There was no doubt about it—the woman fascinated him. She was proud and reserved, yet with the body of a siren. And he hadn’t imagined the way her pupils dilated at his closeness—or how her lush breasts had risen and fallen sharply. He’d been near enough to get a glimpse down her deep cleavage.
She glanced his way then, her spine stiffening when she caught him looking at her.
A heartbeat later, a faint blush rose to her cheeks. She then cut her attention away and hurried toward the entrance to the tower house.
Ailean tracked her, his gaze lingering on the gentle sway of her hips as she walked. He’d always enjoyed the thrill of the chase. He liked having to ‘earn’ a lass. Fiona Mackinnon appeared determined to resist him, yet she was weakening. He could sense it. Excitement quickened in his gut. The woman was becoming something of an obsession. He should leave her be, he knew it—for his father had made it clear his sons weren’t to swive any of his servants—but something about her captivated him.
“Some things never change, I see.” Greig’s voice drew his attention. “Still looking for somewhere to stick yer rod.”
“Watch yer mouth in front of Hazel,” Craeg growled.
Meanwhile, Ailean stilled, his eyes narrowing. Teasing was one thing, yet his cousin had just overstepped. “Bitterness doesn’t suit ye, Greig,” he replied, his tone chilling.
His friend merely shrugged, although Ailean marked the aggression simmering in his eyes. These days, Greig appeared at war with the world. They’d both fought together at Murray’s side, both helped the Guardian of Scotland gain victory, but Greig had paid a high price while Ailean had returned home a hero.
It caused tension between them that had been absent before.
Ailean decided he wouldn’t take things further. Stepping back from Sgòth, he signaled to a lad to take his stallion back into the stables. “Ye’ll all be thirsty after yer journey. Join me in the hall for an ale.”
“I thought ye’d never ask,” Craeg replied, helping Hazel down. He hesitated before stepping toward Greig.
“Try to help me, and I’ll knock yer teeth down yer throat,” Greig growled.
Craeg halted, brow furrowing. “Have it yer way.”
Greig swung his leg over the pommel, twisted, and slid to the ground—but his weight faltered. His right leg buckled, and he sprawled backward onto the cobbles.
In an instant, Ailean and Craeg were there, hauling him upright.
“Get off me,” Greig snarled, shoving them away. “I don’t need help.”
“I’d say ye do,” Ailean replied evenly. “And being proud about it only makes ye look like a fool.”
Greig’s face flushed dark with fury.
Ailean hadn’t seen Greig since Samhuinn the year before—four months after he’d taken the injury. He’d hoped he might rally, yet the English blade that had laid Greig open from hip to knee had changed him. Pride had curdled into bitterness.
Wordlessly, Craeg fetched the wooden stick lashed behind the saddle and handed it over.
Greig snatched it, wincing as he leaned his weight onto the crutch. His gaze cut to Ailean—dark, sharp, full of pain. “So,” he ground out, “how about that ale ye promised?”
Fiona drew her woolen shawl tighter as she walked down the causeway leading from the castle toward Dounarwyse village.
Summer was nearly upon them, but the night air still carried a coastal chill.
“Isn’t the bonfire magnificent?” Carrie asked, gesturing toward the great blaze crowning the hill south of the clustered stone bothies. “And the drums have started.”
They had—the steady thud of calfskin drums rolled through the night, mingling with the shrill whistle of a few simple flutes. The music called folk from hearth and field alike. Though the people of Dounarwyse now worshipped God in the kirk, they still clung to the old ways too.
From a distance, Fiona could almost imagine black-robed druids circling the flames. Her skin prickled.
Torches bobbed as a small group of villagers gathered around the blaze, calling out blessings to the land and livestock. Some of the lads and lasses were taking turns leaping over the smoldering embers at the fire’s edge, hands linked, their laughter echoing over the hillside. Bairns, wee Stu among them, ran about with little garlands of hawthorn and daisies, trailing them in the smoke-scented wind. Many lasses wore wreaths of wildflowers atop their heads, as did both Fiona and Carrie.
These fire festivals were woven into life here, just as they were in Craignure.
Craignure.She hadn’t thought of home in a while now.
She’d been so busy that she rarely dwelled on what she’d left behind. Nonetheless, a tug of guilt occasionally pricked her, and it did now.
