She didn’t look Ailean Maclean’s way again, yet she felt the weight of his gaze burning into her like a brand.
Tracking each step.
Her pulse sped up. The heat upon her cheeks rolled down her body as if she’d just lowered herself into a tub of steaming water, making her sweat in her woolen kirtle despite the crisp sea breeze.
Get a hold of yerself, lass.
She knew how the world worked, what a man who stared like that wanted. With a pretty face and generous curves, she’d had to slap away many wandering hands on her trips to market or at fire festivals. She also knew what happened to lasses who encouraged the attention of wolves in sheep’s clothing.
She wouldn’t be one of those women. She’d avoided trouble with lads so far, and she’d continue to. She’d come to Dounarwyse for freedom. For her craft. For a future built by her own hands. No man would take that from her.
Least of all, one with a gaze that could melt steel.
2: WEAVING HER FUTURE
AILEAN WATCHED THE young woman walk into the tower house.
Christ’s rood, she was comely. Full-figured, with swelling hips and a nipped-in waist, and a bosom that strained against the bodice of her kirtle. She was exactly how he liked his women. Soft and voluptuous.
And when she’d met his gaze a few moments earlier, her expression had held a boldness that quickened something inside him. She had a lovely face to match her figure. Round, but with high cheekbones and slightly slanted blue-grey eyes that gave her a feline appearance. But it was her mouth that held his attention for a heartbeat. Full, yet small, and drawn like a delicate bow.
It was a mouth that drove a man to wicked thoughts.
“Pick yer jaw up off the ground.” A familiar, irritated voice intruded.
Ailean turned to find his younger brother standing behind him. There wasn’t a day that went by that Lyle didn’t remind him of their father. Tediously serious.
Lyle’s dark brows drew together. “If Da catches ye gawking at servants like that, he’ll tear strips off ye.”
Ailean smirked. As if he cared. He was used to the sharp edge of his father’s tongue. Over the past few years, he’d spent enough time away from Dounarwyse to become his ownman—fighting wars, following Andrew Murray to victory. Since returning home, it had grown harder to toe the line. Not that Rae Maclean had ever been oppressive. But he was a chieftain with high standards. Standards Ailean constantly failed to meet.
“Instead of leering at the new weaver, ye should be looking to find yerself a wife,” Lyle went on.
Ailean inclined his head. So, that comely lass was the weaver his stepmother had been excited about? Kylie had spoken at length about the lass from Craignure whose talent surpassed all others. She’d commissioned her to weave a great tapestry of the Battle of Dounarwyse—a Maclean victory the laird wanted immortalized forever.
In truth, she wasn’t what Ailean had expected. He’d imagined someone older, work-worn—not so fresh-faced and bonnie.
Ailean snorted. “Cods. Ye sound just like Da.”
Irritation flared in Lyle’s eyes. “How can I wed Mairibeth when my elder brother refuses to take a wife?”
Ailean waved him away. “We aren’t lasses doomed to wait until the elder sister marries. If ye want Mairibeth Patten, then marry her. Don’t let me stand in the way.”
Lyle’s jaw flexed. “But ye should—”
Ailean muttered a curse. The conversation was beginning to grate. Lyle was two years his junior, yet fretted like an old woman. “I’ll take a wife when I’m good and ready,” he said, letting a warning note creep into his voice. He wouldn’t be dictated to—certainly not by his brother, nor by his father.
Ever since returning to Dounarwyse just over a month ago, he’d felt out of place. The castle seemed confining. Suffocating. He was bored, looking for an outlet. For excitement.
The chores here did little to help. He had no real responsibility. His uncle Jack was still strong and fit, even at nearly fifty winters, and wouldn’t be relinquishing control of theDounarwyse Guard any time soon. When Ailean trained with the other warriors, he took orders from him.
He didn’t resent Jack. The opposite. His father often said Ailean reminded him of Jack in his youth—wild. It wasn’t meant as a compliment, but Ailean took it as one. He liked his uncle’s sharp wit and frankness.
Sometimes, uncharitably perhaps, he’d wished Jack had been his father and not Rae.
Silence stretched between the brothers before Ailean grimaced. “Did ye want something, Lyle, other than to nag me?”
Hurt flashed in Lyle’s eyes, and self-recrimination jolted through Ailean. His brother had always been sensitive. Brutal with a sword, no coward—but beneath that tough façade, soft as porridge.
