“Those were the tenants here in Dounarwyse,” his father replied sternly. “These are on the northern edge of our lands … at Ardnacross.” Rae paused then. “If I’d known ye were riding out there yesterday, I’d have asked ye to meet them in my stead. Ye’d have saved us both a trip.”
Ailean stiffened. The rebuke was subtle—but earned. It was a fair journey to Ardnacross, and if he’d been less selfish, he could have eased his father’s burden.
Still, pride kept him silent.
Something pushed at his leg then, and he looked down to find his father’s Highland collie nudging at him. Piper always greeted him in the mornings, her dark-brown eyes adoring, and today was no exception. Reaching down, Ailean stroked her curly head. “Greetings, lass,” he murmured.
“It’s another fine spring morning,” Kylie spoke up then, shattering the tense silence that had settled over the table.
She was a diplomat—always had been—smoothing tensions between father and son. Ailean had been barely six when she’d entered his life, hired to teach him and Lyle. Neither had madeit easy for her initially. They’d behaved like brats, truth be told. But Kylie was made of sterner stuff than she appeared, and she’d soon whipped them into shape.
Thanks to her, both brothers were fluent in French.
“It’ll be a fine day out,” Rae agreed, smiling softly at his wife. “I’d ask ye to join us, mo chridhe, but I know ye’ll be eager to oversee yer new weaver.”
Kylie smiled back. “I want to be sure Fiona has everything she needs. This tapestry will be the grandest ever to grace this castle. The planning matters.” She halted a moment. “I’d like ye to meet her too … to talk to her about the Battle of Dounarwyse.”
He nodded. “And I will … just not today.” His attention flicked back to Ailean, who was now feeding Piper a morsel of bannock. “Looks like it’s just ye and me.”
“Can I join ye?” Lyle asked hopefully from across the table.
Rae shook his head. “Jack wants to put the Guard through their paces today. I need ye here to help him.”
Lyle nodded, though disappointment shadowed his eyes. It had been this way of late. While Ailean had been gone, Lyle had taken his place at the laird’s side. Now that his elder brother was home, he was often overlooked.
Ailean noticed, but he was surprised his father didn’t.
“It’s important the tenants grow used to seeing yer face, Ailean,” Rae said, lifting his cup and studying his son.
“Ye speak as if ye’re about to drop dead,” Ailean muttered. Piper was nudging his hand with her wet, cold nose now, demanding more bannock.
Rae frowned, as did Kylie. Neither of them appreciated the jest. “I’m hale enough, lad … but no man should take his health for granted. When the day comes that ye take over from me, I want ye ready.”
“Who says I’m not ready now?” Ailean countered, his irritation rising. “I’ve fought and survived enough battles. What makes ye think I can’t run this castle?”
Rae swore softly. “Ye’ve got confidence, I’ll give ye that. A laird needs plenty. But ruling land and people is far different from swinging a claidheamh-mòr.” His fern-green eyes hardened. “Ye’ve still much to learn. And it’s my duty to teach ye.”
Fiona rolled out the large sheet of parchment across the worktable and weighted each edge with a smooth stone. She picked up a nub of charcoal, and then she paused, gathering her thoughts.
This project was going to be a greater challenge than she’d anticipated.
She wasn’t sure where to begin.
Instead of sketching, she surveyed the blank expanse before her and tried to imagine the battle that had raged here around the time of her birth.
The Battle of Dounarwyse was legend in these parts. It symbolized Maclean triumph over the Mackinnons—over Kendric Mackinnon in particular, the clan-chief whose cruelty, according to her Da, had fueled decades of bloodshed. He’d been a vicious bastard. The very reason her Da had fled his clan’s lands and settled across the border. Bryce Mackinnon had always been happier among the Macleans.
Fiona wrinkled her nose, trying to conjure the scene she would bring to life with warp and weft.
“A blank parchment won’t get ye far,” she chided herself aloud. “Just begin … and ye’ll find yer way.”
Drawing in a deep breath, she leaned forward and began to sketch.
In the foreground, she drew the bold, solid lines of Dounarwyse itself. Beyond it, she traced the curve of the coastline and the distant horizon.
Then, she halted. It was a strong backdrop—but only that. A beginning. She still had to bring the battle to life. The sea clash itself.
And truth be told, she wasn’t sure how to sketch it.
