Maclean’s lips curved faintly as he studied the drawing, eyes intent. Fern green, like his son’s.
Lady Kylie caught Fiona’s gaze and winked—approval already given. “The dyes from the mainland arrived,” she said then. “I’ve set aside a storehouse in the barmkin for ye … ye can use it as yer dye-house.”
Fiona nodded, impressed. Mixing and working with dyes was messy work. Indeed, she’d need a designated space for it, with easy access to water. “I’ll take a look at them shortly.”
“I’d like one addition,” Maclean said, pointing. “A pirate cog flying the ‘bloody flag’.The Blood Reaver. Alec Rankin and his crew turned the tide for us.”
“Ye’re right,” Fiona said eagerly. “That’s the perfect spot for it.”
Her gaze scanned the drawing, and she imagined the scene. The Macleans and the Mackinnons locked in deadly conflict, with the pirates sailing in. She’d heard of Alec Rankin—few upon this isle hadn’t. His exploits were legendary. However, he’d left piracy far behind him. These days, he lived in southern Mull, husband to Lady Liza Maclean of Moy.
And as she imagined the scene, everything fell into place.
Excitement tightened under her ribs. She was ready to begin.
Fiona knelt by the wide, shallow vats in the storehouse, the pungent tang of mordant and dye filling the air. Sunlight slanted through the open doorway, bathing the skeins of wool already steeping in the rich amber liquid. She lifted a strand with a stick, twisting it carefully before lowering it back into the bath, murmuring to herself as she monitored the color with a practiced eye. Too long, and it would deepen beyond what she wanted; too short, and it would fade flatly. Precision was everything.
Her hands were stained by now—fingers tipped with ochre and deep crimson—but Fiona barely noticed. She added another two handfuls of wet wool and weighed them down with smooth stones to keep them submerged. She then checked the water’s temperature. Perfect.
It was messy work, yet she loved it. She was in her element here. Over the past few days, she’d been busy getting used toworking on a treadle loom. The shift had been easier than she’d anticipated. Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t that different from using her old vertical loom—even so, it was a relief to focus on a different task now.
The wooden vats, lined with iron, sat suspended over a glowing hearth. The rhythm of the work—the careful stirring, the dipping, the gentle wringing—was meditative, and for a while, she let herself sink entirely into it.
A horse’s squeal dragged Fiona from her reverie. A dog’s excited barking followed.
Through the small doorway, she caught sight of a groom struggling with a chestnut horse in the barmkin beyond. The Highland collie she’d glimpsed a few times now—the laird’s faithful companion—bounced a few yards away.
The horse reared, its hooves striking the cobbles, and the man’s hands were harsh, tugging roughly at the reins. Fiona’s chest tightened at the display—he was being too rough, trying to force the beast into submission. He then snarled a curse at the barking collie. “Get back, cur!”
“Brute,” she muttered under her breath. Cutting her gaze away, she shifted position on the folded sacking under her knees.
She then focused on the wool again, on the delicate shading she was coaxing from the dyes. The rhythm of stirring soothed her, the heat of the vats warm on her skin, and slowly her mind cleared. The horse’s panic faded from her thoughts. Each skein she lifted, each careful twist she set into place, demanded her full attention—and that was exactly where she intended to keep it.
But an angry shout ripped her from her work once more. Fiona’s fingers froze in the dye-stained wool, her heart leaping. Turning, she looked back at where the groom still struggled withthe horse. The dog had stopped barking, but the mare squealed in terror, nostrils flaring and flanks quivering.
Cursing, the man lashed her side with a stick. “I’ll teach ye to disobey me!” The stick came down on the horse’s shoulder.
Anger surged, hot and fierce, through Fiona. How dare he treat an animal so? She lurched to her feet and rushed outside. “Stop!”
Ignoring her, the groom brought his knee up sharply into the horse’s guts. The mare grunted, leaping sideways as her tail lashed and ears flattened.
The groom drew his arm back, ready to bring the stick down harder still.
However, a hand struck out, fastening hard around his wrist.
Ailean had appeared from nowhere. There was no easy smile on his face now, no warmth.
He moved in behind the groom and twisted his arm behind his back.
The groom gasped in pain, the stick clattering to the cobbles.
Ailean shoved him to his knees, looming over him now. “Use a stick on a horse again, and I’ll take it to ye,” he said, his voice quiet. Dangerous. “Understand?”
“The laird’s damn dog got it worked up. I was just—”
“There is no excuse for beating a beast like that.” Ailean cut him off. “Am I getting through yer thick head?”
“Aye,” the groom rasped. “It won’t happen again.”
