“Good.” Ailean hauled him to his feet and shoved him toward the stables. “Get out of my sight.”
Not needing to be told a second time, the groom fled.
Ailean turned then to the mare. She stood, a few yards away, blowing hard, the whites of her eyes gleaming in the noon sun. “Easy, lass.” He moved close and reached out, placing a steadying hand on her sweat-slicked neck. “He won’t hurt ye again.”
The collie approached then, head low, tail tucked between its legs. The horse snorted but didn’t panic. Ailean cast the shamefaced dog an exasperated look. “Been stirring up trouble, have ye, Piper?”
The dog whined and pushed itself up against his leg, leaning into him.
With a sigh, Ailean reached down and patted the bitch’s head with one hand, while with the other, he continued to stroke the frightened horse’s neck. Moments passed, and the mare’s tense muscles gradually eased. Ailean murmured to her, slowly regaining her trust. The horse whickered softly, and a smile tugged at Ailean’s lips, softening his features. “That’s it,a bhrèagha… ye are safe now. I have ye.”
Pretty one.The endearment was gently spoken.
He hadn’t noticed that Fiona was standing there, just a few feet away, watching.
An odd ache rose under her ribs. Suddenly, she felt breathless and a little dizzy.Mother Mary.No wonder the mare had quietened. No wonder the bitch fawned. What female wouldn’t under such gentle words, such a tender touch?
What would it be like to be bedded by a man like that? She wagered that he knew just where to touch and stroke, and how to make a lass forget herself.
Fiona was still a virgin. Aye, she’d had a few fumbles with lads over the years, a few lusty kisses at fire festivals, but none of them had made her want to take things further though. If anything, she’d clutched her chastity more tightly.
But for a few stolen moments, she let herself yearn for the forbidden.
6: ON THE STAIRS
“WILL YE BE joining us for Bealtunn?” Arabella asked. “It’s but two days away now.”
Fiona glanced up from where she’d been sorting through a basket of freshly dyed yarn. The colors were rich—the deepest turquoise and the brightest emerald green. Perfect for the sea. And for the shoreline. Several of the sea-tones had already been wound into small butterflies and lay coiled beside her within easy reach.
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” she admitted with a half-smile. “In truth, the only thing I can think about these days is bringing this tapestry to life.”
Her gaze drifted to the loom, to the scene she and Arabella had started a week earlier.
Progress had been slower than Fiona had intended, especially during the first few days.
Arabella was eager, keen to help in any way she could—winding yarn onto bobbins, sorting colors, and untangling thread—but it had quickly become clear that she had no real skill in the art of weaving. Fiona was happy to teach her, of course, but it took up a lot of time.
They’d sat at the loom, side by side on stools for long hours, while Fiona tried to teach her to manage the rhythm of her feet on the treadles with the movement of her hands. A skill that the younger lass had still to master.
Even so, as the days stretched out into two weeks and then three, the bottom portion of the tapestry was beginning to take shape—strands of wool woven carefully through the warp using a wooden shuttle, then tamped down with the beater.
Returning to her place before the loom, Fiona paused to check the tension with her fingers before sending the shuttle through again, easing the weft at the edge so the cloth would not draw in.
“Aye, but alas, ye can’t work all the time,” Arabella said, flashing her a cheeky smile.
Fresh-faced and innocent, yet with a disarming candor, Arabella Maclean was fine company. She was chatty but knew when not to prattle. At eighteen summers, she brimmed with curiosity and enthusiasm. She’d lived a largely sheltered life within the walls of Dounarwyse, but their difference in rank mattered little as they worked together.
As with Carrie—who had become a treasured companion, someone Fiona could laugh with, tease, and speak irreverently with—a friendship was also blossoming between Fiona and Arabella. That surprised Fiona, for she’d thought their difference in rank might prevent an understanding from forming.
“I never missed a Bealtunn back in Craignure,” Fiona admitted then. “I love it.” Her mouth curved. “The fires. The drums.”
“And the wine and the dancing,” Arabella said, her smile turning impish. “There are plenty of handsome lads here at Dounarwyse too. Bealtunn and Samhuinn give us a chance to meet them.”
Pushing the shuttle through the warp once more and beating the weft tight, Fiona cast her an appraising glance. Of course, a lass like Arabella would find it exciting—she’d never had the chance to rub shoulders with lads, not as Fiona and her sisters had growing up.
Fiona felt no thrill at seeing the same faces year after year. Nor did she relish slapping away wandering hands or being cornered by a lad she didn’t wish to encourage. But Arabella had known none of that.
“I imagine yer Da keeps a close eye on ye at fire festivals,” Fiona said, meeting her frank gray eyes. “He wouldn’t want any of his men taking liberties.”
