Chapter 5 Yearning for the Forbidden
THE FIRST THING Ailean focused on upon his arrival in Ardnacross was its ruined tower.
It crouched atop a knoll, north of the village, blackened and scarred by fire.
Its walls had once been stout and commanding, but now jagged stones jutted into the sky, the work of a Mackinnon raid decades past. That attack had left the tower hollow, a reminder of the violence that had passed through these borderlands.
“Ardnacross has endured much,” Rae said beside him as father and son rode along the smooth track into the village. Piper ran alongside the laird, pink tongue lolling.
Pushing hair from his eyes as the wind gusted off the Sound, Ailean surveyed the place he’d visited only the day before.
The Sound of Mull glinted like steel beneath the noon sun, so bright it hurt his eyes.
Breathing in the scent of woodsmoke, his gaze drifted to where the scattered cottages crouched beneath a pale sky.
The dwellings huddled close together, as though for warmth against the wind off the water.
Even during the summer, the wind often held a bite here.
“It sits too close to the border,” he replied. “Kendric Mackinnon razed the tower himself, didn’t he?”
“Aye,” His father answered, his expression growing grim at the memory of his old enemy. “I never rebuilt it. Perhaps I should … one day.”
Ailean snorted. “Aye, well … that’s quite a job.”
“I suppose I’ve put it off,” his father replied with a shrug. “I wished to see how things went with the Mackinnons.”
“Ye never expected them to become friends … family, even?”
“No.” Rae chuckled ruefully. “Strange, isn’t it?”
Years ago, Kylie’s youngest sister, Makenna, had wed Bran, the Mackinnon clan-chief. Bran had never been like his father—although hot-headed, he wasn’t ruled by ruthless, blind ambition. Just as well. The feud had raged for decades before Bran took his father’s place at Dùn Ara in northern Mull.
Ailean looked east then, to where the land rose gently from the shore, pasture and tilled fields stitched between low hedgerows and clusters of hardy woodland.
Alder, rowan, and scattered oaks clung stubbornly to the slopes, their roots gripping the stony soil.
Beyond them, hills lifted gradually, rough and heathered, fading into the distant mountains of Mull’s interior.
The beauty of it all made his skin prickle.
However, a short while later, that ruined tower drew his attention once more.
It fascinated him. And yet it saddened him too—a once proud holding had been reduced to nothing but a broken shell.
“Aye, well … Kendric Mackinnon wanted to ensure Ardnacross Tower never guarded our borders again,” he murmured. “And he succeeded.”
Straightening, Fiona rubbed her aching back and glanced toward the window.
Dusk had crept in. Lanterns glowed softly around her as shadows lengthened outside.
She’d worked through the day—pausing only for meals and her talk with Tay. But it was done. Her preliminary sketch lay complete.
Stepping back, she admired it. Tay’s descriptions had echoed in her ears all day. Tweaks would be needed, but now a great sea battle sprawled across the parchment. Smoke billowed from ramparts. Leather-clad warriors loosed arrows onto troops surging uphill. Birlinns crowded the bay. Banners flew.
Black and white for now—but the tapestry would blaze with color. The vivid red of the Maclean plaid, the muted forest tones of the Mackinnons—friend and foe made unmistakable.
Tomorrow, Lady Kylie would see it.
And the laird.
Her breathing grew shallow then, nerves getting the better of her, and she focused on putting away her charcoal and tidying up the table. Supper wasn’t far off, but she wanted to take a short rest in her bower before then.
However, as she turned toward the door, the clatter of hooves below drew her attention.
Curious, she moved to the window. A knot of warriors on horseback had just swept into the barmkin.
A panting Highland collie, with a curly black, white, and grey coat, accompanied them.
Rae Maclean had dismounted, broad and commanding.
A big man with short dark-auburn hair, shot through with grey.
She’d yet to be formally introduced to him, yet that would change tomorrow.
Reaching down, he ruffled his dog’s coat, a smile softening his face for an instant.
A few feet away—
Her pulse betrayed her.
Ailean.
She hadn’t seen him all day. Not surprising, for she’d eaten with the servants and worked alone.
But the sight of him sharpened every sense. And that irritated her. She’d seen too many lasses in Craignure undone by charm and promises. Left with swollen bellies and broken hearts.
She’d sworn she would never be one of them.
As if sensing her gaze, Ailean glanced up.
Their eyes locked.
Heat flooded her—swift and merciless.
And then, to her utter shame, he smiled. Slow. Knowing.
“Ye are an artist, lass.”
Rae Maclean’s words warmed Fiona to the bone.
An artist.
High praise from a man like him.
He was nothing like his honey-tongued son—stern, serious, quietly formidable.
That was why his approval mattered. She’d slept fitfully the night before in her tiny bower on the tower’s top floor, worried about her meeting with the laird.
However, she shouldn’t have gotten herself worked up.
The moment Kylie introduced her to Maclean, she liked him.
“Thank ye,” she replied. “I spoke with Tay yesterday … and he described the battle to me. But since ye fought in it, I wanted to be sure I’d not gone astray.”
Maclean’s lips curved faintly as he studied the drawing, eyes intent. Fern green, like his son’s.
Lady Kylie caught Fiona’s gaze and winked—approval already given. “The dyes from the mainland arrived,” she said then. “I’ve set aside a storehouse in the barmkin for ye … ye can use it as yer dye-house.”
Fiona nodded, impressed. Mixing and working with dyes was messy work. Indeed, she’d need a designated space for it, with easy access to water. “I’ll take a look at them shortly.”
“I’d like one addition,” Maclean said, pointing. “A pirate cog flying the ‘bloody flag’. The Blood Reaver. Alec Rankin and his crew turned the tide for us.”
