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here any longer, and the castle is a ruin, mayhap I should purchase it from the Brodie of Killiecairn. I dinna like the idea of untended lands next to mine.”
    â€œHae ye ever met the Brodie of Killiecairn, m’lord?” Colin inquired. “He’s a wicked old bugger, and verra canny. Still, he hae six sons and is always happy for good coin, or so I am told.”
    â€œWhy hasna he given Brae to one of his lads?” the duke wondered.
    â€œ ’Twas nae their mother who was the Gordon, m’lord. The Gordon was his second wife. He was much her senior. She died about ten years ago. Old Brodie must be well over eighty now. His lads are all older than ye are, m’lord, but his Gordon wife did birth him a daughter. I imagine Brae is her dower portion.”
    â€œThe lass would be better off wi’ a bag of gold coins than this old tumbled-down pile of stones and its lands,” the duke observed. “Come on, then, and let’s hae a wee look around at old Brae Castle.”
    They rode around the lake to where a rotting wooden bridge connected the small island to the mainland shore. Leaving the horses, for they deemed the bridge too chancy, Patrick Leslie and his men carefully picked their way across the rotting span to reach the island. It was a rocky place with few trees. The mists had finally lifted and were being blown away by a light breeze. A weak sun was trying to make itself seen through the leaden autumn skies.
    The island was not particularly welcoming. There was no sandy shore of any kind, the shoreline being craggy. The land between the bridge and the castle was once an open field and had obviously been kept that way as a first line of defense. Now it was filled with trees. The castle itself was built of dark gray stone with several towers, both square and rounded. The peaked roof over the living quarters was of slate, and there were several chimneys. On closer inspection, the castle did not seem to be in irreclaimable condition. Still, Patrick Leslie thought, it was the lands belonging to Brae that interested him. Not this little castle.
    â€œWhat the hell!” He jumped back suddenly as an arrow buried itself in the ground by his feet.
    â€œYe’re trespassing, sir,” a voice said. Then from the open door of the castle a young woman stepped forth, a longbow notched with another arrow at the ready in her hands.
    â€œAs are ye, I suspect,” the duke said coldly, not in the least intimidated. His green-gold eyes swept over the girl. She was the tallest female he had ever seen, unsuitably garbed in boots and breeches. She wore a white shirt with a doeskin jerkin, a red, black, and yellow plaid slung carelessly over her shoulder, and a small, blue velvet cap upon her head with an eagle’s feather jutting jauntily from it. But it was her hair that caused him and his men to stare. It was red. But a red such as he had never seen but once. Bright red-gold that tumbled about her shoulders and down her back in a great mass of curls. “Who are ye?” he finally asked her.
    â€œYe first, sir,” she pertly answered him.
    â€œPatrick Leslie, Duke of Glenkirk,” he said, wondering as he spoke if her hair was soft. He made her a small bow.
    â€œFlanna Brodie, heiress of Brae,” she responded. She did not curtsy, but rather looked him over quite boldly. “What are ye doing on my lands, my lord? Ye hae nae the right to be here.”
    â€œAnd ye do?” She was an impertinent wench, he thought.
    â€œThese are my lands, my lord. I hae told ye that,” Flanna Brodie answered him implacably.
    â€œI want to buy them,” he told her.
    â€œBrae is nae for sale,” she said quietly.
    â€œYer lands abut mine, lady. They are, if I am nae mistaken, yer dowry. Unless ye wed a landless man, which I am certain yer father and brothers would nae allow, Brae will be as useless to yer husband as it was to yer da. Gold, however, makes ye a far