“So, ye noticed that Carrie was soft on him?”
Ailean cocked an eyebrow. “Ye sound surprised.”
“I am,” she admitted. The dancing had lowered her inhibitions, and she was now more at ease. “If I’m honest, I’ve always thought men oblivious to such things.”
His eyes widened for a heartbeat, and then, to her surprise, he laughed. The sound, warm and rich, washed over her. “Do ye think we are stupid?”
“About some things, aye.” She was enjoying herself now, although she was keenly aware of the fact that he still held her left hand in his.
She was also aware that she was loath to let go.
“Mead?” A ruddy-cheeked woman carrying a jug in one hand and a tray of wooden cups in the other bustled over. She then flashed the laird’s son a look that was both motherly and admiring. “I’d wager ye’re thirsty after all that dancing, Ailean.”
“Aye.” Ailean flashed her a charming smile. “Thanks for looking out for me, Cath.”
Gently, reluctantly, Fiona slid her hand from his to take the cup the woman handed out. It was the perfect excuse to sever contact. As heady as this moment was, she couldn’t let it continue.
Cath wandered off, and Ailean held up his cup to Fiona in a silent toast. Their gazes fused. “To bold-tongued women,” he teased.
She held his eye. “Aye … and here’s to men who appreciate them.”
Mother Mary, she wasn’t acting like herself tonight.
Nonetheless, her pert reply made him grin once more. “I’ve been wanting to spend more time with ye, Fiona,” he said then. “We run into each other now and again inside the castle … but never long enough for us to learn about each other.”
“That’s because we’re different species,” she replied. “A castle is like a loch … with fish swimming at different levels.”
He snorted. “Like eels slithering through the mud and trout darting above?”
“Aye, something like that.”
“Ye are no eel, Fiona Mackinnon.” His voice was low and serious now. Intimate.
Pulse fluttering, she raised her cup to her lips and took a large swallow of sweet mead. “Maybe not … but I know my place.”
He inclined his head. “Are ye happy here at Dounarwyse?”
“Aye,” she answered without hesitation. “Happier than I’ve ever been.”
“And yer weaving?”
“It’s my life.”
“Ye don’t want a husband and bairns then?”
Her fingers tightened around her cup before she took another gulp. She wasn’t used to discussing herself with men. Especially with one so far above her in rank. This conversation was quickly becoming dreamlike. “I do,” she admitted. “But I want to pursue my craft more. Sometimes a woman must make a choice.”
Interest glinted in his eyes. “What do ye mean?”
“A husband and bairns would draw my time and energy. How could I spend all day at the loom, weaving a beautiful tapestry? No man would put up with it.”
He nodded, taking her point. His expression grew thoughtful then. “I envy ye, lass.”
She stilled, surprised. “Why?”
“Ye know exactly who ye are.”
“And ye don’t?”
