Chapter Five
T he great hall of McAfee Keep was aglow with the flicker of torchlight, casting shadows upon stone walls that had borne witness to countless feasts. Yet tonight’s celebration eclipsed them all in splendor and significance, for it marked the triumphs of Laird Duncan McAfee’s daughters—the valiant lasses who had bested many a man in feats of strength and skill.
Duncan himself presided over the festivities, guffawing through the rafters as he clapped warriors on their backs and raised his cup in salute to the heroines of the hour. His heart swelled with pride at the sight of Fiona, Ailis, and Moira, each garbed in finery, tartan plaids interwoven with threads mirroring the colors of the Highland sky at dusk.
“Let us eat, drink, and revel in the honor ye have brought to our name!” the laird proclaimed, his voice rich with the timbre of a leader who had seen his legacy assured in the mettle of his offspring.
“Father is overjoyed,” Ailis whispered to Fiona, the corners of her eyes crinkling in contentment. “Look how he beams.”
“Indeed, his joy is a bountiful feast in itself,” Fiona replied, her gaze traveling across the room where clansmen and maids twirled in a dance as old as the hills themselves. The rhythm of the music, steady and sure as the heartbeat of the earth, echoed the very pulse of her blood. And there, amidst laughter and song, she and her sisters were the embodiment of the McAfee spirit—undaunted and indomitable.
“Would that we could extend the challenge on the morrow once more,” Moira sighed, her green eyes alight with the fire that had driven her sword arm to victory.
“Aye,” Fiona agreed, her lips curving in a wistful smile. “But tonight, we celebrate what has been won, and honor the sacrifices made to achieve such ends.”
As the night went on, Fiona was drawn into the dance, her movements a testament to the grace and poise befitting her station. Yet beneath layers of silk and lace beat the heart of a warrior maiden, ever restless, ever striving for the next horizon.
And though duty bound her to the path laid before her, Fiona knew that the tension between the desires of her soul and the responsibilities of her birthright would be a lifelong companion. For now, however, she would embrace the merriment of the moment, honoring the love and sacrifices of her father, even as the embers of competition smoldered, awaiting the breath of challenge to ignite them anew.
Through the throng of swaying bodies and the swirl of tartan, Alisdair moved with a purpose that parted the crowd. His gaze, as sharp as the blade at his side, found Fiona, her blue eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight that illuminated the grand hall.
Fiona stood among the revelers. As Alisdair approached, she smiled, looking forward to a bit more time with the man.
“May I have the honor?” Alisdair cut in, his hand extended toward her.
With a nod, she placed her fingertips into his waiting palm, a silent acknowledgment of the dance’s necessity. His lips brushed over her fingers, sending an unspoken promise spiraling through the air.
The music beckoned them to join, a lively tune that made Fiona want to move with it. They stepped onto the floor, their movements initially hesitant. Laughter bubbled up from Fiona’s chest as they stumbled over one another’s feet, the practiced steps of the dance lost in the spontaneity of the moment.
“We are better suited to the battlefield than this dance,” Alisdair remarked, smirking playfully.
“We are! There’s no time to learn to dance when you’re busy learning to be a warrior,” Fiona agreed. “But ’tis a battlefield of a different kind—one where missteps lead to bruised pride rather than bruised shins.”
Around them, the dance continued, but in their shared missteps, they found a rhythm all their own. They laughed at themselves easily and found yet another thing they had in common.
“Would ye like to escape the noise? Perchance a stroll by the loch?” Alisdair raised his voice above the clamor.
The thrum of the crowd pressed upon Fiona, who longed instead for the crisp highland air and the gentle lap of water against the shore. “Aye, that would be most welcome,” she replied.
Together, they extricated themselves from the crush of bodies, passing beneath the arched doorway where torchlight danced upon stone walls. The night enveloped them in its cool embrace as they emerged from the confines of the grand hall. As soon as they were outside, Fiona sighed, more at ease than she had since the games had started.
Their footsteps whispered across the grass, away from the castle’s glow and toward the tranquil expanse of the loch. The moon cast its reflection upon the water’s surface, a pathway of light beckoning them.
“Tell me of yer latest adventure,” Alisdair urged, his curiosity kindling the embers of conversation between them. A faint smile spread across his face. He was eager to listen to tales of daring and bravery from the fierce warrior at his side.
