Years ago, Kylie’s youngest sister, Makenna, had wed Bran, the Mackinnon clan-chief. Bran had never been like his father—although hot-headed, he wasn’t ruled by ruthless, blind ambition. Just as well. The feud had raged for decades before Bran took his father’s place at Dùn Ara in northern Mull.
Ailean looked east then, to where the land rose gently from the shore, pasture and tilled fields stitched between low hedgerows and clusters of hardy woodland. Alder, rowan, and scattered oaks clung stubbornly to the slopes, their roots gripping the stony soil. Beyond them, hills lifted gradually, rough and heathered, fading into the distant mountains of Mull’s interior. The beauty of it all made his skin prickle. However, a short while later, that ruined tower drew his attention once more.
It fascinated him. And yet it saddened him too—a once proud holding had been reduced to nothing but a broken shell.
“Aye, well … Kendric Mackinnon wanted to ensure Ardnacross Tower never guarded our borders again,” he murmured. “And he succeeded.”
Straightening, Fiona rubbed her aching back and glanced toward the window.
Dusk had crept in. Lanterns glowed softly around her as shadows lengthened outside.
She’d worked through the day—pausing only for meals and her talk with Tay. But it was done. Her preliminary sketch lay complete.
Stepping back, she admired it. Tay’s descriptions had echoed in her ears all day. Tweaks would be needed, but now a great sea battle sprawled across the parchment. Smoke billowed from ramparts. Leather-clad warriors loosed arrows onto troops surging uphill. Birlinns crowded the bay. Banners flew.
Black and white for now—but the tapestry would blaze with color. The vivid red of the Maclean plaid, the muted forest tones of the Mackinnons—friend and foe made unmistakable.
Tomorrow, Lady Kylie would see it.
And the laird.
Her breathing grew shallow then, nerves getting the better of her, and she focused on putting away her charcoal and tidying up the table. Supper wasn’t far off, but she wanted to take a short rest in her bower before then.
However, as she turned toward the door, the clatter of hooves below drew her attention.
Curious, she moved to the window. A knot of warriors on horseback had just swept into the barmkin. A panting Highland collie, with a curly black, white, and grey coat, accompanied them. Rae Maclean had dismounted, broad and commanding. A big man with short dark-auburn hair, shot through with grey. She’d yet to be formally introduced to him, yet that would change tomorrow. Reaching down, he ruffled his dog’s coat, a smile softening his face for an instant.
A few feet away—
Her pulse betrayed her.
Ailean.
She hadn’t seen him all day. Not surprising, for she’d eaten with the servants and worked alone.
But the sight of him sharpened every sense. And that irritated her. She’d seen too many lasses in Craignure undone by charm and promises. Left with swollen bellies and broken hearts.
She’d sworn she would never be one of them.
As if sensing her gaze, Ailean glanced up.
Their eyes locked.
Heat flooded her—swift and merciless.
And then, to her utter shame, he smiled. Slow. Knowing.
“Ye are an artist, lass.”
Rae Maclean’s words warmed Fiona to the bone.
An artist.
High praise from a man like him.
He was nothing like his honey-tongued son—stern, serious, quietly formidable. That was why his approval mattered. She’d slept fitfully the night before in her tiny bower on the tower’s top floor, worried about her meeting with the laird. However, she shouldn’t have gotten herself worked up. The moment Kylie introduced her to Maclean, she liked him.
“Thank ye,” she replied. “I spoke with Tay yesterday … and he described the battle to me. But since ye fought in it, I wanted to be sure I’d not gone astray.”
