Fiona smiled. And then, without meaning to, her attention lifted toward the far end of the field. The race was done. A rider was wheeling his horse in a tight, triumphant circle, waving a blue ribbon overhead.
Rowan. He was whooping like a boy, searching the crowd for her. Not finding her.
Fiona’s smile faded.
She had an unwanted suitor now, and she wasn’t sure how she was going to shake him.
But one thing was certain—she didn’t need her life to get any more complicated.
Shouts to her right drew her eye then.
Grateful for the distraction, she shifted her attention to the edge of the field, to where a group of men—newcomers clad in leather with vibrant red sashes—approached.
Fiona’s gaze narrowed as she studied them.
She’d seen that plaid often enough in Craignure.MacDonalds.
One of the new arrivals, a solid man with thinning brown hair, strode into the field, raising a hand high. “Rae!” he shouted.
Around ten yards distant, the Chieftain of Dounarwyse turned from where he’d been watching his nieces dance. Rae Maclean’s dark brows drew together in surprise, and he moved away from his wife, striding toward his visitor. “Callum,” he called out. “To what do we owe this unexpected visit?”
Fiona stiffened. Was this man CallumMacDonald—the clan-chief of the MacDonalds of Sleat on the Isle of Skye? An important visitor indeed.
The man smiled, the expression softening what was an austere face. “We were traveling back from Oban, and I thought … why not avail myself of some fine Dounarwyse hospitality?” His gaze swept his surroundings. “And I can see the lads and I chose the right day for a visit.”
“Ye did,” Maclean replied, although Fiona noted the wariness in his expression.
Awkward silence pulsed between them for a few moments, heads turning to watch the two men eyeball each other. Andthen, the chieftain roused himself, as if remembering his manners. “Well met, MacDonald. Come … ye and yer men must join us.”
The pavilion cloth snapped softly in the summer breeze, letting in stripes of gold light and the distant roar of the games. Outside, people cheered; inside, the air was thick enough to choke on.
Ailean wiped the condensation from his cup and watched Callum MacDonald over the rim.
The man sat opposite Rae with the ease of someone pretending to be comfortable. He was broad through the shoulders, his sparse brown hair slicked back from a high brow, his expression grave. His son sat to his left, stiff as a spear shaft, while the MacDonald captain lounged nearby, one boot crossed over the other, hand never far from his dirk.
There was a purpose to this visit; Ailean felt it in his bones.
Rae, by contrast, looked relaxed—but Ailean knew his father too well. The lazy drape of his arm over the chair back was studied. The smile he offered their guests never reached his eyes. Lyle sat beside Ailean, silent, fingers tapping against his knee. Jack had angled himself slightly between his brother and the visitors without making it obvious.
They drank. They made polite remarks about the games. They spoke of the weather, of the crowds, and of the quality of the ale. All pleasantries, skirting around the question: why was the MacDonald clan-chief really here?
Finally, Rae set his cup down on the low trestle table between them with deliberate care. “Well then, Callum,” he said mildly. “Ye have never paid me a spontaneous visit before. What is it ye want?”
The pavilion seemed to shrink.
Callum’s mouth tightened. For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then he leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “I seek friends, Rae … allies. Sensible men who understand the direction this isle is heading.”
Ailean felt Lyle go still beside him.
Callum continued, voice calm, persuasive. “Yer cousin Loch has grown … difficult. Trade routes strangled. Agreements ignored. He hoards coin and influence as if Mull belongs to him alone. That is not the way of things. It never has been.”
Heat flared in Ailean’s chest. MacDonald was telling half-truths and dressing them up as reason. His father’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t interrupt.
“I offer partnership,” Callum pressed. “Fair division. Mutual protection. Together we could—”
“Enough.”
The word cracked like a whip through the tent. Ailean hadn’t realized he’d spoken until the silence fell. He leaned forward, hands clenched against his thighs. “How dare ye insult our clan-chief?” he growled. “Loch is blood to us. Ye think we’d turn on him because trade soured between ye?”
