Chapter 2 Weaving Her Future
AILEAN WATCHED THE young woman walk into the tower house.
Christ’s rood, she was comely. Full-figured, with swelling hips and a nipped-in waist, and a bosom that strained against the bodice of her kirtle. She was exactly how he liked his women. Soft and voluptuous.
And when she’d met his gaze a few moments earlier, her expression had held a boldness that quickened something inside him.
She had a lovely face to match her figure.
Round, but with high cheekbones and slightly slanted blue-grey eyes that gave her a feline appearance.
But it was her mouth that held his attention for a heartbeat.
Full, yet small, and drawn like a delicate bow.
It was a mouth that drove a man to wicked thoughts.
“Pick yer jaw up off the ground.” A familiar, irritated voice intruded.
Ailean turned to find his younger brother standing behind him. There wasn’t a day that went by that Lyle didn’t remind him of their father. Tediously serious.
Lyle’s dark brows drew together. “If Da catches ye gawking at servants like that, he’ll tear strips off ye.”
Ailean smirked. As if he cared. He was used to the sharp edge of his father’s tongue.
Over the past few years, he’d spent enough time away from Dounarwyse to become his own man—fighting wars, following Andrew Murray to victory.
Since returning home, it had grown harder to toe the line.
Not that Rae Maclean had ever been oppressive.
But he was a chieftain with high standards.
Standards Ailean constantly failed to meet.
“Instead of leering at the new weaver, ye should be looking to find yerself a wife,” Lyle went on.
Ailean inclined his head. So, that comely lass was the weaver his stepmother had been excited about?
Kylie had spoken at length about the lass from Craignure whose talent surpassed all others.
She’d commissioned her to weave a great tapestry of the Battle of Dounarwyse—a Maclean victory the laird wanted immortalized forever.
In truth, she wasn’t what Ailean had expected. He’d imagined someone older, work-worn—not so fresh-faced and bonnie.
Ailean snorted. “Cods. Ye sound just like Da.”
Irritation flared in Lyle’s eyes. “How can I wed Mairibeth when my elder brother refuses to take a wife?”
Ailean waved him away. “We aren’t lasses doomed to wait until the elder sister marries. If ye want Mairibeth Patten, then marry her. Don’t let me stand in the way.”
Lyle’s jaw flexed. “But ye should—”
Ailean muttered a curse. The conversation was beginning to grate.
Lyle was two years his junior, yet fretted like an old woman.
“I’ll take a wife when I’m good and ready,” he said, letting a warning note creep into his voice.
He wouldn’t be dictated to—certainly not by his brother, nor by his father.
Ever since returning to Dounarwyse just over a month ago, he’d felt out of place. The castle seemed confining. Suffocating. He was bored, looking for an outlet. For excitement.
The chores here did little to help. He had no real responsibility. His uncle Jack was still strong and fit, even at nearly fifty winters, and wouldn’t be relinquishing control of the Dounarwyse Guard any time soon. When Ailean trained with the other warriors, he took orders from him.
He didn’t resent Jack. The opposite. His father often said Ailean reminded him of Jack in his youth—wild. It wasn’t meant as a compliment, but Ailean took it as one. He liked his uncle’s sharp wit and frankness.
Sometimes, uncharitably perhaps, he’d wished Jack had been his father and not Rae.
Silence stretched between the brothers before Ailean grimaced. “Did ye want something, Lyle, other than to nag me?”
Hurt flashed in Lyle’s eyes, and self-recrimination jolted through Ailean. His brother had always been sensitive. Brutal with a sword, no coward—but beneath that tough facade, soft as porridge.
“Da’s looking for ye,” Lyle said, surliness creeping into his tone. “Where have ye been all day?”
“I took Sgòth out for a long ride.” Ailean jerked his head toward the stables, where a groom led in his grey courser. He’d ridden hard along the coast north of Dounarwyse, reaching the village at Ardnacross and the ruined tower there—one of his favorite rides.
