Elizabeth scowled as she plucked the reins from his hand. “We’ll catch them later. Who’s the third?”

Gibraltar frowned and gazed at the guards, who were fading out of sight around a bend. “Elizabeth, we mustn’t tarry. You have no idea—”

“The third, Gibraltar,” his wife repeated.

“You look especially lovely today, Elizabeth,” Gibraltar said huskily. “Have I told you that?” When his words evoked no response but a cool, level stare, he wrinkled his brow.

“Did I say three?”

Elizabeth’s expression grew cooler.

Gibraltar expelled a breath of frustration. He mumbled a name and spurred his mount forward.

“What did you just say?” she called after him, urging her mare to keep up.

“Oh hell, Elizabeth! Give over! Let’s just ride.”

“Repeat yourself, please, Gibraltar.”

There was another unintelligible answer.

“I can’t understand a word when you mumble,” Elizabeth said sweetly.

Sweet as siren song, he thought, and every bit as lethal. “I said Gavrael McIllioch. All right? Leave it, will you?” He rounded his stallion sharply and glared, savoring the fact that at least for the time being he’d rendered her as close to speechless as Elizabeth St. Clair ever came.

Elizabeth stared at her husband in disbelief. “Dear God in heaven, he’s summoned the Berserker!”

On the sloping lawn of Caithness, Jillian St. Clair shivered despite the warmth of the brightly shining sun. Not one cloud dotted the sky, and the shady forest that rimmed the south end of the lawn was a dozen yards away—not close enough to have been responsible for her sudden chill.

An inexplicable sense of foreboding crept up the back of her neck. She shook it off briskly, berating her overactive imagination. Her life was as unmarred by clouds as the expansive blue sky; she was being fanciful, nothing more.

“Jillian! Make Jemmie stop pulling my hair!” Mallory cried, dashing to Jillian’s side for protection. The lush green grass of the lawn was sprinkled with the dozen or so children who gathered every afternoon to cajole stories and sweets from Jillian.

Sheltering Mallory in her arms, Jillian regarded the lad reprovingly. “There are better ways to show a lass that you like her than pulling her hair, Jemmie MacBean. And it’s been my experience that the girls whose hair you pull now are the ones you’ll be courting later.”

“I didn’t pull her hair because I like her!” Jemmie’s face turned red and his hands curled into defiant fists. “She’s a girl.”

“Aye, she is. And a lovely one at that.” Jillian smoothed Mallory’s luxuriant, long auburn hair. The young lass already showed promise of the beautiful woman she would become. “Pray tell, why do you pull her hair, Jemmie?” Jillian asked lightly.

Jemmie kicked at the grass with his toes. “Because if I punched her the same way I punch the lads, she’d probably cry,” he mumbled.

“Why must you do anything to her at all? Why not simply talk to her?”

“What could a girl have to say?” He rolled his eyes and scowled at the other lads, wordlessly demanding support with his fierce glare.

Only Zeke was unaffected by his bullying. “Jillian has interesting things to say, Jemmie,” Zeke argued. “You come here every afternoon to listen to her, and she’s a girl.”

“That’s different. She’s not a girl. She’s … well, she’s almost like a mother to us, ’cept she’s a lot prettier.”

Jillian brushed a strand of blond hair back from her face with an inward wince. What had “prettier” ever done for her? She longed to have children of her own, but children required a husband, and one of those didn’t appear to be on the horizon for her, pretty or not. Well, you could stop being so picky, her conscience advised dryly.

“Shall I tell you a story?” She swiftly changed the subject.

“Yes, tell us a story, Jillian!”

“A romantic one!” an older girl called.

“A bloody one,” Jemmie demanded.

Mallory scrunched her nose at him. “Give us a fable. I love fables. They teach us good things, and some of us”—she glared at Jemmie—“need to learn good things.”

“Fables are dumb—”

“Are not!”

“A fable! A fable!” the children clamored.

“A fable you shall have. I shall tell you of the argument between the Wind and the Sun,” Jillian said. “It’s my favorite of all the fables.” The children jostled for the seat closest to her as they settled down to hear the tale. Zeke, the smallest of them, was shoved to the back of the cluster.