“Da’s looking for ye,” Lyle said, surliness creeping into his tone. “Where have ye been all day?”
“I took Sgòth out for a long ride.” Ailean jerked his head toward the stables, where a groom led in his grey courser. He’d ridden hard along the coast north of Dounarwyse, reaching the village at Ardnacross and the ruined tower there—one of his favorite rides.
Ardnacross sat on the border of Mackinnon lands. Ever since his return to Mull, he’d been drawn to the place. Few folk knew him there. They had no expectations. He’d enjoyed sitting beneath the ruin, listening to seabirds and feeling the wind sting his cheeks.
“He wants to go over the accounts with ye,” Lyle said.
And did Ailean imagine it, or did his brother sound envious? As the firstborn son, Ailean would one day step into his father’s role. Ever since his return, Rae had begun reviewing the accounts with him.
It was a mind-numbingly boring job.
“Right then.” Ailean sighed. “I’d better find the old man before he’s beelin’.”
Lyle scowled.
Ailean sauntered across the barmkin, skirting fowl pecking at scattered grain.
He was being an arse. He knew it. But he couldn’t help himself.
For the first time, he understood how his friend Craeg had struggled when forced to return and take up the mantle of chieftain. Craeg had felt robbed of his future. Dramatic perhaps—but Ailean’s return had marked a new chapter in his life. The fighting was over. Andrew Murray had pushed the English back.
There was no longer work for men like him.
Dounarwyse was home now.
And he had to make it work.
“The castle is on four levels … so ye’ll get fit climbing all the stairs.” Carrie chimed as she led the way up the narrow and circular stairwell. She was a bubbly lass with fine brown hair coiled into tight braids on either side of her head. “I’ll give ye a full tour later … but first … Lady Maclean wishes to meet ye.”
“Of course,” Fiona said, hoping her voice sounded confident, although her belly was pitching as if she were perched upon a creel boat in rough seas. Suddenly, she wasn’t ready to meet her patron. “I hear Lady Kylie is kind … well-loved.” She found it hard not to feel horrendously out of place here. Dounarwyse was grander than anything she’d experienced before.
“Oh, she is both those things.” Carrie flashed her a smile over her shoulder. “I’ve been her lady’s maid for three years now … and never had a cross word from her.”
Fiona’s eyes widened. That was quite a claim. But what if she met her new weaver and found her lacking?
For the love of Mary, stop it. Her insecure thoughts were starting to vex her.She chose ye because she thought ye were worthy. Make sure she doesn’t change her mind.
They reached the first-floor landing, and Carrie crossed, skirts swishing, to a heavy oaken door before knocking confidently.
“Enter,” a woman called.
Carrie stepped back, favored Fiona with another encouraging smile, and gestured for her to go in. “Go on. I’ll see ye later.”
Belly pitching once more, Fiona stepped forward and pushed open the door, entering a rectangular chamber. One look told her this was the lady’s solar—where the castle’s high-born womenfolk gathered and worked together.
Colorful embroidered cushions dotted every seat. Herbs—lavender and thyme—hung in bunches from the rafters. Soft sheepskins covered the oaken floor. A hearth burned at the far end, and a tapestry hung along one long wall.
But Fiona barely had a heartbeat to take it all in.
She wasn’t alone with Lady Kylie.
Lord help her—a group had assembled to welcome her.
Four women waited for her in the solar. Halting, she faced them, forcing down the urge to fidget.
“Fiona Mackinnon, welcome.” A small woman with greying-brown hair coiled into a prim braid atop her head stepped forward from the hearth, a warm smile tugging at her lips.
Fiona knew without introductions that this was Kylie Maclean.