“’Twas but a fortnight ago,” Fiona began, painting vivid images of shadowed forests and mountain peaks that scraped the heavens. She recounted the quest to retrieve a lost lamb from the treacherous cliffs, her voice embodying both the thrill of the challenge and the tender care for the creature. “The young shepherd who was supposed to be watching him had fallen asleep, and he knew his father would be angry, so I came to the rescue.”
“Ye amaze me, Fiona McAfee,” Alisdair declared. “You are a fierce warrior woman with a soft side, who won’t let a boy be punished for falling asleep on the job.”
“Pray tell,” Fiona urged with measured curiosity, turning her gaze upon Alisdair. “What tales of valor might you share from your past?”
Alisdair’s piercing blue eyes met hers, and a faint smile graced his lips as if the memory itself amused him. “There is one thing you might enjoy hearing about. A night under the cloak of darkness, where I found myself outnumbered amidst the tumult of clashing steel.”
“Outnumbered?” Fiona asked, her interest piqued.
“Aye,” he answered, nodding solemnly. “The enemy had encircled us, their intentions clear as the cold glint of moonlight upon their blades. Yet, ’twas not a time for fear but for strategy. With naught but the whispering wind as my confidant, I devised a cunning plan. We formed a phalanx, narrow as the eye of a needle, and charged.”
“Such bravery,” she murmured, envisioning the harrowing scene.
“Bravery born of necessity, Fiona.” Alisdair’s tone was modest, yet she could detect the pride swelling beneath his words. “We broke through their ranks, scattering them to the winds like chaff, securing victory against daunting odds.”
“That tells me a great deal of your leadership, Alisdair.” Fiona’s admiration was genuine, her heart stirred by his gallantry.
“Yet I am certain your own exploits hold equal measure of daring,” Alisdair intoned, casting a respectful glance toward Fiona McAfee, who walked alongside him.
“Ah,” Fiona interjected, a playful twinkle lighting her intelligent blue eyes. “My tales are of a different sort, though they lack not for adventure.” She paused, gathering the threads of her recollections. “I recall a day of summer past when my sisters and I endeavored to reclaim our father’s prized steed, spirited away by mischievous brigands.”
“Oh?” Alisdair prompted.
Fiona nodded. “With naught but guile and the cover of dusk, we tracked the rogues to their hideaway. Ailis, with her sharp wit, devised a ruse most clever, whilst Moira and I crept silently as shadows to the enclosure where the steed was bound.”
“And were you successful in this clandestine venture?” Alisdair asked, his tone laced with the excitement of shared secrets.
“Triumphantly so,” Fiona replied, her chest swelling with quiet pride. “We liberated the steed and led it back to the safety of our keep, all without raising the alarm or drawing the blade.”
“Such resourcefulness speaks highly of your courage and bond.” Alisdair noted the fierce loyalty that bound the McAfee sisters as tightly as any knight’s honor.
Alisdair McClain, the robust first son of the McClain clan, collected his thoughts for yet another tale.
“Allow me to recount the time I found myself amidst the wilds of the northern moors,” Alisdair began. “A white boar, majestic and elusive, had been spotted—a creature said to herald great change.”
Fiona noted the gleam in Alisdair’s eye, a reflection of the thrill that came with the chase, mingling with a sense of duty to his people. For capturing such a beast was not merely a test of skill. It was an omen eagerly sought by his clan.
“Days we spent, tracking the ghostly hart across the treacherous terrain,” he continued. “Each evening brought forth the lament of our fruitless pursuit, yet dawn renewed our resolve.”
“And did ye capture this steed?” Fiona inquired.
“Capture? Nay, my lady.” Alisdair smiled wistfully. “The boar led us to a stranded traveler, injured and near death. Our quarry escaped, but the life we saved… Perhaps that was the change foretold.”
“Aye, a noble sacrifice for a worthy cause,” Fiona remarked, the theme of duty shaping her understanding of his story.
“I have a tale that shall surely lighten yer spirit,” Fiona announced, her blue eyes dancing with mischief. “’Twas the eve of All Hallows’, when Moira, Ailis, and I chanced upon a scheme most daring.”
