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bursting with joy.” She
stopped to blow her nose on the little handkerchief Ròs handed her.
“Father has given me a choice of husband. I should have been able
to tell him, without any thought or consideration, that I chose the
man I love above all—save father himself—but I could not.” She rose
to pace the floor again.
    “Oh child, why did you not tell me afore
now?” Ròs wrapped her arms around Caena for comfort, and then she
backed away again to finish dressing her.
    “I needed to think this through before I said
anything. But I just do not seem to be able to clear my head and
make a decision,” Caena said quietly.
    “Ròs, I am very fortunate that he gave me any
choice in the matter at all. He knows that I love one who is, in
father’s eyes, not the best choice considering all that must be considered. And God knows none of my peers would have any say
whatsoever in such a matter.” She turned and looked at Ròs. “He
would not force me to go against my heart, Ròs. But to be loved
enough to be given the choice…” she sighed, “I must live up to such
a responsibility.”
    “Aye, lass, we knew this day would come, and
your sixteenth celebration of birth is just days away.”
    Caena knew that the law demanded estates only
be inherited by men. Therefore, what was the Laird’s—his fortune,
the title, the lands, and the castle—must go to a male heir. She
knew that it weighed heavily on his mind and heart that he had no
son. She was his only child.
    For years others had pushed him to select a
new wife. However, his deep and abiding love for his dear Morgana
had prevented any lasting relationships with other women. Friends
had thrust every available young woman into his path, but he would
not be tempted to take another wife. Thus he had no male heir in
his future. This decision may well have saved him from the plotting
of other family members over the years. All they had to do was just
wait him out and reap the rewards of patience when the Laird
finally died.
    “How was the choice given to you?” Ròs asked.
She’d heard rumblings throughout the castle but would not take them
seriously. She was not, after all, a gossip like so many of the
other simpering women in the family’s service. She had waited to
hear it from Caena herself.
    Caena turned to look out her window again,
hoping the view of the Loch would bring her some peace. “You well
know that I will have to choose between the sons of my uncle.”
    “Aye, it is as I feared.” Caena’s
uncle—Finnean’s brother, Mordag (MOR dak)—had two sons. “Yes, those
would be the only two choices…that is, if you wish to claim your
father’s estate,” Ròs responded.
    Caena scowled with disgust as she thought of
the eldest of the two—the dark, brooding, ambitious, and hateful
young Macrath (mahc RA). He made Caena’s skin crawl with discomfort
especially when he cast his dark, sullen leer in her direction. His
black, hard eyes gave a piercing stare. What should have been a
strikingly handsome face instead held a malevolence that spoiled
its beauty. It made her shiver when he settled that stare on
her—and he did so often—as if for no other reason than to unnerve
her. She sometimes thought he loathed her as much as she did him
but, for some reason, he was willing—indeed had asked Finnean’s
permission—to take her to wife. Once again she felt herself
shudder.
    The youngest son—the fair-haired and
gentle-featured, sweet-tempered dreamer and poet, Sòlas (SOH
lus)—was her love. He had been her love since he first kissed her
cheek. She would not forget that kiss to the end of her days. It
had been so sweet, so tender. She heard herself sigh.
    He had kissed her as they sat in the shade of
the huge, old gnarled tree that they considered theirs. The aged
tree had tenaciously dug its roots deep into the rocky soil at the
rear of the forest opening, high on the cliff above the loch.
Smiling, she remembered the moment. She had been all of