The MacDonald clan-chief’s gaze snapped to him, marking Ailean’s presence properly for the first time since he’d seated himself in the tent.
His expression cooled. “Young men mistake pride for wisdom.”
“Andoldmen mistake ambition for justice,” Ailean shot back.
Rae’s hand closed on his forearm—firm, grounding. “That will do,” he murmured. He met Callum’s gaze, and whatever warmth had existed before leached from his face. “Ye misjudged yer welcome, MacDonald. We do not sell our loyalties. Not to ye. Not to anyone. Mull has its quarrels, but we settle them as a family. If ye’ve grievances with Loch, take them to him.”
A long beat passed.
MacDonald rose slowly. His son and captain followed. Offense radiated from him like heat from a brazier.
“Very well,” he said stiffly. “I see where we stand.”
“Aye,” Rae replied. “Ye do.”
The MacDonalds shoved the tent flap aside and stepped out into the sunlight. The noise of the games rushed back in, loud and jarring.
The flap fell shut once more, muffling the cheers outside.
Rae did not move for several heartbeats. Face twisting, he reached for his cup and drank, though his gaze remained fixed on the point where the MacDonalds had disappeared.
“Well,” Jack muttered at last. “That was no friendly visit.”
“No,” Rae replied with another grimace. “It was a measuring.”
Lyle exhaled through his nose, while Ailean forced his clenched hands open, flexing his fingers.
“MacDonald is testing the shores before he launches his boats,” their father went on. “Today, it was words. Next time …”
Jack’s lips flattened into a thin line. “We’ll double the watches. Quietly. No need to alarm anyone.”
“Do it,” Rae said. “And I’ll send word to Loch. He should hear this from us … not through rumor.”
Ailean pictured the MacDonalds walking away from the games field and climbing back into their birlinn, their pride stung, their anger banked and waiting. The summer air suddenly felt colder.
“He came looking for cracks he could exploit,” Lyle ground out. “But he found none … and he never will.”
Rae glanced his youngest son’s way then. The pride in his eyes took Ailean aback. Something deep within his chest tightened. Their father had never favoredhimwith such a look. He’d spoken out, defended his clan-chief, yet Rae hadn’t praised him. “Remember that, Lyle,” the laird replied, oblivious to Ailean’sreaction. “Whatever comes next, we stand as one. That is our strength.”
18: ABLAZE
FIONA AWOKE TO shouting.
It must have been loud, for her bower was tucked high into the rafters of the tower house. She usually couldn’t hear the goings-on in the barmkin and on the walls.
The summer games had left everyone exhausted. After the games had ended, drinking, eating, and dancing stretched on late into the evening. The MacDonald visit had just added to the excitement. The clan-chief had disappeared with the laird and his sons into one of the pavilions. He’d reappeared not too long after before marching away, stony-faced. In the aftermath, the folk of Dounarwyse had speculated what had passed between them.
Fiona had no idea what time it was, yet judging from her grogginess as she stumbled from her bed and over to the window, it was the middle of the night.
Yanking up the sacking, she peered out.
The oily, choking odor of smoke hit her then, catching in her throat.
Coughing, she leaned against the lintel, craning her neck to see below.
Flames licked the darkness, illuminating the walls of Dounarwyse like a great bonfire.
Something inside the barmkin, outside the tower house, was alight.
