Jenny finished her inspection of the cot and began to unpack. There was an ancient looking wedding chest at the foot of the bed replete with beautiful carvings of red highland deer. She pressed her fingers over its hoary ridges, and hoped it hadn't been made within the last six months in some impoverished country by a fellow who made ten cents an hour.

Her duffel still packed with all her smaller bits and pieces intact fit neatly inside it with space to spare. Jenny peered around the room for a handy antique armoire or at least a modern day closet but nothing presented itself.

She hung her historically correct festival costume of copper colored overskirt and bodice, linen shift and dark green petticoat on the hook by the door and then tucked the empty garment bag in the chest with the duffel.

Her latest purchase was peeking out of the bag inside. She pulled it out of its wrapping and spread it out over the bed. Jenny wasn't sure if the beautiful shawl, in a Ross hunting plaid woven in thick green and white strips with a counterpoint of thin red lines, would be accurate with her vintage-style outfit, but there would be plenty of costume judges tomorrow who would be glad to let her know, no doubt in patronizing tones, if it wasn't.

She could always tuck it in her lunch pouch. It was fun to have a real piece of Ross tartan even if she knew that they were just mass-produced for tourists, and that probably one out of ten people in her country could probably claim descent from the same clan as she did. Even so it was fun to be in the land of her ancestors.

Jenny pulled out the beautiful white cotton batiste nightgown that her sister had given her for her birthday. The shift-like garment had never seemed appropriate for her bed-sitter apartment back home and she'd been saving it for a special occasion.

Here in the homeland of her foremothers, okay some of her foremothers, its deep flounce, low neck, and tucked bodice were exactly right. Exactly right but a little thin. Jenny pulled her new shawl off the bed and draped it around her shoulders before she went down the stairs.

There was an tiny, ancient spirit stove in the sitting room and she managed to get it lit and brew herself a cup of tea. With tea, a good romance novel and a fire - blazing or not- she was all set for her first evening of Scottish romance.

Jenny had bought a good stock of Scottish romances from Amazon.com before she left town. Their covers varied from roses and thistles draped with Campbell plaids to partially dressed men and women who were supposed to be kissing but really looked like they had just finished an intense workout.

She was partial to the ones with people because the women's costumes always intrigued her. Just how exactly did they keep those dresses, which were usually sliding nearly halfway down their chests, from falling off their generous bosoms?

And why was there always a long rip up the side of their skirts? Was it all those thistles? Jenny bet that the costume police at the festival would have been all over her if she had worn anything like one of those outfits, but she loved them anyway.

She liked the pictures of the men too. They invariably showed a lot of skin around rippling, muscular torsos and strong thighs. The dark waving, or red curling, well-tended hair that hung nearly to their shoulders just invited her fingers to serve as a comb.

The heroine and hero always appeared to be well bathed and highly deodorized as well. Again not historically correct, but appealing to a modern woman.

Jenny loved the nice, predictable stories. Woman meets man. Woman finds man irritating. Woman shows man why she is not a run-of-the-mill weak, submissive woman because her Highland roots have given her spirit.

Man shows woman why he is not a run-of-the-mill, domineering slob. Woman and man have exciting escapades and end up together in bed, or wallowing in the heather, against their better judgment because they just can't help themselves.

She choose Highland Heroine, because the man on the cover reminded her of one of her favorite fantasy warrior television shows that had recently gone off the air. He was an extremely well built guy with smoky eyes, and jet-black shoulder length curling hair.

The woman was also her kind of gal. She had a real figure, no Skinny Minnie, and hair similar to her own reddish-brown locks. The pair, who looked like they must have just finished a triathlon in 18'th century garb, were leaning back weakly against a pile of rocks amid a field of white heather.

Jenny was pleased to find that Fionna was already pulling off Charlie's clothes by chapter two. Of course, it was because he had been badly stung by bees. Surely there wouldn't be action in the heather this soon? But she was wrong. 'Atta girl, Fionna!' she thought.

By chapter four, after a five-day relationship, Fiona and Charlie had managed to indulge their sensual passions in more varied ways then Jenny had achieved with her ex-husband in seven years of marriage.

Charlie was running his fingers suggestively up Fionna's spine. Fionna was responding with 'a deep yearning in a womanly place she'd never dreamed of' when there was a knock on the cottage door.

