“Oh, how do ye know that?” The man brushed him off, though his brow furrowed. The tenants paid yearly rent to their chieftain, although they knew the laird of Dounarwyse collected the coin on behalf of the clan-chief.
“We’ve traveled all these isles, from Skye to Islay, and let me tell ye … yer rents are the highest. Mark my words. Maclean’s coffers will be bulging by now. I imagine he sits on a pile of gold at Duart Castle.”
The bigger of the two MacDonald brothers snorted. “Bleeding ye all dry, he is.”
Then his attention shifted to Fiona, his gaze sliding from her face down to her chest, where it lingered. He then gave her a slow, lecherous smile, and she just managed to suppress a shiver of disgust. “Ye’re a fine lass,” he murmured. “What’s yer name?”
She hesitated. Frankly, she didn’t want to engage with him at all. Ever since he’d sat down, he’d watched her like a wolf. “Fiona,” she said at last, reluctantly.
“My name’s Jock MacDonald, and this is my brother, Fife.”
“Bring us our suppers, woman,” Fife piped up, reaching for the knucklebones. “My belly’s empty, and that stew smells tempting.”
She nodded curtly and stepped back.
Her gaze flicked across the room to where Ailean sat with Diarmaid. She wondered why Ailean had chosen to sit with him. There were plenty of other empty seats, and Diarmaid was something of a curmudgeon. Beneath his gruff exterior lay a warm heart, but he did his best to keep it concealed.
Nonetheless, he was talking with Ailean now.
As if sensing her gaze, Ailean looked up.
Annoyed at being caught watching him, she turned sharply and hurried back to the kitchen.
“I don’t like those two,” she said to Eithne as she waited for the woman to serve up the bowls of stew meant for Ailean and Diarmaid. “They’ve got big mouths, and it almost seems as if they’re trying to stir things up.”
Ewan, standing at the hearth stirring a second pot, glanced her way, frowning. “What are they saying?”
“Only that the folk here are being fleeced by the laird and the clan-chief … that the folk of Mull pay higher rents than anyone else.”
Ewan snorted, his kindly face hardening a little. “Those two idiots don’t know that.”
“Aye, but it doesn’t stop the men they’re playing with from worrying.”
She paused, her thoughts returning to the summer games. God, it felt like a year ago. So much had happened since. “Callum MacDonald visited Rae Maclean in early summer,” she said. “I don’t know what happened, but he left abruptly. I don’t think the conversation ended well.”
Ewan’s expression grew thoughtful. “There are rumors that Callum MacDonald has a bone to pick with Loch Maclean.Something about a trade agreement he refused years back. I wonder if he’s trying to find new allies here on Mull.”
He cast a narrow-eyed look toward the door, where rough laughter filtered in. “I, for one, will be glad when those two move on.”
So would Fiona.
Placing two bowls of stew and a tankard of ale on a platter, she made her way back into the common room, heading for Ailean and Diarmaid. As she passed the center table, Jock called out, “Aren’t those for us?”
“No,” she said curtly. “Others ordered before ye. Ye’ll have to wait.”
Her clipped tone only made the brothers laugh, as if they enjoyed provoking her. She kept walking, though warmth washed over her cheeks. Men like this liked a reaction.
Her pulse raced as she reached the booth.
“Are those knaves bothering ye?” Ailean asked as she set the bowl before him.
The stew was one of Ewan’s best—rich with venison and soft, pillowy dumplings bobbing in the gravy.
She shook her head. “Nothing I can’t manage.”
“I’d try to keep out of their way,” he said, ignoring her coolness. “Men like those are trouble.”
She hesitated, then leaned in. “They’re spreading rumors about yer father and the clan-chief,” she whispered. “Telling folk that they’re greedy for coin.”
