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desire of her heart, if he could. But, sadly, there
were some things even The McDonnough could not do. Caena
could never inherit all that was his and dear to his heart.
    Ròs watched the girl move to her dressing
area. She knew where Caena’s thoughts had taken her. Ròs could
always tell when the girl thought of Finnean.
    As Ròs dressed her, Caena watched herself in
her looking glass. Caena McDonnough strongly resembled her mother,
or so she had been told as long as she could remember. Of course,
she had never seen Morgana. But she often heard that—while she had
her father’s pale, blonde hair—she had her mother’s fine features,
huge gray eyes, and the full lips that settled in a near pout when
she wasn’t smiling.
    She blushed to think of her other features.
With her tiny stature, narrow waist, full bosom, she had a figure
different than most of the maidens in the castle. This too she got
from her mother. She had seen the way some of the men in her
father’s service looked at her. She shuddered again as she thought
of it.
    “What is the matter, child?” Ròs asked.
“Would you like me to get your shawl? Are you chilled?”
    “No, I’m fine, Ròs,” Caena responded
quietly.
    Ròs seriously doubted that. “Perhaps you
would like some tea?”
    “No. Thank you, Ròs.”
    Ròs was worried about her mistress and dear,
dear friend. The girl had been in a state for days. Something was
weighing heavily on her heart, and it upset Ròs to see the pain in
the girl’s eyes. Even the thoughts of her father didn’t remain on
her face for long.
    While Ròs worried about Caena, Caena’s
thoughts returned to their previous path. She cared little of what
others at court thought of her figure. Some of the women at court
hid the fullness of their figures by wearing the binding
undergarments of the English—copying their so-called English
counterparts. While they more often wore the Scottish homespun
chemises at home, they would give in to English fashion in public,
especially for special occasions. They cared too much about what
the English thought, in Caena’s opinion—not that anyone
asked a woman’s opinion, she scowled again. Sighing to herself, she
thought most of these women were probably just doing as their
husbands expected them to do. That, after all, was what a Scottish
woman’s life amounted to—making your husband happy!
    Caena felt her temper flaring. She recognized
that her temperament was like her father’s. Aye, she could be what
Finnean called ‘a fiery-tempered lassie’ when pushed—some said she
was stubborn. She preferred to think she was just determined ! Thinking of the imagined slight, she lifted her
chin in defiance as she watched her reflection in the mirror. If
they did not like her for herself, then damn them all . She
caught herself before she would have stomped her dainty foot on the
hard stone floor of her rooms. She sneaked a peek at Ròs to see if
she had noticed how close she had come to displaying that determination.
    Finally, her thoughts settled back on the
real reason for her dark mood. Her father had given her the worst
of news. She felt her eyes starting to fill and her chest
tightening. He had, despite his own heart, told her she had to make
a dreaded decision. For the third day in a row it had clouded her
thoughts and certainly her mood. The man, who if left to his own
devices would give her anything he had, asked for a decision from
her on a choice of husband. She wiped an escaping tear from her
cheek, refusing to let herself break.
    Seeing the tears on Caena’s cheeks, Ròs could
stand it no longer. “Lassie, dinna tell me that you are alright
now. Come, sit next to me.” She guided the girl to a chair, then
Ròs sat beside her, holding the weeping girl’s hand. “Now tell me
what is bothering you so, child.”
    “Oh, Ròs, this should be one of the happiest
days of my life. Just to know that I am to wed and—aye, to have any
say in the matter—my heart should be