Ruin & Redemption (Sons of Mull #2)

Chapter 1 A Promise Carved from Stone

Craignure,

The Isle of Mull

THE WOODEN SHUTTLE cracked against the loom frame. Fiona’s mother had just snatched it from her daughter and hurled it across the weaving shed in a fit of temper.

“So that’s it then?” she panted, red-faced, eyes blazing. “We brought ye into this world, fed and clothed ye, gave ye shelter … and now, ye are deserting us?”

Fiona curled her fingers into fists at her sides. Guilt. It was her mother’s favorite weapon. But it wouldn’t work. Not this time. Months of planning had gone into this day, and Fiona wouldn’t have anyone ruin it.

Breathing in the familiar odor of lanolin and dye—her scent, earned through endless hours standing at her warp-weighted loom in this cramped shed—she faced down her mother. “I’ve more than paid my keep, Ma. Ye know that well.”

“Paid yer keep?” Nora placed her hands on her ample hips and glared at her. “Is that what ye reckon? While yer sisters tend the house and help with—”

“While my sisters sleep well past dawn and complain about darning their own stockings?” The words escaped before Fiona could cage them.

Behind her mother, Maisie and Cate exchanged glances. Maisie picked at a thread on her sleeve—one Fiona had mended just last week. Cate pulled a face.

Heat ignited under Fiona’s ribs. Let them act unbothered. Now she was leaving, the weaving that helped support their family would become their work. From now on, they’d spend their days in this shed. Finally, those two lazy chits would earn their way.

“The commission can wait.” A rough voice intruded then as her father’s bulk ducked through the low doorway, looming behind her sisters.

Wood shavings clung to his leather apron, and the sharp tang of freshly-planed oak preceded him into the shed.

“Lady Maclean will have to find another weaver. Family comes first.”

Fiona’s chest tightened. To her left, through the shed’s single window, she could see the morning sun glinting off the Sound of Mull.

Freedom. Just half a day’s ride up the coast, her new loom awaited at Dounarwyse Castle.

A large horizontal treadle loom, big enough to weave a grand tapestry.

She could hardly believe her good fortune.

And her bullish father wouldn’t keep her from embracing it.

“No,” she said firmly.

Color flooded Bryce’s weathered face.

“I’m going,” she added, steadier now. She moved to the corner where her traveling bundle waited.

Rough wool scratched against her palms as she lifted it.

“Enough, Da. I have two and twenty winters. I have taken no husband. I have no bairns. Instead, I’ve woven while the rest of ye slept …

and I’ll weave still. But not here. Not anymore. ”

“Ungrateful slattern,” her mother choked out, eyes bright with outrage.

“The Chieftain of Dounarwyse has sent men to fetch me.” Heart hammering, Fiona sidestepped her mother and sisters and shouldered past her father, out the door.

God help her, she couldn’t let any of them stop her.

A new life was so close now, she could taste it.

“I’d better go. They’ll be waiting for me on the waterfront. ”

Bryce growled a curse. Behind her, her mother’s voice rose to a wail. “Ye’ll come crawling back! Mark me, Fiona Mackinnon. Ye’ll see what the world thinks of a lass too proud for her own family!”

But Fiona was already halfway down the garden path, hurrying past a tangle of rosemary and thyme.

Palms damp with sweat, her pulse still racing like a bolting pony, she clutched her bundle tight against her chest. The briny wind off the Sound caught her wayward curls, pulling some of them free from her braid.

They whipped across her face and made her eyes water, yet she didn’t stop to tidy herself up.

There was no time. Her family had delayed her as it was, and when she reached Dounarwyse, she’d be windswept anyway.

Her appearance didn’t matter. What did was that her long days—weaving blankets, drying-sheets, lèines, sacking cloths, and clan sashes—had finally paid off.

She’d made a name for herself for her particularly fine, even weaving with tight selvedge, her speed and skill with complex patterns and multiple colors, and beautiful dye work.

Eventually, Lady Kylie, the laird’s wife, had noticed her talent, and the job offer had come soon after.

Guilt did tighten her belly then. In truth, an all too familiar sensation.

She should at least have given her kin warning of her departure, yet she knew her parents would only try to stop her. The manipulation. The threats. The insults. She’d wanted to avoid as much of it as possible. Even so, part of her was sorry.

I shall send coin back … to help them. She kicked herself then. Let Maisie and Cate pull their weight for once!

Nerves fluttered under her ribs like a sack of moths.

Change was frightening. As much as she resented her family, for they took most of the coin she earned and treated her like their servant, they were all she knew.

Life at Dounarwyse Castle would be different, and no doubt better. But it was still the unknown.

She’d been so determined in this decision, but suddenly, her courage deserted her.

“Fortune favors the bold, lass,” she told herself, reciting her clan motto. Craignure, and indeed Dounarwyse, were Maclean lands, but her father was a proud Mackinnon, hailing from Tobermory on Mull’s northeastern coast. “Yer future is waiting for ye … and ye shall grasp it with both hands.”

