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Isobel scanned the great hall, making certain all was prepared for the feast.

'Twas the eve of Christmas at lofty Evermyst. The Yule log, as large around as a destrier's barrel, burned bright and merry in the great hall's giant hearth.

Red berried holly gaily adorned the walls in sprigs of twelve while the scent of roast boar and ginger dolls wafted dreamily throughout the keep.

Thronged with Frasers and MacGowans and assorted guests, the high castle had never been merrier.

Near the broad wooden stairs, a group of brightly dressed children laughed over their game of hot cockles while their elders continued their jubilant wassailing, toasting every nonsensical thing that came to mind.

And beneath an arched doorway, where fresh cut mistletoe was hung by a scarlet string, Ramsay MacGowan pulled his young bride into his embrace.

"You cannot escape me so quickly, love," he murmured, "for you still owe me a good dozen kisses."

"A dozen?" Anora's tone was breathy. And though she glanced at her husband as if horrified, Isobel could not help but notice her sister's cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with happiness.

"Aye," Ramsay murmured, bending closer to his wife's upturned face. "One for each day of Christmas. 'Tis tradition, is it not?"

"Mayhap 'tis tradition by your father's hearth, Rogue," Anora chided. "But here at Evermyst, we find better things to occupy our time."

"Do you now?" Ramsay asked, his tone hopeful, and Anora laughed in that sweet, silvery tone Isobel had come to love so well.

"I but meant I must see where our Mary has got off to."

"Ahh," said Ramsay, and glancing past Isobel, spied the babe crawling toward a bevy of giggling women who played hoodman's bluff nearby.

Resignation crossed his handsome features, but happiness still shone in his soulful eyes.

"Mour," he said, but when there was no response, he raised his voice and tried again. "Gilmour."

From the midst of the happy crowd, Gilmour MacGowan, the rogue of the rogues, straightened. A white sleeve was tied securely about his eyes, but his slanted grin was evident as he reached blindly toward the maids who danced about him. "Is it not clear that I am busy, brother?"

"Aye, and 'tis that very thing that worries me. Make yourself useful now and see to wee Mary."

"Mary?" Gilmour said, turning his head. "Ahh, Mary, me love!

" he declared and without removing the blindfold, strode rapidly through the crowd to snatch the babe from the rushes.

Tossing her into the air, he caught her above his head and kissed her apple bright cheek.

The baby's squeals of joy were mixed with the young women's cries of dismay, for vowing blindness he had patted more than a few in quite inappropriate places.

"Whatever is amiss?" Gilmour asked as he pulled the cloth from his eyes. "Surely you do not think I could see through me hood."

There was a general gasp of dismay and Gilmour laughed, flashing that crooked smile that made wise fathers blanch from London to Lisbon. "Blindfold me with the cloth of your choosing, then," he challenged, "and we can begin anew."

Laughter mixed with a dozen voices, and in the melee, Gilmour settled wee Mary against his chest and turned his attention to Isobel.

Their gazes met, and in that moment his expression turned almost somber, almost devoid of that devilish spark that was his alone. "And what of you, wee Bel of the feast?" he asked. "Will you be joining us in our merriment?"

For a moment the entire world seemed to still. She could hear naught but her own heartbeat as she stared at him above the pitchers she carried.

"Laird Gilmour, we be ready for you," a maid called and giggled as she held up metal gauntlets and an ancient visor.

Isobel broke free of her trance. "Nay," she said and lifted the pitchers as proof of her duties. "I am needed elsewhere."

"Aye," he murmured, and grinning, brushed her hand with his own. "And badly."

A shiver coursed through Isobel, but she lifted her chin and refused to acknowledge the feelings, for she knew precisely what his words meant.

The rogue of the rogues was on the prowl again.

But despite that knowledge, despite the maids giggling inanely in the background, despite the months she'd spent learning to fend off his advances, not a single scathing rejoinder came to her lips.

Laughter swelled around her and suddenly it seemed too warm in this place, too warm and merry and smothering. She could not breathe, could not think. Then an epiphany presented itself, shining on her like a single ray of sunlight.

Her days at Evermyst had come to an end. It was time for her to leave.