She moaned faintly, but did not move.

"The poor creature was probably caught in the storm," Jock said. "We must get her back to the shelter. Can you carry her, Robbie? I'll want to get the cattle up and moving. This snowfall will continue for a few more hours though 'tis light now. Here, Shep, here, Laddie," he called to the two dogs. "We have work to do."

His son nodded and, pulling Alix up, he took her into his arms and walked off. Behind him his father and the two border collies began to rouse the cattle from their comfortable positions in the heath. It was over a mile to the small shelter on the moor, but Robbie walked doggedly along, carrying Alix as if she were a child. She did not stir, and were it not for her faint breathing, he would have feared her dead. It was a miracle she had survived her night on the moors, but then huddled between the two big cattle she had been saved from freezing. Still, the poor thing was cold.

Reaching the small shelter, he kicked the door open with his foot and laid the girl down on the single cot there, covering her with the sheepskin. Then he stirred the embers of the fire that had burned through the night, coaxing it alive once again. He added more wood from the store near the hearth. He and his father had come to fetch the cattle when the storm had caught them. Arriving at the little hut, they had sheltered for the night. Even inside with a fire it had been cold. The fact the girl was alive at all was a miracle. Swinging the iron arm from which a kettle hung, he added a bit of whiskey from his flask to the water in it and warmed it over the fire.

He turned as a weak voice said, "Where am I?"

Pouring some of the hot liquid from the kettle into a little tin cup, he put an arm about the girl, helping her into a sitting position, and put the cup to her lips. "Drink some of this, mistress, but take a care. 'Tis hot," he advised her.

Alix sipped, coughed, but sipped again. Then, pushing the cup away, she repeated her query. "Where am I?"

"Yer on the lands of the Laird of Dunglais," Robbie answered her. "My name is Robbie, and I'm one of the laird's herders. My da and I found you out on the moors huddled between the cattle. They saved yer life, they did, mistress."

Alix took the cup from him more to warm her hands than to drink the harsh brew he had given her. Aye. She had thought she was going to die when she had fallen between those two great beasts. Yet they were warm, and she fell asleep thinking about her mama and her papa. The Laird of Dunglais. Then she was in Scotland. Alix sneezed.

"Take more of the whiskey and water, mistress," Robbie said.

"I'm so tired," Alix told him, but she sipped until the cup was empty. Then, falling back against his supporting arm, she closed her eyes.

The young herder slid his arm from beneath her, and going to the fire, added more wood. Then stood by the hearth, waiting for his father to come and tell him what to do next. After some time had passed the older man entered the shelter, shaking the snow off of him, going to the fire to warm his hands.

"How is she?"

"I gave her warmed whiskey and water, Da, and she fell back to sleep," Robbie replied.

"Who is she? Did she tell ye her name?" the chief herder wanted to know.

The younger man shook his head. "I dinna ask, and she dinna say."

"I've got the cattle outside." He looked over at Alix. "The lassie looks like she'll sleep for several hours. There's plenty of wood, and I'll leave one of the dogs with her. But we've got to get the cattle home, and the laird should be told about the lass. He'll know what to do. She isn't strong enough to come with us, and you canna carry her all the way to Dunglais Keep. Leave yer oatcakes and some whiskey. If she awakens she'll know we haven't deserted her, especially if the dog is here. Shep, stay!" he commanded the younger border collie. Then he left the small shelter.

Robbie followed his father's instructions, pulling the stool near to the cot, leaving two oatcakes and his flask. The girl was sleeping heavily, and as his father had said, probably would for many hours. She was very pretty, he thought. Then he hurried to join his father, and together the two men drove the herd of shaggy Highland cattle the several miles through the still-falling snow into the safety of their winter pasturage.

While his son secured the beasts, Jock went to find his master, who was seated in the hall of his keep breaking his fast. His small daughter was with him, and the laird was smiling. Jock could not recall having seen his master smile in years. He made his way through the hall, stopping to stand before the high board and patiently waiting for Malcolm Scott to recognize him.

"Did you bring the cattle in safely, Jock?" the laird said in his deep, rough voice.

"Aye, all are accounted for, my lord," the herdsman replied.

"Good," the laird responded, turning his attention to his little daughter again.

"My lord, there was something out on the moor that you should know of," Jock began, and when the laird looked up, his dark gray eyes focusing directly on the herdsman, he continued. "We found a lass, my lord."