She quickened her step, pushing aside her lingering guilt, as well as her nervousness.

Stepping now onto the worn path that led down to the harbor, she didn’t look back.

Dounarwyse Castle rose before Fiona like a promise carved from stone.

Bouncing on the wide back of a feather-footed garron, her backside sore from the journey, she paid her discomfort no mind. Instead, she gazed up at her new home.

Grey walls climbed skyward from a grassy mound, the tower house’s bulk solid against the cloud-streaked afternoon sky. A high curtain wall encircled the fortress, and beyond, the Sound of Mull glittered silver-blue, waves foaming white against the rocks beneath it.

Fiona’s breath caught. Her world had been so narrow until now. The farthest she’d ever traveled from Craignure was Duart Castle, a short walk to the south of the fishing village. Dounarwyse was a surprise. Somehow, she hadn’t expected it to be so big. So intimidating. Her doubts resurfaced.

Not too late to turn back.

Her pulse quickened then. It was as if her mother had followed her all the way here, heckling her. Who do ye think ye are, lass? Ye don’t belong in a fine place like this.

“Impressive, aye?” Jack Maclean’s voice carried both warmth and amusement.

The laird’s brother—who was also Captain of the Dounarwyse Guard—had ridden beside her since they left Craignure, his relaxed manner putting her at ease despite her nerves.

Grey threaded through his shoulder-length wavy chestnut hair, and laughter lines crinkled at the corners of his fern-green eyes when he smiled—which was often.

“Wait till ye see the solar where ye’ll be working.

South-facing windows, good light all day long. ”

“Ye have seen my workspace then?” Fiona asked, tearing her gaze from the castle, and pushing aside her mother’s heckling. She’d thought she had left the woman back in Craignure, yet she clearly hadn’t.

“Helped clear it out myself.” He winked at her. “My sister-by-marriage has grand plans for that tapestry.”

Another of her escort, a younger warrior with a scar bisecting his eyebrow, grunted. “The whole household has talked about little else for days. We all want to see what ye’ll create.”

Pressure tightened around Fiona’s ribs, but she lifted her chin. Christ’s tears. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she had overreached. “Then I’d best not disappoint everyone.”

“I’m sure ye won’t,” Jack said with easy confidence. “Lady Kylie is canny … she only commissions work from the best. If she chose ye, lass, ye have earned it.”

His words made warmth suffuse her chest, settling her anxiety.

It felt odd to be so appreciated after many years of being her family’s dogsbody.

They passed through the outer gate, hooves clattering on cobbles as they entered the barmkin. The enclosed yard bustled with morning activity—a lad hauling water, two women carrying baskets of vegetables toward what must be the kitchen, and a groom leading a massive grey courser to the stables.

Fiona’s pony shied slightly as they dismounted, and she reached up to stroke its neck, murmuring soothing words until it settled. Her father had a garron, and he’d taught her to ride it. However, she’d never spent so long in the saddle in one stretch.

The skin on the back of her neck prickled then.

Someone was watching her.

Turning, her gaze alighted on a man.

He stood at the stable entrance, one hand braced against the doorframe.

His resemblance to Captain Jack was startling.

He was much younger though—her own age or maybe a year or two older—with auburn hair that fell past his collar in wild, uncombed waves.

Even at this distance, she could see the breadth of his shoulders beneath his lèine, and the easy, predatory grace of his stance.

And he was watching her.

His eyes locked onto Fiona’s with an intensity that slammed the air from her lungs. Not curious. Not merely interested. Something more dangerous. Something that made her skin prickle with awareness even as her instincts screamed trouble.

Their stare drew out, and a slow smile curved his mouth.

“That’s Ailean,” Jack said quietly beside her, following her gaze. Something shifted in his tone—affection mingled with wariness. “The laird’s eldest. Just returned from the war on the mainland.”

Fiona dragged her gaze away, her cheeks suddenly warm.

Jack’s hand touched her elbow, gentle but firm, guiding her toward the tower house entrance. “Come. Lady Kylie will be eager to greet ye. I’ll have one of the lads bring yer belongings up to yer chamber.”

Fiona nodded, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin as they crossed the barmkin.

She didn’t look Ailean Maclean’s way again, yet she felt the weight of his gaze burning into her like a brand.

Tracking each step.

Her pulse sped up. The heat upon her cheeks rolled down her body as if she’d just lowered herself into a tub of steaming water, making her sweat in her woolen kirtle despite the crisp sea breeze.

Get a hold of yerself, lass.

She knew how the world worked, what a man who stared like that wanted. With a pretty face and generous curves, she’d had to slap away many wandering hands on her trips to market or at fire festivals. She also knew what happened to lasses who encouraged the attention of wolves in sheep’s clothing.

She wouldn’t be one of those women. She’d avoided trouble with lads so far, and she’d continue to. She’d come to Dounarwyse for freedom. For her craft. For a future built by her own hands. No man would take that from her.

Least of all, one with a gaze that could melt steel.