Regretfully, Jenny tucked Highland Heroine in the wide pocket of her batiste nightie and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. Just outside the tiny window there was a figure with a large tray.

Because of the time difference Jenny had stopped off for an early supper on her drive in. She'd entirely forgotten the 'simple evening repast' the brochure had mentioned. Well, she'd paid for it after all.

Jenny opened the door and a tall woman proceeded past her, plunked the tray down on the table and turned around to appraise her guest silently. In the firelight Jenny could see that her hostess stood probably six feet tall.

She might be anywhere between forty and sixty, a deep bosomed woman with a straight back and curly red hair. Her reddish, rough skinned and wrinkle lined face proclaimed outdoor living. She assessed Jenny for another moment in silence from behind green eyes.

"Ah see you've found the cot, key and all." It wasn't the accents of Brigadoon, but it wasn't Chicago either.

"Yes, thank you. It's lovely."

The woman held out a work worn palm. "Ah'm your landleddy Eilidh McTaggert. Ah live just doon the path along the loch thair."

Jenny smiled and put her hand out."McTaggert? My great-grandmother's maiden name was Taggert. I suppose you hear that a lot around here. Highland roots are very fashionable in America.""

Eilidh smiled, her eyes glanced over Jenny's new shawl."Aye. I've niver seen so many shoots come out o' one root. All my ancestors� kin seemed to have made it to America after the clearances. Apparently they had nuthin better to do there than breed bairns."

"Must have been a dozen Americans who claim some kind of descent from the Ross here in the past month. And that's just this little house alone. Weel, " She smiled again at Jenny, showing a set of fine white teeth." why not? Though there's a lot o' fairy stories told aboot the highlands, there's much truth also. You've enough red in your hair to make it clear where you're great-granny came from. 'Welcome hame', I always say."

Jenny bet she did and that she made a tidy profit saying it too. Those Highland fairy stories could go a long way towards paying the bills. 'Aunty Mary's' did not come cheap.

"Well, I'm here to indulge in a further bit of fantasy. I've come for the Highland Festival, you know." She nodded at her violin case on the table.� I�ll be playing with a group of my friends all just a tiny bit less Celtic than me. Mary's family is 'Polowski'. George's parents named him 'Mohammed Kianto' and Elena speaks fluent Tagalog."

Eilidh nodded at the violin.� Music crosses all borders. I'll look forward to hearing your group play. You'll be glad to know the village turns out in full kilt for the festival. We all enjoy getting into the sprit of the occasion. Meself, I'll be wi' the dancers."

"I can walk there from here, right?"

"It's a good bit of walking around the loch."

"I don't much like driving and I do like to get any exercise I can. The views look gorgeous and we're scheduled so tightly at the festival that I'm afraid it may be my only chance to really see the area."

Eilidh nodded.� Aye you can follow the footpath around the loch past me house and keep going. It's aboot two miles further on the far bank. You canna miss it."

Jenny laughed.� Famous last words. Now I know I should take the car." She headed towards the door.� Can you point across the la- the loch and show me about where I ought to end up?"

For such a large woman, Eilidh could move fast. She planted herself in front of the door.� You dinna be wanting to go frae the hoose at this time o' night, Miss Taggert."

"It's not Taggert anymore. But anyway, please call me Jenny."

"Well then Jenny, perhaps I should have thought to tell you before. I niver thought of you goin' outside tonight. It's verra cold outside after the sun sets. The wind whips op something terrible from the loch." Her 'terrible' had a beautiful round rolling 'r' that Jenny wished she could reproduce at the festival.

"Oh I'm used to winds off the lake. I'm from Chicago you know. I'm used to the cold and I'm used to walking." Jenny began to make her way around Eilidh but was dissuaded once more from her goal. "Mrs. McTaggart, please! I enjoy walking and I really don't get lost easily."

She looked up at the other woman's face and saw that she had gone white. "Mrs. McTaggert is there some other reason that I don't want to walk the path around the loch?" Visions of mass murderers and serial rapists flashed through her head. Not the sort of thing 'Aunty Mary's Tea Time Travels' would want to advertise. Jenny wished she could get a good view of the door lock. Was there a deadbolt?

"Aye." Eilidh McTaggert relaxed her stance and sat down heavily on one of the chairs by the fire. She motioned with one arm to the other chair."Sit ye doon."