The conversation between Father MacKechnie and Kelmet immediately stopped.

The sight of Lady Johanna still affected the priest, and he acknowledged the truth without feeling a qualm of guilt. MacKechnie didn't consider himself caught by the sin of lust because he noticed the shimmer in her hair or stared a bit longer than necessary at her lovely face. In his mind, Johanna was simply one of God's creatures, a magnificent example, to be sure, of the Lord's ability to create perfection.

She was Saxon through and through with her high cheekbones and fair coloring. She was a little shorter in stature than others, for she was of only medium height, but she appeared taller to the priest because of the queenly way she held herself.

Aye, her appearance pleased the priest, and he was certain she pleased her God as well, as she truly possessed a kind and gentle heart.

MacKechnie was a compassionate man. He ached over the cruel blow the dear lady had already been given. A barren woman served no purpose in this kingdom. Her very reason for existing had been snatched away. The burden she carried, knowing of her own inferiority, was surely the reason he'd never seen her smile.

And now they were about to give her another cruel blow.

"Might we have a word with you, m'lady?" Kelmet asked.

The steward's tone of voice must have alerted her that something was amiss. A guarded look came into her eyes, and her hands became fists at her sides. She nodded and slowly turned to go back inside.

The two men followed. Lady Johanna turned to face them when she'd reached the center of the aisle between the rows of wooden pews. The altar was directly behind her. Four candles provided the only light inside the chapel. The flames flickered inside their round glass globes spaced a hand's length apart on top of the long marble altar top.

Lady Johanna straightened her shoulders, folded her hands together, and kept her gaze firmly on the steward. She seemed to be bracing herself for foul news. Her voice was whisper soft, devoid of all emotion. "Has my husband returned home?"

"Nay, m'lady," Kelmet answered. He glanced over at the priest, received his encouraging nod, and then blurted out, "Two messengers have just arrived from London. They bring terrible news. Your husband is dead."

A full minute of silence followed the announcement. Kelmet began to clasp and unclasp his hands while he waited for the news to take root. His mistress didn't show any outward reaction, and he began to think she hadn't understood what he'd just said.

"It's true, m'lady. Baron Raulf is dead," he repeated in a hoarse whisper.

And still he saw no response. The priest and the steward shared a worried look, then looked back at Lady Johanna.

Tears suddenly gathered in her eyes. Father MacKechnie almost let out a sigh of relief. She understood the news.

He waited for her denial next, for in all his considerable years of consoling the bereaved, he'd seen most people use denial in order to cheat the truth a little longer.

Her own denial was swift and violent. "No!" she screamed. She shook her head so forcefully her long braid caught over her shoulder. "I will not listen to this lie. I will not."

"Kelmet has spoken the truth," Father MacKechnie insisted, his voice low and soothing.

She shook her head at him. "This must be trickery. He cannot be dead. Kelmet, you must hunt down the truth. Who would tell you such a lie?"

The priest took a quick step forward to put his arm around the distressed woman. The anguish in her voice made him want to weep himself.

She wouldn't allow comfort. She backed up a space, gripped her hands together, and demanded, "Is this a cruel trick?"

"Nay, m'lady," Kelmet replied. "The news came from King John himself. There was a witness. The baron is dead."

"God rest his soul," the priest intoned.

Lady Johanna burst into tears. Both men hurried forward. She warded them off by backing up again. They stopped, uncertain now what to do. They watched as the broken-hearted woman turned away. She stumbled to her knees, crossed her arms over her stomach, and doubled over as though she'd just received a hard blow to her middle.

Her sobs were soul-wrenching. The men let her vent her desolation for long minutes, and when she was finally able to regain a little of her control and her sobs had lessened, the priest placed his hand on her shoulder and whispered words meant to comfort her.

She didn't brush his hand away. MacKechnie watched as she slowly regained her dignity. She took a deep calming breath, mopped her face with the linen square he handed her, and then allowed him to assist her to her feet.

She kept her head bowed when she addressed the men. "I would like to be alone now. I must… pray."

She didn't wait for their agreement but turned and walked to the first pew. She knelt down on the leather-padded kneeler and made the sign of the cross, signaling the beginning of her petitions.

The priest went outside first. Kelmet followed. He was just pulling the door closed behind him when his mistress called out to him.

"Swear it, Kelmet. Swear on your father's grave my husband is truly dead."

"I swear it, m'lady."

The steward waited another minute or two to see if there was anything his mistress wanted from him and then pulled the door completely shut.

Johanna stared at the altar for a long, long while. Her mind was a riot of thoughts and emotions.

She was too stunned to think reasonable thoughts.

"I must pray," she whispered. "My husband is dead. I must pray."

She closed her eyes, folded her hands together, and finally began her prayer. It was a simple, direct litany that came from her heart.

"Thank you, God. Thank you, God. Thank you, God."

Chapter 2

The Highlands of Scotland, 1207

The baron obviously had a death wish. The laird was going to accommodate him.

The MacBain had heard through the intricate gossip vine four days before that Baron Nicholas Sanders was making his way up the last steep, winter-covered hills to the Maclaurin holding. The Englishman wasn't a stranger and had in fact fought by the MacBain's side during a fierce battle against the English infidels who'd taken root on Maclaurin land. Once the invigorating fight was finished, MacBain had become laird over both his own followers and the Maclaurin clan; and as their new leader, he made the decision to allow Nicholas to stay on long enough to recover from his rather substantial injuries. MacBain believed he'd been very accommodating then, damned gracious too, but for good reason. As grating as it was to acknowledge, Baron Nicholas had actually saved MacBain's life during the battle. The laird was a proud man. It was difficult for him to say thank you, actually impossible, and so, in appreciation for saving the laird from an English sword aimed for his back, MacBain didn't let Nicholas bleed to death. Since they didn't have anyone experienced in the ways of healing, MacBain personally cleaned and wrapped the baron's injuries. His generosity hadn't stopped there, although in his mind he'd repaid the debt sufficiently. When Nicholas was strong enough to travel, the MacBain had let him have his magnificent horse back and gave him one of his own plaids to wear so he would have safe passage on his return to England. No other clan would dare touch a MacBain, so the plaid was actually better protection than chain mail.

Aye, he'd been hospitable all right, and now the baron was determined to take advantage of his good nature.

Damn it all, he really was going to have to kill the man.

There was only one bright thought that kept his mood from going completely sour. He would keep Nicholas's horse this time.

"Feed a wolf once, MacBain, and he's bound to come sniffing around here again for more food."