He shook his head, severing eye contact as he took a long swallow of mead. He then glanced over the sea of bobbing heads and drifting smoke to where the laird now spoke with a dark-haired young man who bore a startling similarity to him. The younger of his two sons: Lyle. Fiona had seen the lad numerous times from a distance, yet they’d never been formally introduced. The two men were in deep, earnest discussion about something, and watching them, a groove etched between Ailean’s auburn brows.
“Sometimes being the firstborn is a curse. It would have been better if Lyle were the eldest. He’s better suited. More like our father.”
“And ye aren’t?” Warmth stole over her then. She shouldn’t ask such pert questions, yet the dancing and mead had loosened her tongue, it seemed. She couldn’t help herself.
He snorted. “No.” He shifted his gaze back to her then, his attention lingering. “I’ve spent the last few years fighting against the English. The warrior’s life has left me restless. I don’t think I shall make a good laird.”
His candor made her still once more. Her first instinct was to disagree with him, to tell him that he was wrong, and that he’d one day rule Dounarwyse as well as his father currently did. Yet, something in his eyes stopped her.
A seriousness that she hadn’t seen in him before. A shadow. Sadness.
But, like a cloud passing over the sun, it was fleeting. And when Ailean blinked, it was gone. She could almost believe she’d imagined it.
“I imagine lairdship is a skill … and much like anything, it can be learned,” she said eventually. “Perhaps ye need to start paying more attention to yer father.”
He harrumphed. “I try … but the old man rubs me up the wrong way more often than not these days … and I frustrate him.”
He dragged a hand through his hair then, leaving it even wilder than before, before lifting his cup to his lips and draining it. He then tossed it aside and reached out, catching her hand once more. “Enough depressing talk … how about another dance?”
9: JUST ONE NIGHT
THE EVENING PASSED in a blur of firelight, smoke, dancing, and laughter.
Fiona lost track of how many dances she had with Ailean, or of how many cups of mead she drank in between. In truth, she ignored everything except him. No one else asked her to dance—no one dared.
Ailean never left her side.
Her surroundings faded. She completely forgot Carrie. Instead, she found herself held captive by the man next to her.
The music reached its height, whooping and singing echoing through the night.
Laughing, Ailean eventually pulled Fiona free of the whirlpool circling the fire and drew her away from the dancers.
On the edge of the revelry, he swiped them fresh cups of mead. And there, as they recovered their breath, they talked some more.
Conversation flowed easily. Ailean told her of his adventures defending Scotland’s freedom, of thrilling battles and moments when he’d thought his luck had run out. She told him of her family.
“They think I deserted them,” she admitted with a grimace.
“Och, they’ll manage without ye,” he replied with an easy smile that made something glow deep in her chest. “It takes courage, ye know, to go after what ye want.”
Warmth suffused her. His response meant more to her than she’d admit. Sometimes, she didn’t give herself enough credit. Aye, she was plucky, and she was proud of what she’d achieved so far. “And what do ye want, Ailean?” she asked.
He gave her a heated look that caused desire to twist low in her belly. Covering up her sudden discomfort, she slapped him playfully on the arm. “Be serious … and tell me what ye wish for from life.”
He pulled a face, yet played along. His expression grew serious then, and he paused before finally answering, “Something of my own. Dounarwyse is my home, yet I didn’t earn it.”
She inclined her head. Somehow, she’d forgotten she’d just spent the evening with the future laird of this castle and lands. However, his words sobered her. “Ye want yer own holding?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps … or maybe I just want to build something with my own hands rather than following a family legacy.”
Fiona studied his face with interest. His high cheekbones were flushed with mead and firelight, yet she marked the earnestness in his eyes. Once again, they’d circled back to the restlessness that gnawed at him.
“Maybe ye should find a way then,” she answered.
His sensual lips lifted at the corners. “And how?”
She took a step closer, emboldened. “Ye could talk to yer father … see about—”