“Under cover of night, we donned the guise of specters, draping ourselves in sheets pilfered from the laundress,” Fiona recounted, her voice tinged with the warmth of fond remembrance. “We set out to haunt the unwary—or so was our intent.”
“Go on,” Alisdair urged, a smile threatening to take over his face.
“Alas, our spectral debut was not to be,” Fiona jested. “We had not reckoned with the castle hounds, who, upon scenting familiar ghosts, proceeded to frolic and cavort with such fervor that our ghostly raiments were soon in disarray.”
“Yer own hounds foiled ye?” Alisdair asked, trying to hide his laughter.
“Aye, they did,” Fiona admitted, joining Alisdair in a rare moment of shared mirth. “By the time we returned to the keep, our gowns were awry, our dignity besmirched, and the hounds… The hounds were convinced they had bested the spirits themselves.”
“It sounds like fun was had by all. Isn’t that what matters?” he asked, grinning at her.
Alisdair and Fiona continued their walk. Fiona’s breath came in steady rhythms, her warrior’s poise unyielding even in leisure, but her eyes gleamed with a mischievous light.
“Alisdair,” she chirped, her voice dancing on the wind, “I challenge ye to a race to the willow!” She started running before he had time to think on what she’d said.
Alisdair took off after her, chuckling as he chased her toward the tree.
Their sprint was a thunderous rhythm across the earth, a symphony of heartbeats and hurried breaths that echoed through the stillness of the night. Laughter spilled from their lips, pure and unrestrained, as they dashed, racing toward victory and freedom alike.
Fiona’s lungs burned with exertion, her muscles tensed like the string of a bow, yet she surged forward with relentless determination. Her braid had come undone, allowing her blond hair to stream behind her.
As the willow drew near, Fiona dared to glance over her shoulder. Alisdair was at her heels, the embodiment of strength and agility, yet his smile spoke not of conquest but of delight in the moment itself. With one final burst of speed, she reached the tree’s sanctuary, a triumphant laugh escaping her as she declared, “Victory is mine!”
Breathless and exhilarated, Alisdair caught up to her, his hands braced against the ancient trunk. “Aye, ye have won the race, but the night is young, and the prize yet undecided.”
Their eyes locked, and the world held its breath. A current of desire threaded through the space between them, pulling them closer. They stepped into the shelter of the willow’s drooping boughs.
Alisdair lifted Fiona’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss upon her fingertips with the reverence reserved for sacred oaths. His caress ignited a flame within her, casting shadows of doubt and duty to the corners of her mind. Slowly, deliberately, their faces drew near until their lips met in a kiss that shook her to her very core.
Passion burgeoned, fervent and fierce, as their hearts raced not from the exertion of the run but from the proximity of their bodies.
As they parted, the world resumed its spin. Reality beckoned with the weight of responsibility. But the kiss remained, a testament to the truth that lay within their entwined hearts—a truth that would sustain them through the trials yet to come.
Resuming their leisurely stroll along the tranquil shores of the loch, Fiona and Alisdair found themselves caught in a gentle rhythm, their hands occasionally brushing as they walked side by side. The hum of the distant revelry faded, replaced by the soft whisper of the wind and the occasional call of a night bird.
“Your kin are an enigmatic lot,” Fiona remarked with a lilt of amusement in her voice, breaking the serenity that had enveloped them. “The tales that drift through the Highlands—oh, they paint quite the picture. It is said the youngest son is destined for greatness, not the eldest. Curious, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Alisdair replied, his deep chuckle mingling with the rustling leaves. “And there’s more. Whispers claim we’re all witches, concocting spells under the moonlight.”
“Mm, and the lairds?” Fiona prodded, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “Can they truly heal with but a single touch, or command the weather as easily as they lead their men?”
“Ah, if only,” he responded, feigning a wistful sigh. “It would make the harsh Highland winters far more bearable. But alas, we are mere mortals, bound by the same laws of nature as any other.” He couldn’t tell her the whole truth of his family, but he could chuckle with her at the tales that were spread.
Their laughter echoed softly, dissolving into the cool air until only the sound of their synchronized steps remained. As the frivolity subsided, a thread of earnestness weaved its way into their conversation.
