyes have observed our every move since we crossed onto Keith land this morn." He withdrew his great sword and rested the sharply honed blade almost casually across his thighs. "I do not believe those eyes belonged to the village folk who scuttled away the moment they caught sight of us."
    As one, his companions nodded their heads in agreement. Sir Alec, the oldest and most battle-proved of the Gaels, spat on the rocky ground, then drew the back of his hand over his mouth. "An ill wind blows here," he said, unsheathing his own blade. "I don't like it."
    The grim set of the other men's jaws assured Marmaduke they shared Alec's sentiments.
    And his own.
    A dark wind indeed lashed against the cliff-top stronghold, a formidable force of destruction threatening to plunge Dunlaidir's massive walls stone by stone into the cold waters of the sea if naught was done to stave the rampant air of decline so rife all around them.
    Even the demesne's vast surrounds had seemed contaminated by an oppressive cloud of dereliction: the once far-reaching arable fields lay untilled and fallow, what few livestock they'd spotted had been small in number and ill-fed, the tumble-down cottars' dwellings forlorn and cold-looking ... as empty as the cluster of stone cottages forming the village and now, the gatehouse and castle as well.
    What few villeins they'd come upon had skulked out of sight, their haggard faces averted as if they feared they'd be cast to stone did they but glance at Marmaduke and his small contingent of MacKenzies.
    Saints, the contamination swirled so thick Marmaduke could taste its foulness on his tongue.
    Then the sharp yipping of a dog broke the silence. The sound came from afar, a welcome reprieve in a gray and chill world that presented itself more inhospitable than Marmaduke had dared imagine.
    "It would seem at least one inhabitant of Dunlaidir has stirred himself to greet us," he said, prodding his mount toward the gatehouse and the narrow spit of land looming beyond.
    "Come, ready yourselves to make the little fellow's acquaintance and, if the saints are with us, that of Lady Linnet's