By the time dusk bled across the sky, the gap was patched. Crooked—but sound.
Craeg stepped back, hands on hips. “That’ll hold.”
Greig leaned against a post, breathing hard. Pain pinched his features, and Ailean wondered if his friend had overdone things. He wouldn’t ask though. Greig wouldn’t appreciate it. “Next year on the eve of Yuletide, I expect ye all breaking yer backs at Duart on my behalf,” Greig muttered.
Ailean laughed. “Shall we come and tear the roof off first to carry on the tradition?”
Greig’s mouth twitched.
Fiona passed around cups of warmed wine. They stood in the stable doorway drinking while the horses settled behind them. The glow of a brazier on the cobbles illuminated the chill gloaming.
“How go things at Duart?” Ailean asked.
Greig’s expression darkened. “The MacDonald trouble worsens. There’s talk of them stopping merchant cogs bound for Mull. Paying them off. Sending supplies to Skye instead.”
The warmth of the wine and the brazier dimmed.
“Callum’s pushing,” Craeg said. “But he’s not ready for war.”
“Not yet,” Ailean murmured.
Hazel touched Craeg’s arm. “Enough of that. We didn’t ride here for politics.”
Craeg exhaled. “Aye. We’ve better news.”
Hazel lifted her chin, eyes bright. “I’m with bairn.”
Ailean blinked in surprise. He remembered the whispers when they wed—her age, the scandal, the predictions that no child would come of it. Hazel looked as slender as ever, her skirts hiding any curve.
“That’s good tidings indeed,” he said with a grin. “How far along?”
“Six moons,” Hazel replied, her hand resting lightly on her belly. Her cheeks flushed. “I wasn’t sure it would happen. I’m older than ye all.”
“Congratulations,” Fiona replied, grasping Hazel’s hand and squeezing. “Are ye feeling well?”
Hazel nodded. “Just morning queasiness. I tire easily. And …” her mouth twitched, “… I’ve developed the appetite of a garron.”
Craeg grinned. “That’s her asking when supper is.”
They all laughed—except Greig.
His cup paused halfway to his mouth, and firelight carved harsh lines across his face.
“Fine news, isn’t it, Greig?” Ailean said pointedly.
Greig swallowed his wine before managing a terse, “Aye, great.”
Craeg studied him, his expression hardening. “I hope yer words are sincere.”
Their gazes locked for a few moments before Greig’s shoulders sagged. He dragged a hand down his face. “Sorry. I’m a grumpy bastard, and I know it,” he said with a sigh. “Doesn’t mean I’m not happy for ye … for ye both. I am.”
The Yule feast filled the tower with heat and laughter. It was an evening Fiona would never forget.
As the wind rattled the door and the sacking fluttered against the window, the five of them sat around a scrubbed wooden table, warmed by a roaring fire built from the largest oak log Ailean could find. It would not last all twelve days of Yule, but it felt festive, nonetheless.
Savory aromas lay heavily in the air, a result of a long day of baking and cooking.
Earlier, Hazel and Fiona had gathered ivy, holly, and mistletoe to decorate the space. Candles illuminated the rough stone walls, and cressets burned along the stairwell leading to the first floor, where they and their guests would sleep. It was awelcoming home now, and pride tightened Fiona’s chest as she took it all in.
