The morning mist hung low over the Glen of Dunraven like a bridal veil of gossamer silver. Fiona stood on the stone balustrade of the lower bailey, breathing in the cold, sharp air of the Scottish Highlands. The scent of damp pine needles, wild bog myrtle, and crushed heather was intoxicating, washing away the lingering exhaustion of the journey. Beneath the castle promontory, the River Fiddich surged through a rocky…
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