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die?”
    “Duncan?” the steward repeated, surprise
evident in his voice. “Why, the poor soul.” He paused. “That was so
long ago. More than twenty years has passed since...”
    “You were steward of Ironcross then, were you
not, Allan?”
    “Aye, m’lord!”
    Gavin turned a critical stare on the man next
to him. “You do not remember how your master died?”
    “Aye, m’lord! Of course I do,” Allan said
quickly. “‘Twas just a surprise, your asking! The poor soul cracked
his skull in a fall from his horse. ‘Twas a sad and mournful day
for Ironcross Castle.” The older man looked down at his feet.
“Hunting, he was.”
    “Who was hunting with him?” Gavin moved
slowly down the passage, testing the floors as he went, and Allan
followed behind.
    “Hunting with...?” The steward scratched his
head. “Well, we had a great deal more folk about the castle in
those days. Let me see. I believe Alexander, the eldest lad, was
with him. And the hunters and grooms, of course. Lady MacInnes was
back at Stirling then. She spent very little time at Ironcross
during those years. Now, I’m thinking...aye, Lord Athol, the father
of the present earl, was with the party as well.”
    Gavin held up his hand. Farther down the
corridor, from one of the last rooms, the sound of scraping could
be heard. As Allan stared, Gavin quietly drew his dirk from his
belt and pushed his tartan back over his shoulder. Before he had
gone two steps, however, a rat moved out into the corridor, spotted
them, and disappeared back into the room.
    The new laird sheathed his dirk, and turned
to the steward. “I want you to have the grooms and any lads you can
gather do a wee bit of rat hunting. I don’t care to be sharing my
dinner or my bed with vermin. I want the castle kept clear of
them.”
    “Aye, m’lord.” Allan clearly was trying hard
to hide his surprise at such eccentricity, but nodded in response.
“As you wish.”
    Gavin hated rats. He knew they were
everywhere, in every castle and hut in Europe. In Florence, Paris,
and even the newly rebuilt Edinburgh, but he hated them, and he’d
not have them in his keep, if he could help it.
    Turning his back on the steward, Gavin looked
into the chamber that they stood before. It, too, had been badly
burned, and pieces of broken, charred furniture littered the
room.
    “This was the laird’s study, m’lord,” Allan
offered. “Sir John, the previous master of Ironcross Castle, spent
a great deal of time in this room. He was a great scholar--more so
than his father or the two brothers who preceded him.”
    As Gavin turned to continue down the
corridor, his eyes were drawn to a partially open door in the
carved wood paneling just inside the study. Stepping into the
chamber, the new laird moved casually over to the panel, he pulled
open the door. A small cabinet had been recessed into the wall, and
several books lay on a shelf, completely undamaged by fire.
Surprised, Gavin took them out of the cabinet.
    “Ah, m’lord,” Allan said apologetically,
taking the books from the new laird’s hand. “I should have taken
them to the Old Keep after the fire. I am afraid I have been
negligent in leaving off the care of this wing. But now that you
are here, I shall...”
    Gavin no longer heard the old steward. His
gaze was fixed on the portrait hanging above the small fireplace,
and everything else in the world suddenly ceased to exist. Locked
on the object across the room, his eyes drank in the vision of the
young lass’s golden hair and ivory skin, the straight nose and the
delicate mouth that showed only the hint of a smile. But it was the
eyes, the deep blue eyes, that enraptured him. In spite of the dark
smudges of soot that covered almost half of the painting, her
nearly violet eyes twinkled, laughing, shining with the joy of
life, with the pure radiance of youthful innocence.
    “‘Twas Mistress Joanna, m’lord! Sir John’s
daughter.”
    Gavin started at the steward’s voice,