"There's a gentleman downstairs." Algaria's black eyes flashed. "He's one you should avoid."

"Oh?" Catriona hesitated. Could her man be here, under the same roof? The tension that gripped her hardened her resolve, she tied off her ribbons. "I'll make sure he doesn't see me. And everyone in the village knows me by sight-at least, this sight." She released her knotted hair, letting it swish about her shoulders. "There's no danger here."

Algaria sighed. "Very well-but don't dally. I suppose you'll tell me what this is all about when you can."

From the door, Catriona flashed her a smile. "I promise. Just as soon as I'm sure."

Halfway down the stairs, she saw the gentleman, short, rotund, and fastidiously dressed, checking the discarded news sheets in the inn's main parlor. His face was as circular as his form, he was definitely not her warrior. Catriona slipped silently down the hall. It was the work of a minute to ease open the heavy door, not yet latched for the night.

And then she was outside

Pausing on the inn's stone step, she breathed in the crisp, chilly air, and felt the cold reach her head. Invigorated, she pulled her cloak close and stepped out, watching her feet, careful not to slip on the icing snow.

In the graveyard, in the lee of one wall, Richard looked down at his mother's grave. The inscription on the headstone was brief: Lady Eleanor McEnery, wife of Seamus McEnery, Laird of Keltyhead. That, and nothing more. No affectionate remembrance; no mention of the bastard son she'd left behind.

Richard's expression didn't change; he'd come to terms with his status long ago.