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Dreams plagued Isobel that night. Dreams of dark places and cruel laughter. Dreams of gentle hands and loving words. Dreams of Anora. She awoke with a start, breathing hard and afraid.

"What is it?" Gilmour asked, but she could not explain.

Anora was in trouble, that much she knew and 'twas for that reason that she turned to hurry home.

The miles rushed beneath the hooves of their borrowed horses, until finally, just as the sun dropped behind the horizon, they saw Evermyst's turrets rise high above the crashing waters of the firth below.

Fatigued and worried, Isobel pressed her mount up the precipitous climb that led to the keep's outer curtain. Pulling the hood of her borrowed cape up over her hair, she stopped before the portcullis.

"Who goes there?" called the gate keeper.

" 'Tis I," Bel said, making her voice soft and mild. "Lady Anora's maid servant and—"

"Lady Anora?" The gate keeper raised his lantern and peered through the circle of light in their direction. "Is she with you then?"

Gilmour pressed his mount closer to the iron grill. "Is the lady not safely inside the keep, Hal?"

"Laird Gilmour, is that you?"

"Aye. 'Tis." His voice was impatient. "And what of Lady Anora?"

"Have you not heard? The lady and—"

"Quiet," warned another voice. "Do you want the whole of Scotland to know our worries? Raise the portcullis. They'll learn the truth soon enough."

It seemed to take forever for the iron bound gate to rise.

"The truth?" Gilmour ducked under the gate, rode ahead and straightened, his face intense in the gathering darkness. "What truth do you speak of, Thomas? Where is the Lady Anora?"

"We do not know, me laird. She has not yet returned, but Laird Lachlan searches for them even now."

"Them?"

"Laird Ramsay had accompanied her. They traveled the burn alone, but they never reached their destination. 'Twas some days hence that the boat was found. Empty it was, and overturned."

"And the babe? What of her?"

"The babe?"

"Wee Mary," Gilmour said, his tone strained. "Did she journey with them?"

"Nay, me laird. She was left behind with her nursemaid."

"And Lachlan? How long has it been since he left this keep?"

"Two days, me laird. He and half the warriors of Evermyst have gone to search for them, but I fear..." He paused.

Gilmour straightened. "What is it you fear, Thomas?"

The old gatekeeper shook his gnarled head. "The burn is bedeviled with falls and snags. I fear they may not be found."

"Lachlan is on the search. If there is aught to be found, he will find it.

But do not despair, for Ramsay is too stubborn to die easily.

He will return, as will your lady. Fear not, Thomas.

Keep your vigil and your prayers and all will be well," he said and turning his mount, he rode up the slope to the inner curtain.

Isobel followed, her heart tapping hard against her ribs, her fingers clenched on the reins as she rode through the next gate and into the cobbled courtyard toward the hall. So her premonitions had been right: Anora was in trouble. But—

"Lassie!"

Bel jerked her attention toward the broad doors of the hall. "Meara," she gasped and slipping from her mount's back, ran to the frail old woman who leaned upon her cane beside the stairs. “Tell me, have you heard aught from her?"

Meara of the Fold shook her head, though that simple movement seemed almost more than her fragile body could withstand. "Nay, lass. I am sorry. It seems forever since she has been gone and not a word to soothe me. But what of you? Have you had no forewarning? No—"

It was at that moment that the door opened and another woman rushed down the stairs toward them, a babe hugged to her bosom.

"Me wee lass! You have returned," rasped the newcomer and grabbing Isobel with her free arm, pulled her close.

Isobel extracted herself carefully, feeling Gilmour's gaze on her back. "Aye, Helena. I am returned," she said and touched her niece's back, just to make sure she was real, that she, at least, was safe. "But what is this dreadful news?"

"Lady Anora," Helena began, her broad face worried as Mary turned to stare at them with sky wide eyes. "She has gone and not returned. I fear—"

"Keep your fears to yourself, Stout Helena," Meara ordered. "We've enough of our own."

"How is the babe faring?" Gilmour asked, stepping forward.

Mary gazed at him with shell round eyes then lifted her arms in a solemn request. He took her without a second's hesitation, drawing her against the strength of his chest. Stroking her back, Mour closed his eyes for a moment and whispered something to the child.

And the babe, at the tender age of less than a year, dropped her head against his shoulder with an audible sigh.

Isobel could not help but stare, for despite everything—the babe's tragic past, the rogue's recent arrival, and the turmoil that surrounded them—Mary trusted him. Indeed, if the child's expression was true, she adored him.

Absolute silence filled the place as every woman stared until Gilmour glanced about him with a scowl. "Is something amiss?"

Helena swiped away a tear and Meara cleared her throat.