“Alisdair, I have dreams… dreams of more than just a political marriage,” Fiona confessed, her gaze fixed on the shimmering reflection of the moon upon the loch’s surface. “I seek a love that is more than duty and obligation—a union forged from affection, respect, and shared ambition.
“Such a love is rare, especially for those of us born to lead,” she continued. “But I cannot accept anything less—not when my heart knows what it yearns for.”
In the stillness that followed, Fiona wondered if she had revealed too much, if her boldness might be mistaken for imprudence. Yet when she gazed upon Alisdair’s face, she found no judgment, only the dawning recognition of a kindred spirit.
“Your candor honors me, Fiona,” Alisdair replied sincerely. “I share your pursuit of a bond that transcends mere alliance. A love born not out of necessity but of genuine desire. I thought I would be happy with a political marriage, but getting better acquainted with ye has taught me differently. I crave passion.”
As they walked on, he continued, “Ye speak of love as though it were a companion on the battlefield, one that ye would fight beside, not merely accept as an ally.”
“’Tis true,” Fiona replied. “Love ought to be an ally chosen for its valor, not just for the colors it bears.”
Her earnestness resonated with him, stirring camaraderie that went beyond the hope of a political alliance.
“Then let us hope,” Alisdair declared, “that our hearts’ banners may one day fly as one.”
Fiona’s lips curved into a smile, and a slow laugh escaped her. “Ye sound like yer writing bad poetry!”
He responded in kind. “Do ladies not want poetry?”
“I canna tell ye what other ladies want, but I myself enjoy good poetry. Just not the bad. And that, Alisdair, was bad.”
They found a stone bench near the loch and they both approached it without a word. Silence fell comfortably between them, not as a void but as a vessel carrying unspoken thoughts and shared understanding.
“Did ye ever dream of something other than war and leadership?” Fiona’s question pierced the hush around them, tentative yet laden with curiosity.
Alisdair turned to her, his blue eyes reflecting the twilight. “As a bairn, I fancied myself an explorer,” he confessed, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’d set off into the wilds, imagining lands no McClain had ever trod.”
“An explorer,” Fiona repeated softly, the idea stirring a wistful yearning within her own breast. She chuckled, envisioning a young Alisdair. “And I—the lass who would rather shoot an arrow than stitch a sampler. We were not the children our mothers envisioned.”
His voice was thoughtful, tempered by the weight of his position. “But perhaps ’tis for the best. Our dreams shape us more than any expectation.”
Fiona nodded, finding solace in his words. Her gaze drifted across the darkening waters, pondering the unknown future and the role she would play in it. “I fear…” she began, then hesitated, a vulnerability creeping into her normally steadfast tone. “I fear the loss of myself in a loveless marriage, arranged for naught but political gain. Most men wouldn’t allow me to keep my bow and arrows. In fact, they would expect me to tend to the castle and do little else.”
Alisdair’s hand found hers, a gesture both comforting and emboldening. “Fiona McAfee,” he began with resolve, “I vow to fight for your happiness with the same fervor I would defend my own land. The heart wants what it wants, and should it yearn for freedom or for love, it shan’t be denied.”
In that moment, the seeds of hope took root within Fiona. Here was a man who understood the tug-of-war between heart and duty. Perhaps he was just the man she needed.
“Thank ye, Alisdair,” Fiona whispered, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “For seeing me—not just as a McAfee, but as Fiona.”
They spent a few moments just sitting together, gazing up at the stars overhead.
“Ye ken the stars?” she asked softly. Their hands remained entwined.
“Aye,” Alisdair replied. “My da taught me their names when I was but a lad. Said they’d guide me home should I ever lose my way.”
A small, tender smile played on Fiona’s lips. “Mayhap they’ll guide us both,” she murmured. The idea was comforting, as was the steady pressure of Alisdair’s fingers laced with hers.
“Shall we return?” Alisdair’s query broke the tranquil spell, his tone laced with reluctance. The dance, with its whirl of colors and flurry of motions, awaited their presence, a stark contrast to the serenity they found by the loch.
Fiona nodded, her resolve fortified by the newfound understanding that shimmered between them. “Aye, let us go back,” she agreed. With a shared glance that held a world of unspoken thoughts, they turned toward the torchlit hall where their clans mingled and merriment reigned.
