"Don't try soothing me with pretty words," Beak countered. "It ain't going to work this time. I can see how worried Mary is. Why, she's wringing the skin right off her hands. What'd you tell her?"

"I merely mentioned that I'd heard the Scots were a lusty people."

"Well, now, Mary, that ain't so bad," Beak admitted.

"With big appetites," Mary interjected.

"And that's a sin?"

"It is," Mary answered.

"Gluttony," Jamie supplied, grinning.

"Jamie said they fight all the time."

"No, Mary, I said they fight most of the time. If you're going to repeat my remarks, do get them straight."

"Do they, Beak?"

"Do they what, Mary?"

"Fight all the time."

"I just said they liked to raid," Jamie announced with a delicate shrug.

Beak noticed the fine blush covering Jamie's high cheekbones. She was obviously embarrassed that her sister was telling on her.

Jamie was up to mischief, all right. She was looking just as guilty as she had the time she convinced Mary her papa had signed the order giving the convent guardianship.

She did like to jest. She was a sure sight to behold, too, dressed in Beak's favorite color, a deep royal blue. Her hair was unbound and the thick curls fell in chaotic splendor well past her slender shoulders. There were smudges of dirt on her nose and chin.

Beak wished Laird Kincaid could get a clear look at Jamie now, for her violet eyes fairly sparkled with joy.

Mary looked just as appealing. She wore pink today, but the pretty gown was bothered with splotches of dirt. Beak wondered what trouble the two sisters had gotten into, then decided he really didn't want to know.

He was pulled back to the topic of the Scotsmen when Mary blurted out, "Jamie told me the Scots take what they want when they want it. She also said they have special preferences."

"And what might those be?" Beak asked.

"Strong horses, fat sheep, and soft women," Mary said.

"Horses, sheep, and women?"

"Yes, Beak, and in that order. Jamie says they'd rather sleep next to their horses than their women. Well? Is it true? Do the women come last?"

Beak didn't answer Mary. He stared at Jamie, silently willing her with his frown to answer her sister. He thought Jamie looked a bit distressed, yet wasn't certain if she was about to burst into apology or laughter.

Laughter won out. "Honestly, Mary, I was only teasing you."

"Just look at the two of you," Beak announced. "Covered with dirt like peasant babies. Fine ladies, indeed! And you, missy," he added, pointing his finger at Jamie, "laughing like a loon. Just what were you two doing in that meadow, I'm wondering?"

"He's trying to turn the topic," Mary told her sister. "I'm going to get an apology from you, Jamie, before I move from this spot. And if I don't think you're sincere, then I'm telling Father Charles. He'll give you a penance you won't soon forget."

"It's your fault, not mine," Jamie countered. "You're as easy to lead along as a pup."

Mary turned back to Beak. "You'd think my sister would be a little more understanding of my predicament. She doesn't have to stand before the Scottish warlords and pray to God she isn't chosen. Papa's bent on hiding her away."

"Only because I wasn't named in the king's order," Jamie reminded her sister.

"I ain't so sure you weren't named," Beak interjected.

"Papa wouldn't lie," Jamie argued.

"As to that, I won't be saying you're right or wrong, Jamie," Beak said. "Mary?

Jamie hasn't told you anything terrible about the Scots as far as I can tell.

You're fretting over nothing, lass."

"She told me other stories, Beak," Mary said. "I was suspicious, of course, because her stories were so outrageous. I'm not that gullible, Beak, no matter what my sister thinks."

Beak turned to frown at Jamie again. "Well, milady?"

Jamie let out a soft sigh. "I'll admit I did make up some of the stories, but just as many are really true, Beak."

"How could you be knowing what's true and what's false? You shouldn't listen to gossip anyway. I taught you better than that."

"What gossip?" Mary asked.

"Scots throw cabers at one another just for the sport of it."

"Cabers?"

"Pine trees, Mary," Jamie answered.

Mary let out a loud, inelegant snort. "They don't."

"Aye, they do," Jamie countered. "And if tossing cabers at one another isn't a barbaric ritual, then I don't know what is."

"You really think I'll believe anything you tell me, don't you?"

"It's true, Mary," Beak admitted. "They do throw cabers, though not at one another."

Mary shook her head. "I can tell by the way you're grinning at me that you're teasing me, Beak. Oh, yes, you are," she added when he started to protest. "And I suppose it's true the Scots wear women's clothing?"

"What-" Beak strangled on a cough. He hoped the warriors had already left the stables, after all, and couldn't overhear this shameful talk. "I think we should stroll on outside to finish this discussion. It's too fine a day to be cooped up inside."

"It is true," Jamie told her sister, ignoring Beak's suggestion. "They do wear women's gowns. Don't they, Beak?"

"Where'd you hear that blasphemy?" Beak demanded.

"Cholie told me."

"It was Cholie?" Mary asked. "Well, if you'd bothered to mention that fact, I wouldn't have believed any of your tales. You know as well as I do that the kitchen help tips the jug of ale all day long. Cholie was probably sotted."

"Oh, spit," Jamie muttered. "She wasn't sotted."

"Oh, spit?" Mary repeated. "Honestly, Jamie, you talk just like Beak."

"They do," Beak said, trying to stop the budding argument.

"They do what?" Mary asked.

"Wear clothing that stops at their knees," Beak explained.

"There, I told you so, Mary."

"Their clothing is called their plaid, Mary. Plaid," Beak repeated with a growl.

"It's their sacred dress. I think they'd take exception to hearing it called a woman's gown."

"Then it's little wonder to me why they have to fight all the time," Jamie interjected. She hadn't really believed Cholie's tale, but Beak looked so sincere she was beginning to think he was telling the truth.

"Aye," Mary agreed. "They have to defend their gowns."

"They aren't gowns."

"Now look what you've done, Jamie. You've got Beak shouting at us."

Jamie was immediately contrite. "I'm sorry, Beak, for upsetting you. My, you are nervous today. You keep looking over your shoulder. Do you think someone's going to pounce on you from behind? What in-"

"I missed me nap," Beak blurted out. "That's why I'm surly."

"You must go and have a proper rest, then," Jamie advised. "Come along, Mary.

Beak's been so patient with us and I can tell he isn't feeling at all well."

She took hold of Mary's hand and started toward the door. "Good God, Mary, they actually do wear women's gowns. I didn't really believe Cholie, but now I'm convinced."

"I'm running away and that's that," Mary said, loud enough for Beak to overhear.

She suddenly stopped, then whirled around. "One last question, please?" she called out.

"Yes, Mary?"

"Would you be knowing if the Scots hate fat women, Beak?"

He didn't have any answer for that absurd question. After he shrugged his shoulders, Mary turned around and chased after Jamie. Both sisters lifted the hems of their skirts and started running toward the upper bailey. Beak let out a soft chuckle as he watched the pair.

"She was given a man's name."

The stable master nearly jumped out of his tunic. He hadn't heard Alec Kincaid's approach. He turned around and came face to shoulders with the giant warrior. " 'Twas her mama's way of giving her a place in this family. Baron Jamison weren't the man who fathered Jamie. He claimed her for his own, though. I'll give him that much kindness. Did you get a good look at her, then?" he added in a rush.