"Duncan." Her tone was brusque. "Where is that lad? Duncan!" she yelled and a giant young man appeared.

"Maid Isobel," he said, wiping ale from his lips with the back of an enormous hand. "You have returned."

"Aye," she agreed and smiled. "You are well, Tree?"

He bobbed his head shyly, not quite able to meet her eyes. "I won the wrestling match last—"

"Aye, that's all well and good," Meara interrupted. "But the lass and the rogue are weary. See to their mounts, Duncan. And Helena..."

The old cook stiffened at the other's imperious tone.

"Well..." groused Meara, pausing as she glanced up at the other. "I suspect you are tired in your old age. I'll get another to fetch their meals."

"I am not so withered as you," Helena said. "And certainly not too weary to see that these two be fed. Come hither," she insisted and hurried back up the stairs she had just descended.

The meal arrived in a matter of minutes, but while Gilmour ate in the great hall with the child upon his lap, Isobel dined in the kitchens where the other servants ate.

As for Meara, she tottered about the far side of the long, rough-hewn table and leaned upon her cane beside Isobel. "Is she well?" Her voice was scratchy and low, and when Isobel lifted her gaze, she saw the deep worry in her ancient eyes.

"I pray so," Bel murmured.

"What's this?" Meara's voice rose slightly. "Do you say that you are uncertain of the welfare of your own—?"

Isobel glanced at a passing servant. Meara fell silent then creaked down to sit beside the maid on the trestle.

“Tell me what you know," insisted the old woman.

"I dreamed I was drowning," Isobel began.

"Drowning!" Meara's bent fingers clutched frantically at Bel's sleeve. "Where?"

"I meself was in a shallow burn when the fears took me.

"And you think it was Anora that was in peril."

"Aye. Of that much I am certain."

"But you could not tell where she was?"

"Nay. Only that she found the surface and escaped whatever evil held her."

"And now?"

Isobel shook her head, trying to see through the shadows. "I do not know, but I feel she is well."

"Then why has she not returned to us?"

"Because she cannot. Something or someone keeps her away."

"Someone?" Meara's voice was low. "Who?"

Isobel's mind rushed along. "I do not know."

Meara narrowed her rheumy eyes. "But you suspect."

Bel did not answer, but shifted her gaze toward the door, remembering the feelings that had overwhelmed her. Remembering the impressions of MacGowan.

"You think someone in this keep wishes her ill?"

"I cannot be sure."

"Nay." Meara shook her head. "It cannot be. There is not a Fraser who does not love his lady."

"Nay. Not a Fraser."

Meara drew back as if slapped. "You are wrong," she said. "Her husband cherishes her like none other. He was meant to be hers for all time. The prophesy foretold him; it could not have been wrong. He would not harm—" She stopped abruptly. "You do not mean it is Ramsay who wishes her ill."

"Nay, but when the fear took me, I felt MacGowan's presence."

"Laird Gilmour?" Meara hissed.

Isobel merely nodded.

The old woman watched her closely. "Tell me, Isobel, why do you think this?"

"Mayhap it is not Anora that the brigand wishes to harm," she whispered. "Mayhap, 'tis Laird Ramsay he hopes to be rid of."

"You think Laird Gilmour would harm his own brother?"

" 'Tis a horrid sin, but one that has been done since the beginning of time," she murmured.

"But why do you suspect him?"

"When first I saw him he was in Henshaw with the Munro."

Meara remained silent as if waiting.

" 'Twas shortly after that I felt as if I was drowning."

Still the old woman said nothing, but stared at her with unblinking eyes.

"Why would he be with the Munro unless he were planning some evil against the Frasers?" Isobel asked.

"Do you forget that a peace has been forged between the clans?"

"Nay, I do not forget," hissed Isobel, "but might it not be that Gilmour means to shatter this peace, to be rid of his brother so that he can have Anora for his own?"

The ancient brows rose in surprise. "You think it is our lady and not Evermyst that he covets?"

"He has long adored her."

"Has he?"

Isobel fidgeted a mite under the woman's withering gaze. "Have you not noticed how his eyes follow her when she is near?"

"Nay," Meara said, "I have not, but mayhap I have not been watching this rogue as closely as you have."

Isobel drew herself up. "Mayhap I do not trust him so easily as some just because he is bonny and charming.

Meara's brows rose, creasing a million additional wrinkles into her dried apple face. "Is that why you suspect him, Isobel? Because you lust for him?"

"I do not lust for—"

"Whyever not?"

Isobel searched for words but found none and the old woman chuckled.

Bel pursed her lips. "Just because I was not raised as a noble does not mean that I have no morals, old woman."