Ardnacross sat on the border of Mackinnon lands. Ever since his return to Mull, he’d been drawn to the place. Few folk knew him there. They had no expectations. He’d enjoyed sitting beneath the ruin, listening to seabirds and feeling the wind sting his cheeks.
“He wants to go over the accounts with ye,” Lyle said.
And did Ailean imagine it, or did his brother sound envious? As the firstborn son, Ailean would one day step into his father’s role. Ever since his return, Rae had begun reviewing the accounts with him.
It was a mind-numbingly boring job.
“Right then.” Ailean sighed. “I’d better find the old man before he’s beelin’.”
Lyle scowled.
Ailean sauntered across the barmkin, skirting fowl pecking at scattered grain.
He was being an arse. He knew it. But he couldn’t help himself.
For the first time, he understood how his friend Craeg had struggled when forced to return and take up the mantle of chieftain.
Craeg had felt robbed of his future. Dramatic perhaps—but Ailean’s return had marked a new chapter in his life.
The fighting was over. Andrew Murray had pushed the English back.
There was no longer work for men like him.
Dounarwyse was home now.
And he had to make it work.
“The castle is on four levels … so ye’ll get fit climbing all the stairs.
” Carrie chimed as she led the way up the narrow and circular stairwell.
She was a bubbly lass with fine brown hair coiled into tight braids on either side of her head.
“I’ll give ye a full tour later … but first … Lady Maclean wishes to meet ye.”
“Of course,” Fiona said, hoping her voice sounded confident, although her belly was pitching as if she were perched upon a creel boat in rough seas.
Suddenly, she wasn’t ready to meet her patron.
“I hear Lady Kylie is kind … well-loved.” She found it hard not to feel horrendously out of place here.
Dounarwyse was grander than anything she’d experienced before.
“Oh, she is both those things.” Carrie flashed her a smile over her shoulder. “I’ve been her lady’s maid for three years now … and never had a cross word from her.”
Fiona’s eyes widened. That was quite a claim. But what if she met her new weaver and found her lacking?
For the love of Mary, stop it. Her insecure thoughts were starting to vex her. She chose ye because she thought ye were worthy. Make sure she doesn’t change her mind.
They reached the first-floor landing, and Carrie crossed, skirts swishing, to a heavy oaken door before knocking confidently.
“Enter,” a woman called.
Carrie stepped back, favored Fiona with another encouraging smile, and gestured for her to go in. “Go on. I’ll see ye later.”
Belly pitching once more, Fiona stepped forward and pushed open the door, entering a rectangular chamber. One look told her this was the lady’s solar—where the castle’s high-born womenfolk gathered and worked together.
Colorful embroidered cushions dotted every seat. Herbs—lavender and thyme—hung in bunches from the rafters. Soft sheepskins covered the oaken floor. A hearth burned at the far end, and a tapestry hung along one long wall.
But Fiona barely had a heartbeat to take it all in.
She wasn’t alone with Lady Kylie.
Lord help her—a group had assembled to welcome her.
Four women waited for her in the solar. Halting, she faced them, forcing down the urge to fidget.
“Fiona Mackinnon, welcome.” A small woman with greying-brown hair coiled into a prim braid atop her head stepped forward from the hearth, a warm smile tugging at her lips.
Fiona knew without introductions that this was Kylie Maclean.
“I trust yer journey from Craignure was pleasant?” another woman asked. She was of a similar age to Lady Kylie, her vivid red hair streaked with fine strands of silver at the temples. A beauty indeed. “My husband didn’t talk yer ear off?”
This must be Jack Maclean’s wife.
The two bonnie lasses perched on the window seat, embroidery in hand, had the same vivid red hair. Daughters, most likely. Such looks made it impossible to doubt their parentage.
“It was a fine journey, thank ye,” Fiona said, flashing a nervous smile. She realized then that she was sweating.
All four women were scrutinizing her. Though none of their expressions were unfriendly, she felt like a fat piglet at market; she was being sized up.
Curse it. She should have tidied up her hair before entering the solar, should have brushed the dust off her skirts and hitched up the neckline of her kirtle.
Her paps had a way of entering a room before she did.
