“Aye. Didn’t Fin tell you Eilean Dubhan is his island?” the general wondered.

I whipped my head to Fin, who smiled back. “He said he owned some property on it,” I growled.

The general let out a guffaw. “Well, he spoke the truth, but only half of it. He’s the laird of Eilean Dubhan.”

“I think that’s enough, General. The young lady isn’t interested in such things,” Fin spoke up.

“Piffle, I say! Don’t brush off your heritage as though it was something to be ashamed of. Own it, man!” the general scolded him.

“And own it I do, my dear general, but weren’t you planning a hunt?” Fin reminded him.

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Fin led the way up the stairs, past the shack and along the white sand that lay at the feet of the tall, golden grass. The blades beat against me in rhythm with the wind as I trudged behind my guide. We meandered atop the sand dunes and tall grass for forty yards until we came to hard earth. Weeds, wild flowers, and small bushes held this domain, and our path guided us past these primitive plants lives and up a hill to a dark shadow in the distance.

The shadow was the promised house Fin had spoken about. It was a single story, thatched-roof cottage with a rough, mud-baked exterior. A few scraggly trees stood in the wild-grass yard and some bushes sat outside the door positioned on the right side of the building. There was a small paned windows on the left side of the door, and a cute stone walk led from our path to the door fifteen feet off.

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