Chapter 4 Confidence and Control
FIONA DIDN’T WAIT for Carrie to introduce her. Instead, she stepped forward, chin lifting.
Men like Ailean Maclean enjoyed having the upper hand. Especially over women. But she would start as she meant to go on here.
Confident. In control.
And that meant dealing head-on with the laird’s arrogant son.
“The name is Fiona Mackinnon,” she replied coolly, meeting his eye. “I’m Lady Kylie’s new weaver.”
“Ye knew that, Ailean.” Rowan cast his companion an exasperated look. “Ye saw us arrive with her earlier.”
Not remotely bothered about being caught out, Ailean flashed his friend a roguish grin. “Maybe. But we weren’t formally introduced, were we?”
He turned his attention back to Fiona, and for a moment—despite herself—she was entranced.
They stood only a couple of yards apart now, close enough for her to notice the startling beauty of his eyes. Fern green. And when he smiled, a dimple formed on his left cheek. She noted, too, the sensual quirk of his mouth and the slight cleft in his chin.
It was hard not to be flustered by him.
But she would resist.
“Well, welcome to Dounarwyse, Fiona,” he said, his voice dropping to a lower timbre—one that sent an involuntary shiver skating down her spine.
Hades. The way he said her name.
She imagined him saying it in a far more intimate moment. When they were alone.
Naked. Bathed in sweat.
Stop that. Right now. She jerked herself out of her reverie.
By the Saints—was the man a warlock? Only moments under the full weight of his charm, and she could already feel herself succumbing.
No wonder he had a reputation.
So much for confidence and control.
Mastering herself, she inclined her head and offered him a tight smile. “It’s an honor indeed to be living here. I intend to weave a tapestry worthy of the Macleans of Dounarwyse.”
He flashed a grin that sparked heat low in her belly. “I’m sure ye will.”
“And what do ye think of yer workroom, Mistress Fiona?” Rowan asked, his tone hopeful.
Fiona turned her attention to the guard. “It’s fine indeed.”
Rowan’s smile widened. “I helped carry that loom up there. Nearly broke my back, it did.”
Carrie snorted. “A braw man like ye, Rowan … should’ve found it easy.”
He shot the lady’s maid a startled look.
Glancing between them, Fiona caught something then—a glint in Carrie’s eye she’d noticed earlier while watching the two men spar.
No, she wasn’t mistaken.
Carrie was soft on Rowan.
“Best we let ye continue with yer practice,” Fiona said, clearing her throat. Best not to linger here. “Good eve.”
Both men nodded and stepped back.
Just before Fiona turned away, however, Ailean flashed her another disarming grin.
“This castle isn’t a big place,” he said, those beguiling green eyes drawing her in once more. “We’re sure to bump into each other again.”
“That man could outcharm a selkie,” Fiona murmured to Carrie as they re-entered the tower house, their soft-soled boots whispering against the stone.
Carrie cut her a look. “Ailean?”
“None other.”
The lass giggled. “I’m sure he could. He’s only been back just over a moon, and already half the women within these walls are pining for him.”
They began climbing the circular stairs leading to the upper levels.
Fiona eyed her new friend. “But not ye?”
Carrie shook her head. “Too arrogant for me. Besides … my mother always said never to trust a man that handsome.”
“A wise woman,” she replied with a laugh. She cast Carrie a curious look. They were new acquaintances, yet already there was an easy familiarity between them. And Fiona had always been open with those she liked. “Ye have yer eye on Rowan, don’t ye?”
Carrie stumbled, nearly pitching forward, but Fiona caught her arm and hauled her upright.
Carrie was slight, and though Fiona herself barely topped five-foot-two, she was sturdily built.
“Sorry,” Fiona said quickly. “I shouldn’t have pried.”
“Don’t fash yerself.” Carrie’s face had gone the color of a ripe plum. “I just didn’t realize I was quite that obvious.”
“Not to him, I’d wager,” Fiona reassured her. “But we women notice such things.”
Carrie’s lips curved. “Ye’re a sharp one, Fiona Mackinnon. Ye shall do well here.”
“I’m meeting some tenants this morning,” Rae Maclean said, his voice rumbling through the chieftain’s solar. “I want ye with me, son.”
Ailean glanced up from where he was drizzling honey onto his porridge. Fighting a grimace, he reached for the small jug of cream opposite and poured a generous amount into the bowl. “Didn’t we just meet with them?”
“Those were the tenants here in Dounarwyse,” his father replied sternly. “These are on the northern edge of our lands … at Ardnacross.” Rae paused then. “If I’d known ye were riding out there yesterday, I’d have asked ye to meet them in my stead. Ye’d have saved us both a trip.”
Ailean stiffened. The rebuke was subtle—but earned. It was a fair journey to Ardnacross, and if he’d been less selfish, he could have eased his father’s burden.
Still, pride kept him silent.
Something pushed at his leg then, and he looked down to find his father’s Highland collie nudging at him. Piper always greeted him in the mornings, her dark-brown eyes adoring, and today was no exception. Reaching down, Ailean stroked her curly head. “Greetings, lass,” he murmured.
“It’s another fine spring morning,” Kylie spoke up then, shattering the tense silence that had settled over the table.
She was a diplomat—always had been—smoothing tensions between father and son.
Ailean had been barely six when she’d entered his life, hired to teach him and Lyle.
