It wasn’t a feeling he liked, or one he was used to.
He’d grown up around people, love, and laughter. And then, as a warrior, he’d been surrounded by other men. Being alone made him uneasy. It made him face his own thoughts, his own worries, his own fears.
And he didn’t like it much, if he were honest.
Decision made, he carried his cup inside before venturing to the well and drawing some water. He stripped off his sweat-soaked lèine and sluiced his face, shoulders, torso, and underarms.
It wouldn’t do to turn up at the tavern reeking of sweat.
Fiona might revile him these days, but that didn’t mean he had to offend her senses.
And so, retrieving a fresh lèine and tucking it into his braies, he made his way down the hill toward the tavern.
Pushing his way inside, he found it busier than usual. There were unfamiliar faces too—two lads, likely brothers from the look of them, sitting with a group of crofters, drinking ale and playing knucklebones. They were laughing raucously about something, the sound grating on Ailean’s nerves.
“Who are they?” Ailean asked Diarmaid as he slid into the booth opposite the carpenter.
“Och. Two loud-mouthed MacDonalds.”
“MacDonalds?” That immediately made Ailean’s ears prick up. “Of where?”
“Sleat, I believe.”
Ailean’s gaze narrowed. That interested him even more. Callum MacDonald’s visit to his father early in the summer hadn’t gone as the clan-chief had hoped. He wondered what these men were doing here.
He observed them. Both had hair the color of straw, with florid complexions made redder by ale. And he marked how the bigger of the two was eyeing Fiona.
She didn’t seem to notice, yet as she moved between the tables carrying trenchers of stew and dumplings and tankards of ale, the newcomer’s gaze tracked her.
And despite himself, protectiveness rose in Ailean’s chest.
“I don’t like the way he stares,” he muttered. “Did someone just give him a fresh pair of eyes?”
Diarmaid snorted a laugh. “Well, Fiona’s a bonnie lass.”
Ailean was about to reply, but Fiona was making her way toward them now. She favored Diarmaid with a warm smile, though her expression cooled when her gaze shifted to Ailean.
“Are ye ready for yer stew and dumplings yet, Diarmaid?”
“Aye, lass. Make it a hearty bowl for me.”
“And for me too,” Ailean added. “And a tankard of ale.”
She nodded curtly, turned on her heel, and moved away.
As she went, Ailean noticed the bigger of the MacDonalds stop mid-sentence and swivel to watch her. And then, the cur licked his lips. His brother leaned in and murmured something to him, and both men guffawed.
Ailean’s fingers curled into a fist beneath the table.
No, he didn’t like the look of these two—at all.
Approaching the table in the center of the common room, Fiona’s belly tensed.
She liked most of the locals who frequented this place. But the moment these two MacDonalds had swaggered intoThe Shepherd’s Crook, her senses had sharpened.
They sat now playing knucklebones with some crofters, behaving as if they owned this tavern, this village. They spoke and laughed too loudly, and when she placed their tankards before them, she overheard snatches of conversation that concerned her.
“We hear that Loch Maclean demands the highest rents in all of The Western Isles,” the smaller of the two brothers was saying to one of the crofters. “And Rae Maclean is his willing henchman.”
