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turning his attention to
     removing the braies and hose he still wore.
    “A mite tight, but no' a bad fit.”
    Blake glanced at Angus Dunbar as the older man finished doing up the doublet over the
     tunic. His eyes widened as he saw the truth of the words. It seemed his would-be
     father-in-law was of a size with himself.
    “Quit yer gawkin' and give me the braies, lad. My arse is near freezin'.”
    Realizing he had been staring at the older man, Blake turned his attention back to
     removing the rest of his clothes. He gave them up to Laird Angus, then took the plaid back
     from Little George and began wrapping it about his waist.
    “What the devil be ye doin'?”
    Blake glanced up to see a mixture of dismay and disgust on Angus Dunbar's face.
    “Ye doona wear a plaid like that, ye great gowkie! Ye insult me plaid in the wearin'.”
     Finished tying the braies, he reached out and grabbed one end of the cloth. He tugged it
     from Blake's hold, then dropped it on the floor and knelt to fold it in pleats. Blake
     watched closely, amazed at the speed the man displayed in the action and wondering if he
     would be able to replicate it himself. Doubtful, but if he did, it certainly would not be
     with the same speed.
    “There!” The Dunbar sat up straight and looked up at him. “Lay on it.” “Lay on it?” Blake
     asked with confusion. “Aye. Lay on it.” Blake gaped. “Surely you jest?”
    “Lay on the demn thing!” the older man roared impatiently.
    Blake muttered under his breath and lowered himself to the ground to lay atop the pleated
     plaid. As soon as he had, the laird began tugging at the material. A mere second or so
     later, he stood and gestured for Blake to rise as well, then finished fitting the plaid
     about him.
    “There.” He peered over his handiwork, then shook his head. “I fear it doesna look as good
     on ye as it does on me,” he announced, and there were mutters of agreement all around. “Ye
     look like a Sassenach atryin' to look like a Scot. Ah, well...” Shrugging, he glanced down
     at the new clothes he wore. “I daresay I suit your clothes much better. What diya be
     thinkin', lads?” Holding out his arms, he turned in a circle to model the outfit. “Think
     ye I'll be impressin' Lady Iliana's mother, the Lady Wildwood?”
    There was a rumble of approval, then Angus Dunbar turned to take in Blake's sorrowful
     expression.
    “Doona fash yerself over it, Sassenach. Ye have enough on yer plate just now. Go fetch yer
     bride.” He grinned, some of his grimness falling away as he added, “If ye can.”
    Blake stiffened, his face flushing at the chuckles the last three words caused. He was not
     used to being the butt of someone else's humor and did not care for it, but there was
     little he could do about it at that moment, so he whirled on his heel and strode toward
     the door, Little George at his back.
    Angus Dunbar pursed his lips and watched Blake stride away. He waited until the men had
     left the keep, then moved back to his seat and took a long swallow of ale as he glanced
     around at his men. His gaze finally settled on Gavin, one of his finest fighters and most
     trustworthy of men. He called the soldier to his side.
    “Aye, me laird?”
    “Take two men and follow them, lad,” he instructed. “The young Sherwell's just fool enough
     to get hisself killed, and then his fool English father and the English king would blame
     us. See he finds his way there without gettin' lost.”

The Chase

Chapter Two
    “I cannot take it! I simply cannot!” Lady Elizabeth Worleyabbess of St. Simmian'ssnapped
     the words with frustration as she dropped onto the cushioned seat behind her magnificent
     oak desk.
    Biting her lip anxiously, Sister Blanche grabbed up a piece of parchment and fanned the
     woman's face as she searched her mind for the correct words to calm her superior. Lady
     Elizabeth's short temper was well known, as was her tendency toward