Awareness coiled between them. The stairwell felt suddenly too warm.
Then his mouth curved into a lazy half-smile.
Dizziness swept over her. “I must be away,” she said, oddly breathless now. “Arabella will be waiting.”
“Of course.”
He didn’t move; there was nowhere to go in the narrow stairwell. To pass him, she had to squeeze by.
Their bodies brushed as she did so. Hips and shoulders.
Heat flared low in her belly—sharp, shocking—and then she fled.
The devil smite her, she needed distance. She needed to regain her scattered wits.
Ailean was dangerous, and she knew better.
7: THE DRUMS OF BEALTUNN
THE CLATTER OF hooves made Ailean glance up.
He had been checking Sgòth’s legs, ensuring no swellings or windgalls were forming. He pushed the stallion hard on their rides and would not risk lameness through neglect.
But Sgòth was no longer his focus.
The company that had just passed beneath the portcullis and drawn their horses up a few yards away claimed his full attention. Surprise filtered up before a grin broke free. “Ye rogues …” He straightened. “What are ye doing here?”
“Thought we’d pay ye a surprise visit for Bealtunn.” A tall, sun-browned warrior with wavy dark hair vaulted from his chestnut stallion and strode toward him.
They clasped forearms in the customary warrior’s greeting before Ailean yanked Craeg into a rough embrace. “It’s been too long.”
“Indeed, it has,” the Chieftain of Moy replied. He gestured toward a tall, slender woman seated atop a bay garron, her dark hair braided neatly down her back. “I’ve been promising Hazel a visit for some time,” he said. “She’s never seen Dounarwyse.”
Hazel gazed about her with open curiosity. Though she had been wed to Craeg for over eight months now, all of this was still new to her—the keep, the bustle, the weight of clan life. Until recently, she had lived quietly near Lochbuie, a herb-wife in the oakwood beyond Moy.
Ailean, if he were honest, thought his friend a fool. Craeg had been dragged back to Mull and into responsibilities he had never wanted, bound into a betrothal he had resisted—until Hazel. She had undone him utterly, nearly costing him his relationship with their clan-chief.
Ailean didn’t understand why Craeg would risk everything for a woman, especially one from such humble origins.
Even so, he liked Hazel. She was spirited yet steady. In the months following, she’d proven herself a fine chieftain’s wife. Maybe Ailean needed to eat his words. “Ye’re welcome here, Lady Hazel,” he greeted her with a nod.
“Thank ye, Ailean,” she replied warmly.
“And we even managed to dragthisgrumpy bastard out of Duart,” Craeg added, nodding toward the final rider.
Tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair pulled back at his nape and a short beard shadowing his jaw, Greig sat rigidly astride his horse.
“Craeg nags like a fishwife,” Greig muttered. “It was either ride with him or lose my hearing.”
Craeg snorted, though concern now shadowed his gaze. “A bit of levity would do ye good.”
Greig shot him another dark look.
A woman emerged from a building—one of the old stores that had been converted into a dye-house—a basket of cerulean wool under one arm. Her unruly mane of golden curls, pulled away from her face today, tumbled down her back.
Ailean’s gaze immediately snapped to her.
He found it impossible not to stare at Fiona whenever she crossed his path. Nearly a month had passed since her arrival at Dounarwyse, and his initial interest in her was growing, especially since their collision on the stairwell a few days earlier. The feel of her soft body in his arms, the scent of rosemarythat enveloped him for a few moments, had sent a jolt of desire straight to his groin.
