Chapter Three
F iona nocked an arrow to her bow with practiced ease. A hush had befallen the onlookers, their breaths caught in anticipation. With the precision of a seasoned warrior, she drew back the string, anchoring it firmly against her cheek. The world narrowed to the target. The silence stretched, taut as the bowstring in her grasp. Then, release. The arrow flew true, slicing through the chilly air and embedding itself squarely in the bullseye.
The crowd erupted into cheers, yet amidst the cacophony, one figure remained silent, his gaze locked upon the archer with an intensity that bordered reverence. Alisdair McClain observed the flight of Fiona’s arrow with a warrior’s focus, noting not just the outcome but the elegance of her form, the unwavering determination set upon her striking features. Admiration flooded him, mingling with a curiosity that went beyond the mere appreciation of her prowess.
Alisdair stood slightly apart from the crowd. His piercing blue eyes, so often assessing strategies and opponents, now studied Fiona as though she were a fascinating enigma to unravel. The formal tenor of the gathering did little to mask the deep captivation that took hold of him. The very air around Fiona vibrated with her strength and spirit.
A tether pulled at Alisdair’s senses, urging him closer to the source of his intrigue. He observed, almost wistfully, the way her long blond hair, bound in a practical braid, had a few rebellious strands that danced with the morning breeze.
There was an undeniable pull, a gravitation toward a woman who held her own with such fierce independence. For Alisdair, whose life was a constant balance between duty and personal desire, Fiona represented an alluring challenge. She was a force, a flame, and he could not help but wonder what warmth or burn might come from drawing too near.
And it didn’t help that she wasn’t a troll at all, but a truly beautiful woman—one who made him want to move closer and get better acquainted with her.
Her next shot was equally as impressive. Alisdair smiled despite the gravity of his usual demeanor. He was witnessing excellence, and it stirred something within him—a yearning to understand the mind that guided the hand so steady and sure.
In the lull that followed, as Fiona prepared for another arrow, the whispers of political machinations and the weighty expectations placed upon his shoulders momentarily lightened. Watching her, Alisdair found himself longing for a reprieve from the constant talks of alliances and power—a reprieve he scarcely knew he craved until that very moment.
Alisdair wasted no time before approaching Laird Duncan McAfee. “Laird McAfee,” Alisdair began, “I’ve watched your daughter, Fiona, with great admiration. I’m very impressed by her ability with a bow and arrow.” He paused. “I seek not just her hand for the unity it might bring between our clans, but to understand the mind behind such strength. To cherish her, if she would have me.”
Laird Duncan’s gaze, sharp and discerning, assessed Alisdair’s earnest expression. “You speak of desires beyond duty, young McClain,” Duncan replied. His words were measured, betraying none of the turmoil that surely roiled beneath the surface. “Such matters are not decided lightly.”
“No, they are not,” Alisdair agreed. “But I would like to approach her with the thought of marriage between us.”
The laird nodded slowly, the subtle lift of his brow granting silent acknowledgment of Alisdair’s plea before turning his attention back to the archery range where his daughter still stood with her sisters. “I have promised Fiona she will have a say in whomever I choose as her husband. Ye may get acquainted with her, but understand that no decision will be made today.”
Fiona overheard the last fragments of their exchange as she was about to take another shot, her arrow poised unflinchingly on the string. Her heart beat with the rhythm of rebellion against the notion of being bartered like some prize steed, though just the day before, she’d agreed with her grandmother that she must remember her place when it came to marriage. After a swift release, her arrow sliced through the air, hitting its mark with a resounding thud. Yet her smoldering indignation overshadowed her satisfaction at the bullseye.
Clenching her fists at her sides, she prickled with anger. Her rage made its way up her arms. Her blue eyes, mirrors of the turbulent sky above, flashed fiercely. She gritted her teeth against the injustice. She had been given more freedom than most women, and she wanted to keep that freedom. It didn’t matter that the man discussing her hand with her father was the very man she’d get to know.
“Used as a pawn in a game where I control neither board nor pieces,” she muttered, rebelling against the tradition and expectation that threatened to drown her aspirations.
Fiona McAfee would not be maneuvered so easily. She would meet this challenge as she did all others—with a keen eye and a steady hand, ready to assert her place not as a mere piece to be moved at whim.
