A Sword Upon the Rose. Brenda Joyce

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      “Will he march on Nairn? Will he march on Elgin, on Banf? Will we defeat him? Will I?”

      He was asking for so much! “It is hard enough,” she said, low, “seeking out a vision, much less requiring a specific one to occur.”

      He patted her hand. “But you are a Comyn. You are your father’s daughter as much as your mother’s. As a Comyn, you must do your duty to me and mine.”

      “I want to do my duty,” she cried. And it was true. Never mind that she had not been raised as a Comyn, or that the entire Comyn family had never considered her one of them, now she wanted nothing more than to have the vision he wished for.

      “Good.” He picked up his knife and fork and began to eat.

      Alana did not move. Although she had never given any thought to her future, not as a man’s wife, not as a child’s mother, tears arose. Was it possible that she might one day have a husband, children—a family?

      “You are not eating,” Buchan said.

      Alana was jerked out of her hopes and dreams. She smiled at him, and picked up her utensils. Dutifully, she began to eat.