"The cattle are mine," Fiona Hay said sweetly. "I mark each of our beasts by nicking them on their left ear."

He was astounded. This was the sauciest wench he had ever met in all of his life! "What a most odd coincidence," he replied through gritted teeth. "My cattle are marked in the exact same way."

"Then it is simply my word against yers, Angus Gordon," she said in a dulcet tone.

"Ye know verra well that the cattle are mine, mistress," he responded angrily. "They are mine, and I mean to take them back!"

“The cattle are mine,'' Fiona responded, but then her voice softened. "My younger sisters, Elsbeth and Margery, are to be wed tomorrow. Each brings her bridegroom four cattle apiece, my lord. Would ye ruin the only chance these poor lasses have to be respectably married?"

He had not yet gotten his cider, and he badly needed it, he decided. His own men were crowded about, listening avidly to the exchange between their chieftain and the lovely girl. He could see that their sympathies lay with the girl, not because they were disloyal but because Fiona Hay was fair, orphaned, and obviously doing her best by her family. Or so it would appear. He muttered a dark curse under his breath.

"Yer cider, my lord," Flora said, shoving a tarnished silver goblet into his hand while casting him a black and disapproving look.

"Jamie-boy, the cattle?" he asked his brother.

James Gordon nodded in the affirmative. "Left ears, all notched," he said cheerfully. "They could be ours, Angus."

"Could?" The laird shouted at his younger brother. "Could?"

"Well, Angus," Jamie replied, nonplussed by the outburst, "if Mistress Hay notches her cattle on the left ear as we do, then who can tell whose cattle they are, unless, of course, the beasties could talk."