With the echo of her arrow’s impact still ringing in the glen, Fiona’s ire coalesced into a force as formidable as her archery. She strode across the field, each step a defiant drumbeat against the earth. Her eyes blazed. The crowd parted for her as if she were the blade of a claymore cutting through the air—a warrior on a battlefield of her own making. She had expected more from Alisdair from the mere glimpse she’d caught of him, but she knew that much was her own fault. She hadn’t gotten acquainted with him, and had assumed he would see her and desire more than a political alliance.
Alisdair, who had been conversing with a group of his clansmen, turned to see her walking toward him. His gaze met Fiona’s. There was no mistaking the fervor that propelled her. He straightened himself, his stance mirroring the readiness of one versed in the art of war. Yet it was not a physical confrontation that awaited him.
“Alisdair McClain,” Fiona began resonantly and commandingly, arresting the attention of all who stood near. “Ye think to propose a union with me as though I’m naught but land to be claimed or a title to be secured?” She reached out and poked him in the middle of his chest, unsurprised at his thick muscles.
Alisdair’s brow furrowed, taken aback by the intensity of her challenge. “Fiona, your valor is known far and wide—”
“Ah, my valor,” she scoffed, her sarcasm sharp as a dirk. “A convenient trait, I suppose, when it suits the ambitions of men.”
He held her gaze, recognizing the fierce intellect behind her words. “I sought only to express my admiration for you, not to reduce ye to a mere—”
“Admiration?” Fiona tilted her head. “Is that what ye call it? Forgive me, I mistook it for an attempt to secure an alliance through marriage without so much as asking for me consent.” She put her hands on her hips and glared up at him.
The corners of Alisdair’s mouth twitched, betraying his appreciation for her despite the gravity of the discourse. “I’ve underestimated the depth of your spirit, Fiona. Let it not be said that Alisdair McClain does not recognize the worth of a true partner.”
“Then regard me as such,” Fiona demanded, her tone softening ever so slightly, inviting a truce. “Not as a pawn, nor a prize, but as an equal. If ye truly wish to know me, do so on my terms.”
“And what might those be?”
“Firstly,” she began, a mischievous glint appearing amidst the storm in her eyes, “ye’ll cease these covert discussions with my father about our future and speak to me directly. After all, ’tis I who would be standing beside ye, and sleeping beside ye, should such a future come to pass.”
“Fairly spoken,” Alisdair conceded, a smile gracing his lips. “And I must say I do like the idea of sleeping beside ye.”
“Secondly,” Fiona continued, emboldened by his acquiescence, and willing to ignore his racy comment, “any courtship shall be genuine. No pretenses of duty or power—just Fiona and Alisdair, learning the measure of each other.”
“Agreed,” he replied earnestly. “I would have it no other way.”
“And third,” she concluded, her voice carrying the weight of her final condition, “should either of us find the match unsuitable, we part ways with honor, free from obligation or expectation.”
“An honorable release, should it come to that,” Alisdair affirmed, extending his hand.
“Then we are agreed,” Fiona stated, accepting his hand with a firm shake, her expression almost trusting.
“Aye, we are,” he replied.
She still glared at him, but it wasn’t as intense as when she’d first approached.
“Forgive me, Fiona,” he faltered. “I did not mean to… I’ve not considered your thoughts on this matter as I should have.”
“Ye’ll need more than gentle words and soft glances to mend this, McClain.” Her voice was steady despite the tempest raging within her. Fiona was unyielding, a fortress unto herself, and she would not allow her defenses to be breached by remorse alone.
“Ye ken nothing of what I want or who I am,” she continued. “If ye truly seek to know me, then ye must understand—I am no prize to be bartered.”
Alisdair, recognizing the truth in her declaration, nodded slowly, the weight of his misjudgment on his shoulders. He’d approached her father as he would any father. He should have spoken to her first, for she was not like any other woman. She was a warrior in her own right.
“Then let us begin anew,” he offered tentatively, aware that the path to her heart would be fraught with trials of its own. “On your terms, Fiona. Teach me to see you… not as a McAfee or a means to an alliance, but simply as yourself.”
Alisdair’s gaze met Fiona’s, his blue eyes a mirror to her own. “Fiona,” he began, the timbre of his voice betraying a rare tremor of uncertainty, “I have been a warrior all my life, trained to wield sword and strategy over words. But this moment calls for honesty, not arms.”
He paused, searching her face for signs of softening, for a crack in her armor. “I admire ye, not just for your skill with the bow or your command on the battlefield, but for the fire within you that refuses to be quenched. You’ve captivated me in ways no other has, and the thought of joining our clans… it is more than politics to me.”
