The local women had dressed in their finest linen and light wool skirts, ruffling in the breeze. Fiona wore her favorite kirtle, blue grey, the color of her eyes, with a creamy lèine beneath. It was clothing for summer, the weather hot enough that she hadn’t bothered to bring a shawl. She’d tied her unruly hair back from her face with a ribbon.
“Mistress Fiona!” a lad’s voice hailed her.
She turned to see Stu racing toward her. He held what looked like a blood sausage in one hand and a half-eaten bannock in the other. Honey smeared one cheek. “Have ye tried the blood sausage yet?” he cried.
“Not yet,” she replied with a laugh. “I’ve just arrived.” She ruffled his hair. “But I can see ye’ve been busy.”
“There’s so much to see and do!” he said, eyes darting to the pony races. “I don’t know where to start!”
“There’s an archery contest in full swing,” Carrie said, approaching. She looked fetching in a honey-colored kirtle, her hair half-braided. And for the first time in weeks, her expression wasn’t cold. “Shall we go and watch it together?” Their gazes met, and a little of the tension under Fiona’s ribs unclenched. Had Carrie finally decided she wasn’t the enemy?
Stu darted off, leading the way, and she flashed Carrie a smile. “Aye … come on.”
They found the ring where the archers were shooting, and Fiona spotted Ailean.
Her heart kicked.
Of course, it did. She’d told herself she wouldn’t look for him—but she had, from the moment she arrived. Torrid memories of two days earlier kept intruding—and not just of what he’d done to her on that table, but of the moments they’d shared beforehand. He was right. Their time together was bright and beautiful and far too fleeting.
And now, in this busy crowd, she could do nothing but watch him from afar. It was better that way. Ailean stood near Rowan. The two warriors were clearly well-matched, both hitting the target with expert precision.
She forced herself to look away, to focus on Carrie. “How have ye been?”
“Well enough,” Carrie replied, though her smile was strained.
“I’ve missed ye,” Fiona admitted. It was the truth. She didn’t like them being at odds. It cast a shadow over her happiness here. “Our chats. The laughter. I never encouraged Rowan, ye know. I’ve no interest in him.”
Their gazes held for a heartbeat. “I know,” Carrie replied. “And I’m sorry I took my disappointment out on ye.” She grimaced then. “Some things are difficult to swallow.”
“I’d like us to be friends again,” Fiona said, placing a hand on her forearm and squeezing gently.
Carrie smiled, warmly this time. “Aye. We can.”
The archery contest moved swiftly through the rounds. When Fiona and her companions first arrived, there had been around fifteen competitors still left, but it wasn’t long before the number whittled down to ten, and then five, and then two.
Just Ailean and Rowan.
A hush fell around the edge of the archery ring, all spectators ignoring the excitement, laughter, and noise from the other contests, and the food vendors hawking their wares. Instead, everyone—Fiona included—held their breath to see who would win.
And it was close. Very close.
Rowan went first, his arrow striking a hair’s breadth away from the bull’s-eye.
And then it was Ailean’s turn.
Fiona watched him, taking this opportunity to drink him in. No one would notice, for everyone else was observing the laird’s firstborn with interest. He stood tall and proud, side-on, spine straight, head turned, gaze slightly narrowed as he eyed the target. His hair, wild as always, flicked gently in the breeze, but he ignored it. And like many men in this spell of heat, he was dressed in braies and a loosely tucked lèine, open at the throat.
He was achingly handsome.
And there was a part of Fiona that thrilled in the knowledge that he was hers.
Mine?
She caught herself then.Listen to yerself. This man no more belongs to ye than the sun and the stars do.What exists between ye cannot last. Ye know that. And it’s best that ye don’t tempt fate by pushing things further.
The voice of reason often whispered in her ear these days—but tell that to her fluttering heart. All her life, she had beenlooking for the excitement that she felt when she was with him. And no amount of telling herself that she must be prudent, that she must be wise, seemed to make much difference.
Ailean had rolled up the sleeves of his lèine, revealing forearms tanned and dusted with freckles and auburn hair, flexing as he drew back the bowstring, holding it level while he sighted the target.