"You found a lass? Where? Out in this storm?" the laird asked sharply.

"I cannot say for certain, my lord, but it would appear that the lass was traveling alone on foot and was caught unawares by the storm even as we were. She was clever enough to secrete herself between two of the cattle. It kept her from freezing to death. Robbie and the dogs found her when we went to fetch the cattle home."

"Where is she now?" the laird wanted to know.

"Robbie carried her to the pasture shelter where he and I had spent the night. He heated some whiskey and water and gave it to her. She fell back asleep, but after a night in the open she is, I suspect, very ill. We built up the fire, left food and water, and one of the dogs with her. We had no means to transport her, my lord, being on foot ourselves."

"Who is she? Did she tell you her name?" the laird asked sharply.

The herdsman shook his head. "Nay, my lord. The poor lass was barely conscious at all. If my son and I might take the cart and fetch her to the keep."

"Here? Why not your cottage, where your wife can nurse the wench?" the laird said. "She's probably some tinker's lass who got lost or separated from her people."

"Nay, my lord, I believe her to be a lady," Jock quickly responded.

"Why would you think a lady would be traveling alone and on foot across the moors?" the laird wanted to know.

"Her clothing, my lord. 'Twas not poor stuff. Her cloak is an excellent heavy wool, its hood edged in fur, its closure polished silver. She had good leather gloves upon her hands. I will wager they are lined in fur. I caught a glimpse of her gown beneath her cloak. Jersey of the best quality, and she carried a fine leather pouch strapped about her. She is not tinker's brat, or servant. She is a lady, my lord, and must come to the keep."

"Fiona, my angel, go and find your nurse," the laird instructed his little daughter. He kissed her cheek, and with a smile at him the little girl ran off. The laird turned back to Jock. "We'll ride out," he said, and then he called out that he wanted two horses saddled immediately. Standing up, he came down from the high board and, with Jock following in his wake, he hurried to the stables.

Malcolm Scott was a big, tall man with coal-black hair and eyes the color of a stormy gray sky that looked out from beneath a tangle of dark, heavy eyebrows. His thick wavy hair, which was longer than fashion dictated, was held back by a strip of leather and gave the appearance of being undisciplined. But the look in his eye bespoke a stern, strong man not easily moved. Everything about him appeared long. His straight nose. His thin mouth. The shape of his face with an oddly neat, squared chin that had the faint imprint of a dimple in its center.

As they entered the courtyard of the keep, a stableman ran forward with two horses. The laird mounted the large dappled-gray stallion while Jock clamored aboard a roan gelding. They clattered out and across the moor, heading toward the summer pastures and the pastures' small shelter. By horseback the distance was traveled more quickly, and they soon had the little structure in sight. No sooner had they dismounted than the dog inside began to bark.

"Hush, Shep!" the herdsman said as they entered. He was relieved to see that the fire in the tiny hearth was still burning. The oatcakes and the flask lay as they had been left. And the girl was still half conscious, half sleeping.

Malcolm Scott strode over to where Alix lay curled tightly up. He took her gently by a shoulder and rolled her onto her back. "She's flushed," he said, and put his hand upon her smooth forehead. "And feverish. We had best get her back to the keep." The herdsman was right. The lass was no tinker's get, cottager's wench, or servant girl. The high, smooth forehead, the dainty straight nose, the rosebud of a mouth, told him whoever she was she was not lowborn. "I'll carry her outside and take her up with me on my horse," the laird said to Jock. "You get the fire out and secure the shelter."

"Aye, my lord," Jock responded.

Malcolm Scott picked up the girl. Her head fell back from her hood against his arm, revealing a tangled mass of honey-colored curls. She was really quite lovely, he thought, but then the beautiful ones were always troublesome. Whoever she was, he would wager she was running away, but from whom? A husband? A father? He'd see she was made well again, and then he'd send her back from wherever she had come. Outside he handed the girl back to Jock briefly as he mounted his stallion, reaching back to take her up into his arms. She murmured softly as her cheek pressed against his leather jerkin, snuggling against him in a manner that made him oddly uncomfortable. He wasn't her savior, but she would soon know that. Urging his horse forward, he rode off towards the keep while behind him Jock closed up the shelter, then followed his master.