“Ye speak of admiration, Alisdair McClain,” Fiona replied, her voice less steely than before, “yet ye understand little of who I truly am. What is it that ye desire? Is it the woman standing before ye, or the alliance she represents? Or is it the idea of having a warrior defend ye as ye sleep?”
“’Tis you,” he replied, each word deliberate, as if he were laying down his weapons at her feet. “Aye, I cannot deny that an alliance would benefit us both, but ’tis not my sole desire. I wish to understand the lass who can outshoot any man, who speaks her mind without fear, and whose laughter is a melody that I’ve come to yearn for, even from afar.”
“Ye yearn for my laughter?” she asked, amusement in her tone.
“Aye.” Alisdair smiled hopefully. “Your laughter, your spirit, your heart. All of you, Fiona McAfee.”
And though she did not voice it, Fiona acknowledged that perhaps there was more to Alisdair McClain than she had believed. But if he desired a marriage between them, she must observe what was there.
*
Fiona’s laughter mingled with the rustle of leaves, a sound as unexpected as it was delightful. Alisdair stood before her, mock indignation on his face, having just recounted an exaggerated tale of a misadventure involving a stray goat and his brother Lachlan.
“Ye expect me to believe that a wee beastie outwitted all three of the McClain brothers who are here?” Fiona teased, her blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “I suppose next ye’ll be telling me the goat now sits at yer council meetings.”
“She does,” Alisdair played along, his broad shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “The creature has proven itself quite the tactician. Perhaps I should seek its counsel on how to win the affections of a certain lass.”
“Och, if ye require the wisdom of goats, then ye may be in dire straits indeed,” she snorted, her blond braid swaying as she tilted her head, regarding him with amusement.
As their laughter subsided, they found themselves standing mere inches apart, the air charged with a newfound intimacy.
“Ye’ve a way with words, Alisdair McClain,” Fiona murmured, her voice carrying a new warmth.
“Only when inspired by the right company,” he replied, his gaze fixed on her lips.
Her breath hitched slightly, as if the gravity between them pulled her closer still. And then, as natural as the wind that caressed the highland heather, Alisdair lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers—a kiss as tentative as it was tender—a first bloom of passion.
Drawing back, Fiona met his gaze, silently conversing with him. Her heart pounded like the drums of war, yet for a moment, all talk of alliances and duties faded into the background.
“Alisdair, I—” Fiona stammered. “I’m not certain ye should be kissing me yet.”
He nodded, his expression serious. “Ye canna make that a condition of courtship. It would be the death of me!”
“Ye are truly a silly man, Alisdair. I would like to get to know ye. Truly know ye,” Fiona declared. It was a gesture of truce, a sign of her willingness to explore the depths of this unforeseen connection.
“Agreed,” Alisdair responded.
Fiona and Alisdair reluctantly released each other’s hands as they walked within sight of the games and the keep. The lingering touch was a silent pledge.
“Ye ken,” Fiona began, her voice low and steady, the words rolling off her tongue, “take this path we are to tread is fraught with bramble and thistle.”
Alisdair’s gaze held hers. “Aye, but every path has its perils. We shall face them together, Fiona McAfee. I swear it upon my honor.”
“Tomorrow,” Alisdair continued, “we present a united front to our clans. I need my men to understand that we are both in favor of this partnership… if it is to truly happen.”
“Yet,” Fiona replied, “let them not mistake our union for submission. I am my own, Alisdair McClain, and you’d do well to remember that.”
His chuckle resonated in the cool evening air yet spoke volumes of his admiration for her spirit. “Dinna fash, lass. It’s your fire that warms my thoughts.”
“Come the morn, we must finish the games,” Fiona murmured.
“Then let us finish them, and I will best all who come my way,” Alisdair agreed, seeking her hand.
*
Fiona McAfee found Alisdair McClain with ease. He was a head taller than most of the men there, though his brothers matched him in height. Fiona liked that because she was taller than most men, and many were intimidated by her. The clamor of clashing steel and triumphant cries blended into a jubilant cacophony as kinsmen vied for glory. Yet, as Fiona watched, it was not the games that caught her attention but the man who appeared so strong and commanding, not to mention handsome.
Alisdair lifted the caber with a power that spoke of countless battles fought and won. His form was precise, every muscle coiled and released in a dance as old as the clans themselves. Fiona felt a surge of pride as he tossed the massive log end over end, earning cheers from onlookers. Their eyes met across the field, and for a fleeting moment, the clamor dulled, the world narrowing to the silent exchange between them.
