One

Payton Douglas was surrounded by the enemy, his back against the wall… or hearth, as it were. The Lockharts advanced on him with an anxious look in their eyes, and he wondered how they had managed to gain entry, today in particular, when he was entertaining some very important men from Glasgow. Men who were, at this very moment, rather deep in their cups, having sampled the barley-bree Scotch whiskey distilled here, on his estate, Eilean Ros.

But his enemies were desperate and, by their own confession, in quite a predicament, for they'd been caught completely unawares when their dear friend, Hugh MacAlister, had purloined their priceless family heirloom—a gold statue of a beastie with ruby eyes—right out from under their noses.

Griffin Lockhart, from whom the beastie had been stolen, had just argued passionately that while this outrageous insult would be avenged in due time, at the moment, it seemed that MacAlister's actions had left the entire Lockhart family near to penniless and faced with the forced betrothal of their only daughter, Mared, to the man who had lent them a princely sum to retrieve the beastie: Payton Douglas.

The very same Payton Douglas who stood with his back against the cold hearth, eyeing the only one of the five Lockharts in his study who seemed inordinately relaxed. Seated at his writing desk, she idly twirled a quill pen as Payton stoically listened to the rather windy speech of her laird father. Frankly, one could scarcely do anything but listen when in the company of so many Lockharts.

This speech, obviously prepared in advance, judging by the way Lady Lockhart's lips moved in unison with her husband's, spoke to how Payton, the son of ancestors who had spilled precious Lockhart blood in every war and time of strife, would take their only daughter to wife, having bargained for her in loaning them a substantial sum that was to be repaid within a year's time.

"'Tis the stuff of popular novels!" Lady Lockhart exclaimed.

Behind her, her daughter Mared smiled as she twirled the pen, as if that analogy amused her.

"Frankly, milady, I've never read a novel as befuddling as this," Payton said. "If I am to understand, do ye mean to say ye'll no' honor our agreement regarding the loan I made ye?"

That question was met with a burst of nervous, high-pitched laughter from the four dark-headed Lockharts standing at this little impromptu meeting: Carson, the aging laird of what was left of the Lockhart clan; his lean and graceful lady wife, Aila; their eldest son and massive soldier, Liam; and his younger brother Griffin, who was slightly smaller and quite debonair.

"Of course no'!" Liam boomed reassuringly. "But surely ye understand that we couldna have dreamed MacAlister would betray us so."

"As ye've said several times over now. Nevertheless, it would appear that he did indeed betray ye, and ye owe me a tidy sum, aye?"

The four standing Lockharts looked sheepishly at one another while Mared sighed and opened a book on his writing desk, flipping to the first page.

Grif quickly stepped forward and smiled charmingly. "If I may, milord… the problem is that without the beastie, we've no means to repay yer very generous loan—"

"Three thousand pounds," Payton quickly reminded him, "was more than generous. It was sheer insanity."

"Aye, very generous," Grif agreed, casting an anxious glance at his family. "But we made a wee error, we did," he said, holding thumb and index finger together to show just how wee the error.

"I beg yer pardon, but there was no error. Yer father signed the promissory papers."

"That he did," Grif readily agreed. "And we promised Mared's hand to ye as collateral on yer loan, and… well, plainly put, Douglas, 'tis no secret how she feels about ye—ah, that is to say… yer reforms," he said carefully, and exchanged a look with his mother.

"I know well how she feels, Grif," Payton responded impatiently. Everyone in every glen in the loch region knew of Mared's objection to marrying a Douglas and of her vehement displeasure at his introduction of sheep in and around the lochs. "'Tis no secret she doesna care for a Douglas. Yer sister, ye might have remarked, is no' a shy lass."

Mared chuckled softly and turned another page in the book he'd left on the writing desk, On the Winter Production of Wool and the Timely Shearing of the Na Caorridh Mora, the Big Sheep.

"No," Grif said with a bit of a frown for Mared's chuckle. "But ye canna fault the lass for being passionate in her beliefs."

Copyright © 2005 by Dinah Dinwiddie