“Ye are looking severe for such a festive eve?” Carrie observed.
“I was thinking of my family,” Fiona replied. “My sisters drink too much mead and make spectacles of themselves at Bealtunn.”
She hadn’t been thinking about Maisie and Cate’s wild behavior at all. Instead, she was wondering how her family fared. Money would be tight. Lady Kylie was due to hand over her first pay the following day, and Fiona had decided to send most of it home. If she were honest, to do so irritated her—for she’d sworn she’d let her sisters pay their own way—yet she didn’t want them to think she was selfish.
The coin would see them right. She didn’t expect any gratitude. Ever since her arrival at Dounarwyse, she’d heard nothing from them.
Carrie laughed as they joined the throng. “Do ye miss yer sisters?”
Fiona shook her head. “I’m much older than Maisie and Cate. Ma had me young … she always complained that I ruined her life … that I was the reason she had to marry Da.”
Carrie winced, although Fiona shrugged. “She can say worse.”
“Ye did well to get out then.”
“I did.”
They walked on, linking arms as they climbed the hill to where men and women still danced around the roaring fire, spinning in wide circles. Their cries, mingling with the pounding of the drums, were primal. Almost sensual.
Halting before the bonfire, Fiona found herself entranced by the dancing and the steady thud of the drums.
The rise and fall of lowing intruded then as farmers herded cattle through the fire’s smoke, a blessing for prosperity and fertility. Women and men carried jugs of warmed mead, pouring it into wooden cups for revelers. Honey cakes, oatcakes, and buttered bread were offered freely, and Fiona helped herself to a cup of mead and a honey cake, as did Carrie.
These treats were her favorite things about Bealtunn.
“Ye’ve got honey on yer cheek,” Carrie pointed out when Fiona was halfway through her cake.
Fiona flashed her a grin. “And ye have crumbs all over yer bodice.”
Carrie giggled, brushing at her kirtle. “A fine pair we are.”
Fiona spotted the laird and lady across the fire then. Standing arm in arm, heads bent together as they talked, they made a handsome couple. A few yards away, Captain Jack and Lady Tara watched the revelry. Their eldest daughter, Grace, was with them, though not Arabella. The poor lass had been struck down with a nasty cold the last few days, leaving Fiona to work alone at her tapestry.
Fiona’s attention lingered on the Macleans a moment longer, and then, without meaning to, her gaze searched the crowd.
She didn’t see him.
Disappointment stirred before she scolded herself.Goose!Why was she seeking Ailean out?
“Look … the clan-chief’s son is here.” Carrie tugged at her sleeve. “Although he looks as if someone just pissed in his porridge.”
Fiona turned—and her gaze landed on Ailean. He stood with a tall man with tanned skin and a thick mop of dark hair, and a willowy woman wearing a fine blue surcote. The Chieftain of Moy and his wife. Another man had joined them, leaning heavily on a stick, his face set in a deep scowl. Fiona had heard enough whispers around the kitchen table to know that this was Loch Maclean’s firstborn.
“Greig Maclean hasn’t been making himself popular with the servants, I can tell ye,” Carrie said, leaning in. “This morning, Dora fled his chamber in tears. She was rousing the hearth and saw he was having trouble getting out of bed. She tried to help him, but he snarled at her.”
Fiona murmured something in response, though her eyes skimmed over the group. Aye, she’d heard how bad-temperedthe clan-chief’s son was. However, she found it hard to concentrate on anyone except Ailean.
Firelight gilded his wild auburn hair. His loose linen lèine was open at the throat. He threw back his head then and laughed at something the Chieftain of Moy had just said, and her breath caught. No man should be so comely. It wasn’t fair.
Dizziness swept over her, a sensation as if she were falling.
Lord, what was the matter with her? Had the excitement of her new life, of this Bealtunn eve, addled her wits?
Ailean moved away from his father’s guests then, meeting Rowan, who handed him a cup of mead. The two men stood talking before the laird’s son gave his friend a playful shove. Fiona’s pulse kicked hard. She tore her gaze away, taking another bite of honey cake without tasting it.
Restlessness quickened inside her.I shouldn’t have come, she berated herself.I should go. Now … before he sees me.But her feet remained glued to the ground.
Next to her, Carrie had gone silent. Fiona stole a sidelong glance at her friend, noting the way her gaze followed Rowan.