As the day progressed, Alisdair presented Fiona with a wreath of wildflowers with richly-colored petals. He shared tales of his victories, each word laced with respect for his adversaries. They walked side by, their steps in sync as if they had walked this path together many times.
Their laughter mingled with the melodies of pipes and drums, an unspoken acknowledgment of a growing bond, yet unclaimed.
Fiona retreated to the sanctuary of her family’s tent. There, she found solace in the company of her sisters Ailis and Moira.
“His actions speak of honor,” Fiona confessed, the formal tone of her voice hiding the turmoil within. “Yet, he seeks our father’s blessing before me own. It is a gesture of tradition, I know, but…”
Ailis regarded Fiona with a knowing glance, her silence an invitation for further confessions.
“I find myself adrift,” Fiona continued, “caught between admiration and ire. For how can I yield my heart to one who must first ask leave of another?”
“Perchance he aims to show respect, not only to our father but to you, through his deference,” Moira offered gently, her adventurous spirit understanding the complexities of love and duty.
“True,” Fiona conceded. “Yet, should he wish to stand beside me, he must prove himself worthy not to our sire, but to me—the woman he would claim.”
Her sisters exchanged glances, both moved by Fiona’s resolve. The weight of her words hung heavy in the air.
“Then let him be tested,” Ailis declared, her voice steady as the earth itself. “For if his intentions are pure, he shall rise to meet your challenge and win not just your hand, but your heart.”
Fiona nodded, her blue eyes reflecting the flickering flames, a silent vow etched within their depths. Alisdair McClain would have to demonstrate his worth, not as a suitor sanctioned by the hands of her father, but as a man who could stand equal to Fiona McAfee, in spirit, in strength, and in love.
*
Alisdair’s boots crunched over the early morning frost, a mist rising from the mossy earth as he trudged deeper into the forest. His breath fogged in the chill air, scanning the woodland for the hues of wildflowers that he knew would captivate Fiona’s heart. Each step was guided by an unwavering purpose: to find a token of nature’s beauty that mirrored his own affection. Fiona wasn’t exactly pleased with how he had handled talking to her father before speaking with her. He had to do something that would improve his standing in her eyes. He delicately parted ferns and bracken in search of the perfect blossoms.
His brow furrowed with concentration, a subtle indicator of his determination. It was not enough to gather any flowers. They had to be the prettiest, just as he sought to convey the depth of his sentiment. As he walked, the beauty of the area should have had him in awe, but he barely noticed, intent on his silent quest. Time lost its meaning as the sun climbed higher, filtering shafts of light through the dense canopy above.
Just as the hour neared its end, Alisdair spotted them—a cluster of wildflowers nestled at the base of an ancient oak, their petals a vivid dance of colors that seemed to sing in harmony with the morning. Carefully, he knelt, his large frame surprisingly graceful, and plucked each stem with a reverence reserved for sacred rituals.
After assembling the bouquet, he made his way back toward the keep. He waited for Fiona to emerge from the keep with the patience of a hunter, hidden in the shadow of the stone walls.
Fiona stepped outside, her blond hair catching the sun in a brilliant cascade. She moved with the grace that characterized both her spirit and her body. The moment her foot crossed the threshold, Alisdair stepped forward, emerging like a specter born from the very earth.
“Mo chridhe,” he began, his voice a soft rumble as he extended the bouquet towards her. “For ye, the bonniest blooms I could find.” He lowered his head slightly to show he honored her.
Her intelligent eyes widened in surprise, brightening like the dawn itself. Fiona reached out, her fingers brushing against his as she took the wildflowers from his grasp. Her touch sent a shiver up his spine, more powerful than any clash of steel.
“Alisdair, they’re beautiful,” she whispered, her lips curving into a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes and echoed the warmth of her heart. She brought the bouquet to her nose, inhaling the sweet fragrance. “Ye’ve a fine eye for beauty.”
“Only because it surrounds me,” he replied, a hint of color rising to his cheeks despite the coolness of the morning.
Gratefully, Fiona clutched the bouquet close, a symbol of the burgeoning affection that grew between them, as wild and untamed as the Highland heather. In this simple exchange, the complexities of clan politics and expectations lay momentarily forgotten, replaced by the sincerity of a gesture and the silent language of shared glances.