“Ye’re right,” Fiona said eagerly. “That’s the perfect spot for it.”
Her gaze scanned the drawing, and she imagined the scene.
The Macleans and the Mackinnons locked in deadly conflict, with the pirates sailing in.
She’d heard of Alec Rankin—few upon this isle hadn’t.
His exploits were legendary. However, he’d left piracy far behind him.
These days, he lived in southern Mull, husband to Lady Liza Maclean of Moy.
And as she imagined the scene, everything fell into place.
Excitement tightened under her ribs. She was ready to begin.
Fiona knelt by the wide, shallow vats in the storehouse, the pungent tang of mordant and dye filling the air.
Sunlight slanted through the open doorway, bathing the skeins of wool already steeping in the rich amber liquid.
She lifted a strand with a stick, twisting it carefully before lowering it back into the bath, murmuring to herself as she monitored the color with a practiced eye.
Too long, and it would deepen beyond what she wanted; too short, and it would fade flatly. Precision was everything.
Her hands were stained by now—fingers tipped with ochre and deep crimson—but Fiona barely noticed. She added another two handfuls of wet wool and weighed them down with smooth stones to keep them submerged. She then checked the water’s temperature. Perfect.
It was messy work, yet she loved it. She was in her element here.
Over the past few days, she’d been busy getting used to working on a treadle loom.
The shift had been easier than she’d anticipated.
Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t that different from using her old vertical loom—even so, it was a relief to focus on a different task now.
The wooden vats, lined with iron, sat suspended over a glowing hearth. The rhythm of the work—the careful stirring, the dipping, the gentle wringing—was meditative, and for a while, she let herself sink entirely into it.
A horse’s squeal dragged Fiona from her reverie. A dog’s excited barking followed.
Through the small doorway, she caught sight of a groom struggling with a chestnut horse in the barmkin beyond. The Highland collie she’d glimpsed a few times now—the laird’s faithful companion—bounced a few yards away.
The horse reared, its hooves striking the cobbles, and the man’s hands were harsh, tugging roughly at the reins. Fiona’s chest tightened at the display—he was being too rough, trying to force the beast into submission. He then snarled a curse at the barking collie. “Get back, cur!”
“Brute,” she muttered under her breath. Cutting her gaze away, she shifted position on the folded sacking under her knees.
She then focused on the wool again, on the delicate shading she was coaxing from the dyes.
The rhythm of stirring soothed her, the heat of the vats warm on her skin, and slowly her mind cleared.
The horse’s panic faded from her thoughts.
Each skein she lifted, each careful twist she set into place, demanded her full attention—and that was exactly where she intended to keep it.
But an angry shout ripped her from her work once more. Fiona’s fingers froze in the dye-stained wool, her heart leaping. Turning, she looked back at where the groom still struggled with the horse. The dog had stopped barking, but the mare squealed in terror, nostrils flaring and flanks quivering.
Cursing, the man lashed her side with a stick. “I’ll teach ye to disobey me!” The stick came down on the horse’s shoulder.
Anger surged, hot and fierce, through Fiona. How dare he treat an animal so? She lurched to her feet and rushed outside. “Stop!”
Ignoring her, the groom brought his knee up sharply into the horse’s guts. The mare grunted, leaping sideways as her tail lashed and ears flattened.
The groom drew his arm back, ready to bring the stick down harder still.
However, a hand struck out, fastening hard around his wrist.
Ailean had appeared from nowhere. There was no easy smile on his face now, no warmth.
He moved in behind the groom and twisted his arm behind his back.
The groom gasped in pain, the stick clattering to the cobbles.
Ailean shoved him to his knees, looming over him now. “Use a stick on a horse again, and I’ll take it to ye,” he said, his voice quiet. Dangerous. “Understand?”
“The laird’s damn dog got it worked up. I was just—”
“There is no excuse for beating a beast like that.” Ailean cut him off. “Am I getting through yer thick head?”
“Aye,” the groom rasped. “It won’t happen again.”
“Good.” Ailean hauled him to his feet and shoved him toward the stables. “Get out of my sight.”
Not needing to be told a second time, the groom fled.
Ailean turned then to the mare. She stood, a few yards away, blowing hard, the whites of her eyes gleaming in the noon sun. “Easy, lass.” He moved close and reached out, placing a steadying hand on her sweat-slicked neck. “He won’t hurt ye again.”
The collie approached then, head low, tail tucked between its legs. The horse snorted but didn’t panic. Ailean cast the shamefaced dog an exasperated look. “Been stirring up trouble, have ye, Piper?”
The dog whined and pushed itself up against his leg, leaning into him.
With a sigh, Ailean reached down and patted the bitch’s head with one hand, while with the other, he continued to stroke the frightened horse’s neck.
Moments passed, and the mare’s tense muscles gradually eased.
Ailean murmured to her, slowly regaining her trust. The horse whickered softly, and a smile tugged at Ailean’s lips, softening his features.
“That’s it, a bhrèagha … ye are safe now. I have ye.”
Pretty one. The endearment was gently spoken.
He hadn’t noticed that Fiona was standing there, just a few feet away, watching.
An odd ache rose under her ribs. Suddenly, she felt breathless and a little dizzy. Mother Mary. No wonder the mare had quietened. No wonder the bitch fawned. What female wouldn’t under such gentle words, such a tender touch?
What would it be like to be bedded by a man like that? She wagered that he knew just where to touch and stroke, and how to make a lass forget herself.
Fiona was still a virgin. Aye, she’d had a few fumbles with lads over the years, a few lusty kisses at fire festivals, but none of them had made her want to take things further though. If anything, she’d clutched her chastity more tightly.
But for a few stolen moments, she let herself yearn for the forbidden.