*
Malcolm Sinclair, hidden in the alcove’s embrace, watched Fiona and Alisdair slip away from the boisterous feast. His keen eyes, so like a hawk’s, followed their retreat with a predator’s silent calculation. They meandered through the throng of kinsmen and allies, their laughter lost amidst the din of merriment. Unseen, Malcolm trailed them, his steps measured and soundless.
Outside, the moon hung heavy above, its pale glow shimmering across the loch’s placid surface. A cool breeze whispered through the heather, carrying with it the scent of pine and the distant echo of bagpipes melding with the night. Malcolm’s gaze never wavered from the figures strolling by the water’s edge.
Every stride taken was laden with the gravity of his station, each thought a chess piece moved upon the board of his ambition. The weight of his father’s expectations pressed upon him like the yoke of an invisible mantle: to secure the future of Clan Sinclair, to prove himself worthy of the legacy left to him—a future where Fiona McAfee might stand by his side, not as a choice of her heart but as a conquest of his will.
Malcolm pondered the myriad paths before him, his mind a tempest of schemes and stratagems. To challenge Alisdair, to best him in combat would be a deed of valor, yet such an act could ignite a feud that would consume both clans in flames of war. No, bloodshed would serve no purpose here—not when subtler means might secure the prize.
Kidnapping—the word itself was a serpent that slithered through his mind, venomous and alluring. To spirit Fiona away, to hold her within the stronghold of Clan Sinclair until she yielded to his claim… It was a gambit fraught with peril, yet one that might yield untold rewards.
For a moment, Malcolm luxuriously imagined her fierce spirit tempered into something softer within the confines of his keep, her piercing blue eyes reflecting not defiance but a begrudging respect for the man who dared to capture her. Yet even this idea was tainted by the specter of consequence, the knowledge that every action bore its own shadow of retribution.
He drew back into the shadows, his heart a battlefield of desire and duty. There, under the watchful eye of the moon, Malcolm Sinclair, heir to the legacy of his clan, made his choice. He would have Fiona McAfee, not through the honor of courtship, but through the audacity of abduction. And though the heavens might scorn him for it, he would risk the ire of gods and men alike to make her his wife.
*
The revelry of the dance hall swirled around Fiona as she and Alisdair came to a gradual halt, their steps slowing in the throng of merrymakers. For a fleeting moment, her warrior’s heart now kept time with the gentle rhythm of violins and flutes.
“Ye have my gratitude for this evening.” Her voice was steady and imbued with the formality that the setting demanded. The words were simple, yet they carried the weight of unspoken promises and secret confessions.
Alisdair’s gaze held hers, intense and unwavering. “The pleasure was mine, Fiona,” he replied, his tone equally measured, rich with the cadence of sincerity. “This night shall remain etched in my memory.”
Their fingers lingered together for a heartbeat longer than propriety dictated.
She could sense the eyes upon them, the subtle shifts in the air as whispers and speculations weaved through the crowd like wayward breezes. Yet within the shelter of Alisdair’s presence, such concerns were distant, muted by the resounding echo of shared laughter and the soft lapping of loch waters against the shore.
“Then we part here,” Fiona stated. The regal poise she wore as a mantle never faltered, even as something akin to reluctance tugged at the edges of her resolve. She withdrew her hand from his, a symbolic gesture that marked the end of an interlude outside of time.
“Aye, for now.” Alisdair’s smile was a quiet beacon in the sea of faces. “But not forever.”
With a nod, Fiona turned away. Yet her heart fluttered against its bony cage, buoyed by the whisper of possibilities that had taken root, nourished by stolen moments and hopeful glances.
As she rejoined the dance, Fiona carried with her the silent vow that bloomed in the hidden corners of her heart.
As she danced with her own clansmen and others from around the Highlands, her thoughts were still filled with Alisdair. He was a good man, and she wanted to be his bride. But she was going to make him wait and ask her, not her father. She was the mistress of her own destiny, whether either man wanted it that way or not.
Fiona twirled through a sea of tartans. Lairds in their finery and soldiers in their regalia, men of strength and valor, all succumbed to the allure of the McAfee’s eldest daughter. They approached with brawny arms extended, seeking the honor of a dance, their expressions aglow with admiration for the maiden whose reputation as a fierce warrior contrasted the elegance she now displayed with her blond hair flowing around her.
