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 Lachlan smiled. Almayne was one in a thousand, the best wilderness hunter in the Province, and, unlike most wilderness hunters, a man of good birth and education; but concerning women and all that had to do with women his ignorance was profound. He distrusted them all—except Sehoy McDonald, Lachlan's mother—and the greater their charm, the greater his distrust.

Lachlan's smile became a trifle rueful. Even the fact that Jolie Stanwicke was pledged to another had failed to render her harmless in Almayne's eyes. Because she was more beautiful than most, Lachlan reflected, Almayne saw her as a particularly deadly menace to his old friend's son.

Was she so beautiful—this Lady Sanguilla, as he had named her? In the dim garden, where he had seen her for the first and only time, Lachlan had not been able to distinguish her features clearly. Her hair, he had thought, was red or bronze-gold; he had been thrilled by the richness of her voice; she had moved with indescribable grace, and she was slender and of more than middle height, and there had been something about the way in which she carried her head. But as for beauty—well, Almayne, who had described her grudgingly as a miracle of loveliness, might not be a trustworthy judge. Yet, even in that dim garden

He mused for a long while at his writing table, curiously considering these and other matters. At last he arose, slipped under his belt the sealed letter ad-