The gathering of the clans was indeed an ancient tradition, but this squealing, giggling pack of maidens all intent on vying for his attention was something he had not bargained on. Word must have travelled through the glens. It had somehow been decided for him. Three years was long enough for mourning. Time for the Lachlan laird to marry again. Well, to hell with them all if they thought he was the man to dance to that tune. The devil of it was that he had to keep his fellow chieftains sweet, so he had to make a pretence, at least, of interest in all the determined flirting. He cast his eyes around the room for some saner company. His eyes encountered Jack’s amused blue gaze before taking in Rosie’s slightly troubled expression. Moving on, he tried to find Martha’s face in the crowd. She, at least, could be relied upon not to simper and coo. They would laugh about this nonsense later, when he held her in his arms… When he was absolutely sure that she was not in the great hall, Fraser strode over to Rosie.