As the music swelled, Fiona found herself momentarily lifted from the weight of expectation resting upon her shoulders. With each partner, she surrendered to the dance, allowing herself to be guided through the steps.
But the respite was fleeting, for soon Malcolm Sinclair, heir of Clan Sinclair, approached, his stride confident—a predator assured of his quarry. His sharp features were set into a mask of entitlement, and as he offered his hand, there was a possessiveness in his grip that sent a shiver through Fiona’s spine, one not born of the chill Highland air.
She’d known all three sons of Laird Sinclair since childhood, and they all were like snakes to her—vile and full of poison. She had no desire to dance with the man, but she couldn’t embarrass her father by refusing him. Laird Sinclair was her father’s closest friend.
“Fiona,” Malcolm intoned with a voice that sought to envelop her in its depth. “The pleasure of this dance is mine, I trust.”
“Malcolm,” Fiona replied, betraying none of the unease that stirred within her. She placed her hand in his, the gesture one of courtesy rather than desire, and they joined in the dance.
Malcolm led with an assuredness that bordered on arrogance, his movements precise and calculated. He steered her not just across the floor but seemingly toward a future he had already envisioned—one where she played a role scripted by his ambition and his father’s will.
Fiona danced, her mind whirling not with the music but with thoughts of duty and sacrifice. To refuse Malcolm openly would risk offense, yet to acquiesce to his silent claim would be to forsake her own dreams.
“Your beauty outshines even the tales told of it,” Malcolm gushed, attempting to weave words of flattery into their exchange.
“Beauty is but a fleeting thing,” Fiona countered. “It is the strength of one’s character that endures.”
“True,” Malcolm conceded, a flash of something unreadable crossing his gaze. “And our clans could benefit greatly from an alliance that combines both beauty and strength.”
“I suppose they would. But I am not interested in an alliance of that sort,” she replied flatly.
As the melody drew to a close and the dance neared its end, Fiona took a breath and prepared to step back into the role carved out for her by birthright. She was the McAfee’s heir, and with that came responsibilities that often clashed with the yearnings of her heart.
“Thank you for the dance, Malcolm.” She curtsied with a poise that masked her turmoil. “I am certain your father awaits your presence.”
With a final nod, Fiona withdrew, leaving Malcolm Sinclair to ponder the enigma of the woman he’d just danced with.
The dance floor’s lively energy waned as the evening pressed on, yet Fiona found herself once again swept into the spirited whirl of the ceilidh. The music, a rich tapestry of fiddle and drum, beckoned all to partake in the traditional Highland fling. Lachlan McClain, with his ever-present mischievous grin, approached her, extending a hand that promised mirth rather than courtship.
“Would ye honor me with this dance, Fiona?” Lachlan’s voice carried over the din, his eyes twinkling with brotherly affection.
As she accepted, Fiona was aware of the curious glances cast their way. As they danced, Lachlan’s jests and quips continually made her laugh, and she was grateful for the reprieve from the boring men she’d been dancing with for the past hour.
“Ye’ve stepped on my toes only twice this eve,” Lachlan teased with a roguish smile. “Is it mercy, or are ye losing your touch?”
“Perchance ye are simply more nimble than the rest,” Fiona countered, her smile betraying a flash of amusement.
Brodie McClain, quieter in nature, joined them, seamlessly taking his brother’s place as the dance demanded. His movements were precise, his gaze thoughtful as he guided Fiona through the intricate steps.
“Ye dance beautifully, Fiona,” Brodie intoned, his voice steady and calm. “Free and unyielding.”
“Your words are kind, Brodie,” she replied. However, a twinge of confusion knitted her brow, for she was unaccustomed to such treatment from warriors of their stature.
As the final notes of the piper’s song faded, Fiona and her sisters exchanged knowing glances. They retired from the grand hall with a weariness that clung to their bones.
As her sisters’ breaths deepened into the rhythm of sleep, Fiona remained wakeful, ensnared by visions of Alisdair—his strong hands, the intensity in his gaze, and the unspoken promise that lingered between them.
Lying upon her bed, she traced the patterns of the tapestry draped above her, her thoughts adrift. Fiona grappled with the mantle of duty that rested upon her shoulders. With Alisdair, could she have both? A great passion and duty fulfilled?