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to do and I must make sure their chamber is
clean. Melinda is likely having fits from traveling. God save our ears.”
    Bree laughed at Cait’s retort. Her
sister was famous for her temper and tantrums.
    As they walked home, Bree considered
what she’d make to eat. Midday had only just past and a light fare would
suffice, and for supper she could make a stew of venison from the stag brought
down that morning. She was wont to sing a song to make their walk more
enjoyable and smiled when Cait and Rhys joined in. High tree canopies shaded
them from the blazing sun, yet she felt the heat on her cheeks and realized
she’d gotten a little burned.
    Half an hour later, they approached
the field beyond the large manor home. Bree noticed dust from the carts and
horses in the distance.
    “They come! Oh, we must hasten.”
Picking up her skirts, she made a dash for the back entrance of the manor. She
left Cait and Rhys behind and quickened her pace. Once inside, she stood by the
door, rasping for breath, knowing she would hear complaint from her lady. That
was the last thing she needed this day. It was far too hot to be bothered with
a lecture.
    In the great room, voices rose and
Bree went to listen to determine if her parents were of a good nature. She
approached and stood at the opening of the room, watching as four large men
entered behind Baron Champlain. Her mother retreated to the upper floor with
Melinda who fussed the entire way about having to take a bath. She shouted and
cried, causing Bree’s ears to ring. Poor Cait awaited to attend them and would
have to contend with her sister’s whining.
    The Scotsmen who followed farther
into the room, did not seem agreeable and had angst in their voices. Her father
looked uncomfortable, his face reddened.
    “I expected ye much sooner. Yet no
word came. I did not anticipate to receive you after all these years. By God ye
have come.” Her father looked downcast, but he quickly averted his gaze. “I
cannot lose her, not my sweet girl. Not yet.”
    The messenger, a strapping lad,
stepped forward. “I come from Laird MacHeth.”
    Four others stood with the
messenger, each looking more fearsome than the next. They stood tall,
formidable, and had an obstinacy about them, given the glare from their dark
eyes.
    Bree suspected all Highlanders bore
those traits since all she’d met held a similar appearance. Her father didn’t
seem to take insult at their demeanor. He waved a hand and bade him to hand
over the message.
    “I have a direct missive from our
laird. I’m to repeat it word for word,” the messenger said.
    “So speak you then and let us hear
this message.”
    “Our laird instructed ye to ready
the lass. She’s to be sent with a contingent of your guard for her protection
to his lands. The time has come for the revolt. MacHeth said there will be
forfeiture if she is not delivered timely. She will wed in one month and then
ye shall ready your arms in support.”
    Bree was surprised to hear his words
in English and had expected the heaviness of Gaelic brogue. Yet the man-at-arms
spoke English well. They didn’t appear to be of the border clans and wore the
attire of the northern regions. Long tartans reached their knees, and their
feet were covered by leather footwear constructed into boots. They wore tunics
covered by their clan’s plaid, with the colors to show who they belonged to.
Most had hair below the nape of their necks, except for the messenger who wore
his a bit longer.
    “So it begins. I will send word to
my king. Who is she betrothed to?”
    “’Tis no business of yours,
Champlain. No other words were conveyed. We will take our leave. MacHeth will
be awaiting.” The Highlanders left as vociferously as they came, whooping and
hollering as they made their way through the manor and courtyard.
    Her father stood with his
man-at-arms. They spoke low and Bree snuck behind the buttery to listen. “I
feel most guilty for what I am about to do, Johnny. I didn’t