Lord of The Isles. Debbie Mazzuca

      “What do you mean, he’s not here?”

      “He and his men are trainin’ in the glen this morn. He’s to meet with the priest later.”

      “Training?”

      “Aye, for battle.”

      “For God’s sake, does the man have no brains? He was on death’s door less than a week ago and now he’s running—” She cursed.

      Mari clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers.

      Ali grimaced. “Don’t repeat that.”

      There was a sharp rap on the door to her chambers and Mari jumped.

      “’Tis only me, my lady,” Mrs. Mac said, peeking around the door. Stepping into the room, the older woman’s eyes widened. “Och, now, would you look at that.” She smiled at Mari. “You look bonny, lass.”

      “Thank ye.” Mari bobbed her head shyly.

      Mrs. Macpherson squinted, looking at the girl more closely. “Ah, I see you’ve heard.”

      “About the priest? Yes. I’ve told Mari to stay in my room until I can speak to Lord MacLeod. Which I gather won’t be for some time since the fool’s off playing war games with his men.”

      “Lady Aileanna, ’tis no way to speak of yer laird,” the older woman chided.

      Ali curled her lip. “He’s not my laird.”

      Mrs. Macpherson gave her an odd look before bustling about the room, setting out Ali’s toilette. “I’m goin’ to the village, but the laird has left Connor to see to you, my lady.”

      Spy on her more likely, Ali thought. “I have to check on Mrs. Chisholm, but other than that I’ll be staying with Mari.”

      “Aye, Maureen’s time is drawin’ near. I’ll leave you to get aboot my business. Remember, my lady, if you need anythin’, yer to ask Connor.” Mrs. Macpherson leveled a pointed look at her before closing the door.

      Leaving Ali in no doubt the older woman knew exactly what she was up to.