"Think you?"

"Of a surety." The tapping began again. "Especially if you inform the lady Linnet of the near ruination facing Dunlaidir. Once the severity of our situation is known, no man who abides by the code of chivalry would refuse you."

Saints cherish her, but Caterine didn't think so either.

Then so be it she almost said but a loud clap of thunder silenced her before she could form the words, stealing them as surely as if a swift hand had snatched them from her lips.

The thunder cracked again, a tremendous and resounding series of booms powerful enough to shake the floorboards and jar the window shutters.

The storm's black fury was a portent, she knew.

A sign the saints disapproved of the sacrilege Rhona would see her commit.

Or worse, an indication they agreed and frowned on her refusal to heed her friend's suggestion.

Something she would not, could not, do.

Caterine waited for the storm's rage to abate, then smoothed the folds of her woolen kirtle. Before she lost her resolve, her nerve, she drew back her shoulders and forced herself to speak the words she must.

"Lady Rhona, I respect your counsel and ken you are ever heedful of my welfare," she said, her voice surprisingly calm, "but I forbid you to breach this matter again. I will not send for a champion."

A fortnight later, on the other side of Scotland, deep in the western Highlands, a lone warrior knight fought an invisible foe. Naught but the repeated swish of his great sword arcing through the chill predawn air marred the quietude.

Even Loch Duich, hidden from view over the list wall, gave itself silent, its dark surface no doubt smooth as finely fired glass for not so much as a ripple, not the gentlest lapping of waves on the pebbled shore could be heard.

The hour was well before prime, the time of day Sir Marmaduke Strongbow favored for practicing his martial skills. Soon, Eilean Creag Castle would come alive, the empty bailey would fill with a bustle of activity and his overlord's squires would trickle into the lists to join him, each one eager for him to prod and teach them.

Help them hone their own sword arms.

But for the moment, he stood alone.

Free to challenge his secret enemies, daring enough to face down the most formidable of them all: his own self and the self-created demons he carried within.

He paused and drew a deep breath, then swiped the back of his arm over his damp forehead. The plague take his cares. The saints knew he had much to be grateful for. Soon his own castle would be completed. Indeed, were he not a man who enjoyed his comforts, he'd move into Balkenzie now, this very day.

But he'd waited long years to raise his banner over a stronghold of his own, a few more months would not cost him overmuch. Then all would be ready and he would take possession of his new home.

A castle he and his liege, Duncan MacKenzie, had designed with great care.

A strategically ideal fortalice to guard the southern reaches of MacKenzie land.

A home perfect in every way save one.

Unlike his liege and closest friend, Marmaduke lacked a fair lady wife to grace his side. His would be a castle filled with men.

Quelling the bitterness that oft mocked him when alone, Marmaduke adjusted his grip on the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword and lunged anew at his unseen foes. Faster and faster, his blade rent the morn as he spun and dipped, thrust and withdrew, skillfully slicing his doubts and regrets to ribbons, banishing them one by one.

Until the morrow when he'd challenge them anew.

"Sir ..." the soft voice behind him was little more than a whisper to his ears but a great roar to his warrior's instincts. Instantly lowering his sword, Marmaduke wheeled around to face the lady who'd addressed him.

"Fair lady, I am always pleased to see you, but you should know better than to approach a man's back when he wields a sword," he said, sheathing his steel. "Nor do I believe it is good for you to be out in the chill morning air."

"I am fit enough," Linnet MacKenzie countered, drawing her woolen cloak more securely about her before resting one hand upon her swollen middle. "I would speak with you alone, now before the others stir."

Sir Marmaduke peered intently at his liege lord's lady wife. Her lovely face appeared more pale than it should and lest the vision in his good eye was failing him, she bore faint purple shadows beneath her eyes.