“I WISH," said Ellen More-Leslie severely, "that ye would not wear breeches when ye ride, Mistress Catriona. It is ever so unladylike."

"But ever so practical," said the beautiful young girl. "Dinna scold me, Ellie, or I'll send ye home to marry that nice farmer yer mother's had such hopes of!"

"God's toenail, ye wouldn't!"

"Nay. Not really," giggled Ellen's mistress. "Unless, of course, ye want to, Ellie. He is a fine, upstanding man. Why won't ye?"

"There's only one thing 'upstanding' I want from a man, and the farmer's nae got it! Come now, off wi yer riding clothes. Whew! Ye smell like the stables! Ye know the earl is coming to dinner this night to help celebrate yer birthday. I carina believe ye are fifteen. I can remember that stormy December night ye were born."

Catriona stripped off her clothes. She had heard this story many, many times before.

"The snow swirled about Greyhaven, and oh, how the winds howled and roared," continued Ellen. "The old countess, yer great-grandmam, insisted on being wi yer mother. I had just had my seventeenth birthday. I was the youngest of my family, and been spoilt something fierce, but as I showed no signs of wedding and settling down, my old granny spoke to her mistress, yer great-grandmam, and they decided I should look after the new baby. Old Lady Leslie took one look at ye, and said, 'This one's for my laddie Glenkirk.' Sure enough ye were barely out of nappies when she was arranging yer betrothal. If only she could have lived to see ye grown and wed, but she died the following spring, and me old granny followed her but a few weeks later."