As he'd suspected, an odd glimmer of amusement shone in Gavin's hazel eyes.A look Donall knew well.And dreaded.Or would if the MacFie's glib tongue and sunny charm of manner had not oft taken the sting out of many an awkward situation.The man was a veritable font of good cheer.A loyal friend and skilled warrior, oddly blessed with more uncanny insight than the most far-seeing hen-wife. At times.And Donall sorely hoped this was not one of them.In case it was, he busied himself ... a method sometimes successful in staving off Gavin's launches into uninvited philosophical discourses. Pretending great care, Donall flicked out the woolen blanket Lorne had provided, and smoothed its scratchy warmth over his outstretched legs.Gavin cleared his throat.Loudly.Grimacing, Donall steeled himself for the good-natured jab he knew was about to come his way."The incessant plucking of your fingers on that moth-eaten rag gives you away, my friend." Gavin began tapping his chin with steepled fingers. "So she is the lady Isolde.""What do you know of her?" Donall shot back before he could cloak his words with a cool layer of aloofness.Warming to his topic, Gavin stretched his arms and deftly cracked his knuckles.
