With the exception of the crackle of the fire in the large pit, silence reigned.

Finally, Simon set down the lathe he’d been using to smooth a rough board. He rubbed a thick finger alongside his nose, staring at her intently. “Och now, lassie. Ye look perfectly well.”

Donald nodded quickly. “Aye. And, ah, your hair looks well, too.” He darted a nervous glance at Will, who was firing up the bellows for the soldering. Donald jerked his head toward Kat.

Will frowned, his heavy jowls quivering. He was a massive man, more than six feet tall, his arms bulging with muscles from his work at the forge. He blinked hazily at Donald, who was still motioning toward Kat. “What?”

“’Tis Kat,” Donald said with a meaningful jerk of his head. “She wants to know what we think.”

“Of what?” Will said, plainly bewildered.

“Her hair.”

Will turned to look at Kat, squinting thoughtfully. “Hm…weeel, it don’t look a mite different than the last time I seen it.” His brow lowered. “Least I don’t think it looks any diff—”

“Will!” Simon hissed, glowering.

Will reluctantly smoothed his dirty hands on his smock. “Och now, I dinna know what ye want me to do!” He turned a bewildered eye on Kat. “Miss Kat, ye look loverly, whatever ye done wid yer hair.”

Kat sighed. “I didn’t do anything with my hair.”

“Ah ha!” Will turned an indignant eye on Simon and Donald. “She didn’t do nothin’ to her hair!”

“I heard her,” Donald hissed. He stared at Kat as if perplexed. “What did ye do then?”

Simon nodded, crossing his arms and studying Kat as if she was a puzzle to be solved. “If I know one thing about women, ’tis that they do love to ask ye what ye think of their new locks or new trappin’s.”

Alistair rubbed his chin, rasping his blond whiskers. “Mayhap ’tis her boots.”

Seven pairs of eyes fastened on Kat’s boots.

She dropped her arms to her sides. “Oh for the love of—It’s not my hair and it’s not my boots, either.” Encountering yet more looks of bewilderment, she finally sighed and said, “It’s the riding habit. Do you like my riding habit?”

Neal sent a covert glance around the room, then offered, “’Tis a new one, then? How loverly.”

She stomped her foot. “No! ’Tis my old one, but I had it brushed and pressed.”

To a man, they appeared relieved.

“’Tis brushed! O’ course!” Simon said.

Donald beamed. “That was me next guess.”

“Whist, now,” Will said, sending a stern glance at Donald. “Ye weren’t a-goin’ to say nary a thing aboot her habit and ye know it.”

“I was, too,” Donald protested, his face flushing. “Was goin’ to say that if ’twasn’t her hair, and ’twasn’t her boots, then it had to be her riding habit. Whot else could it be?”