Neither had made it easy for her initially.
They’d behaved like brats, truth be told.
But Kylie was made of sterner stuff than she appeared, and she’d soon whipped them into shape.
Thanks to her, both brothers were fluent in French.
“It’ll be a fine day out,” Rae agreed, smiling softly at his wife. “I’d ask ye to join us, mo chridhe, but I know ye’ll be eager to oversee yer new weaver.”
Kylie smiled back. “I want to be sure Fiona has everything she needs. This tapestry will be the grandest ever to grace this castle. The planning matters.” She halted a moment. “I’d like ye to meet her too … to talk to her about the Battle of Dounarwyse.”
He nodded. “And I will … just not today.” His attention flicked back to Ailean, who was now feeding Piper a morsel of bannock. “Looks like it’s just ye and me.”
“Can I join ye?” Lyle asked hopefully from across the table.
Rae shook his head. “Jack wants to put the Guard through their paces today. I need ye here to help him.”
Lyle nodded, though disappointment shadowed his eyes. It had been this way of late. While Ailean had been gone, Lyle had taken his place at the laird’s side. Now that his elder brother was home, he was often overlooked.
Ailean noticed, but he was surprised his father didn’t.
“It’s important the tenants grow used to seeing yer face, Ailean,” Rae said, lifting his cup and studying his son.
“Ye speak as if ye’re about to drop dead,” Ailean muttered. Piper was nudging his hand with her wet, cold nose now, demanding more bannock.
Rae frowned, as did Kylie. Neither of them appreciated the jest. “I’m hale enough, lad … but no man should take his health for granted. When the day comes that ye take over from me, I want ye ready.”
“Who says I’m not ready now?” Ailean countered, his irritation rising. “I’ve fought and survived enough battles. What makes ye think I can’t run this castle?”
Rae swore softly. “Ye’ve got confidence, I’ll give ye that. A laird needs plenty. But ruling land and people is far different from swinging a claidheamh-mòr.” His fern-green eyes hardened. “Ye’ve still much to learn. And it’s my duty to teach ye.”
Fiona rolled out the large sheet of parchment across the worktable and weighted each edge with a smooth stone. She picked up a nub of charcoal, and then she paused, gathering her thoughts.
This project was going to be a greater challenge than she’d anticipated.
She wasn’t sure where to begin.
Instead of sketching, she surveyed the blank expanse before her and tried to imagine the battle that had raged here around the time of her birth.
The Battle of Dounarwyse was legend in these parts.
It symbolized Maclean triumph over the Mackinnons—over Kendric Mackinnon in particular, the clan-chief whose cruelty, according to her Da, had fueled decades of bloodshed.
He’d been a vicious bastard. The very reason her Da had fled his clan’s lands and settled across the border.
Bryce Mackinnon had always been happier among the Macleans.
Fiona wrinkled her nose, trying to conjure the scene she would bring to life with warp and weft.
“A blank parchment won’t get ye far,” she chided herself aloud. “Just begin … and ye’ll find yer way.”
Drawing in a deep breath, she leaned forward and began to sketch.
In the foreground, she drew the bold, solid lines of Dounarwyse itself. Beyond it, she traced the curve of the coastline and the distant horizon.
Then, she halted. It was a strong backdrop—but only that. A beginning. She still had to bring the battle to life. The sea clash itself.
And truth be told, she wasn’t sure how to sketch it.
Sunlight streamed through the open window, filling the chamber with warmth.
She was alone at last. Earlier, Lady Kylie, Lady Tara, and both Arabella and Grace had bustled in to help her settle.
They’d plied her with questions and enthusiasm until Fiona had gently—but firmly—explained that she worked best alone at this stage.
Arabella had looked crestfallen, but Fiona promised to call on her once the weaving began.
Time stretched on. The sun warmed Fiona’s back, yet still she stared at the sketch on the parchment. However, inspiration failed to spark.
Worry clenched in her chest. Curse it. Without a detailed drawing, she couldn’t begin the tapestry itself. She had to get this foundational stage right.
Murmuring an oath under her breath, she set down the charcoal and stepped back, dusting her hands. “Time to visit the rat-catcher.”
She found Tay in the cellar under the kitchen, changing his traps.
A grisly sight awaited her—two enormous brown rats, bloated and stiff. Their naked tails sent a shudder through her.
She’d never liked rodents. And these were monsters.
“Castles always draw the biggest rats,” the older man said mildly. “Plenty of food.”
Midge bounded over, its sharp wet nose nudging Fiona’s ankles.
She crouched and stroked the terrier’s head.
“Wee Midge likes ye,” the rat-catcher observed with a begrudging smile. “That’s one mark in yer favor, lass.”
Fiona smiled back as she straightened. “I was hoping to bend yer ear this morning, Tay … if ye have the time?”
He raised a brow.
“I want to hear about the Battle of Dounarwyse. In detail.”
A broad grin split his weathered face. “I was wondering when ye’d come asking. Glad ye didn’t wait too long.”
She exhaled softly. “I can’t plan without seeing it clearly in my mind. And ye have a way of describing things.”
“Well then,” he said, “let me finish here, and we’ll take a cup of ale in the kitchen.”
Fiona stiffened. She’d already faced down Essie when she’d come in search of the rat-catcher. The woman wouldn’t like them cluttering up her space. “Why don’t we walk the walls instead … ye can show me where it all happened.”