Goose, she chided herself. It doesn’t matter what ye look like … it’s yer work that matters.
And it was. Her curves and wayward blonde curls often made people underestimate her, as if she were all bosom and no brains. But she’d prove them wrong. She always did.
“It’s an honor, Lady Kylie.” Facing her patron squarely, she gave a clumsy curtsy as her cheeks burned. “Thank ye for putting yer trust in me.”
Lady Kylie’s smile widened. “I can’t wait to see yer work … and the Battle of Dounarwyse brought to life on a tapestry.”
Fiona smiled back. “And I look forward to getting started.”
She glanced at the tapestry lining the wall.
Her eyes roamed over it, taking in the crisp white of the snow, the shimmer of candlelight, and the dancers caught mid-revel.
The stitches were flawless, each one pulling the scene to life.
She could feel the skill behind it—precision, patience, and an artist’s eye for movement and joy. “This is fine work. Did ye weave it?”
“No,” Lady Kylie replied wistfully. “The laird’s first wife, Donalda, was talented in such things. In my family, only my youngest sister, Makenna, was blessed with that ability. I weave clumsily.”
“That makes two of us,” the red-haired woman added.
“I’m forgetting my manners,” Lady Kylie said. “This is my sister-by-marriage, Tara, and her daughters, Grace and Arabella.”
All three smiled, warmth in their eyes.
“I enjoy weaving and would like to improve my skill,” Arabella said, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. “I’ve never worked upon a treadle loom.”
“Of course,” Fiona replied, even as anxiety tightened her chest. She had to learn how to work on a new loom as well before she could give lessons. “Yer assistance would be welcome indeed.” She glanced at Tara, who nodded approvingly.
“Right then,” Lady Kylie said, moving toward the door. “Now that introductions are done, I’d like to show ye to yer workroom. Not far to go … it’s next door.”
She led the way, Fiona following with the others behind.
The chamber was square and slightly smaller than the solar, but brighter. Sunlight streamed through the south-facing window and spilled across the loom waiting in the center of the room.
Fiona halted on the threshold, her breath catching as her gaze settled upon the large wooden frame.
Its beams were smooth and pale with fresh sanding.
Warp threads were already stretched tight from beam to beam, gleaming faintly in the light.
Beneath the frame hung two treadles, and above them, the heddles and shafts rested in quiet readiness, as if the loom itself were sleeping and only waiting for her to wake it.
Her heart began to pound, anticipation mingling with nerves. She itched to get started.
A hearth sat at one end of the chamber, unlit in the warmth of the day, though its heat would soften fibers and tame stubborn threads when winter came.
Lanterns and tallow candles stood ready for darker hours.
Baskets of dyed wool lined the wall beside the loom, rich colors glowing—deep indigo, madder red, and moss green. Spindles and bobbins lay neatly sorted.
Two wooden chairs sat near the window for resting between long stretches of work. A low stool and sturdy table waited for drawing patterns, measuring rods, and parchment marked with designs. It was a space built entirely for craft. For patience and creation.
“I hope everything is to yer liking?” Lady Kylie said.
Fiona realized she was gripping her skirts. Relaxing her fingers, she flashed her employer a smile. “It’s … perfect.”
And it was. More than perfect. It was overwhelming.
She stepped closer to the loom, fingers hovering before she dared touch it. The wood felt warm beneath her palm. Solid and steady. This was no small upright frame she could lift and carry. This was a loom meant for great works. For tapestries that would outlive her.
A tremor of excitement shot through her, chased by a ripple of apprehension. Could she truly master something like this? The treadles alone promised a rhythm she had never learned. It would demand more of her—more skill, patience, and discipline.
Good. She wanted the challenge.
“Aye, well … if ye need anything, just ask,” Lady Kylie said after another pause.
Fiona nodded, even as her gaze shifted to the bright window framing the Sound of Mull and the southern coast beyond.
Back to her old life.
But that was behind her now.
Everything she’d dreamed of was coming true. Aye, she was giddy with nerves, yet she’d settle soon enough.
And she would weave her future right here in this room.