Chapter 6 On the Stairs
“WILL YE BE joining us for Bealtunn?” Arabella asked. “It’s but two days away now.”
Fiona glanced up from where she’d been sorting through a basket of freshly dyed yarn.
The colors were rich—the deepest turquoise and the brightest emerald green.
Perfect for the sea. And for the shoreline.
Several of the sea-tones had already been wound into small butterflies and lay coiled beside her within easy reach.
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” she admitted with a half-smile. “In truth, the only thing I can think about these days is bringing this tapestry to life.”
Her gaze drifted to the loom, to the scene she and Arabella had started a week earlier.
Progress had been slower than Fiona had intended, especially during the first few days.
Arabella was eager, keen to help in any way she could—winding yarn onto bobbins, sorting colors, and untangling thread—but it had quickly become clear that she had no real skill in the art of weaving. Fiona was happy to teach her, of course, but it took up a lot of time.
They’d sat at the loom, side by side on stools for long hours, while Fiona tried to teach her to manage the rhythm of her feet on the treadles with the movement of her hands. A skill that the younger lass had still to master.
Even so, as the days stretched out into two weeks and then three, the bottom portion of the tapestry was beginning to take shape—strands of wool woven carefully through the warp using a wooden shuttle, then tamped down with the beater.
Returning to her place before the loom, Fiona paused to check the tension with her fingers before sending the shuttle through again, easing the weft at the edge so the cloth would not draw in.
“Aye, but alas, ye can’t work all the time,” Arabella said, flashing her a cheeky smile.
Fresh-faced and innocent, yet with a disarming candor, Arabella Maclean was fine company.
She was chatty but knew when not to prattle.
At eighteen summers, she brimmed with curiosity and enthusiasm.
She’d lived a largely sheltered life within the walls of Dounarwyse, but their difference in rank mattered little as they worked together.
As with Carrie—who had become a treasured companion, someone Fiona could laugh with, tease, and speak irreverently with—a friendship was also blossoming between Fiona and Arabella. That surprised Fiona, for she’d thought their difference in rank might prevent an understanding from forming.
“I never missed a Bealtunn back in Craignure,” Fiona admitted then. “I love it.” Her mouth curved. “The fires. The drums.”
“And the wine and the dancing,” Arabella said, her smile turning impish. “There are plenty of handsome lads here at Dounarwyse too. Bealtunn and Samhuinn give us a chance to meet them.”
Pushing the shuttle through the warp once more and beating the weft tight, Fiona cast her an appraising glance. Of course, a lass like Arabella would find it exciting—she’d never had the chance to rub shoulders with lads, not as Fiona and her sisters had growing up.
Fiona felt no thrill at seeing the same faces year after year. Nor did she relish slapping away wandering hands or being cornered by a lad she didn’t wish to encourage. But Arabella had known none of that.
“I imagine yer Da keeps a close eye on ye at fire festivals,” Fiona said, meeting her frank gray eyes. “He wouldn’t want any of his men taking liberties.”
Arabella snorted—a thoroughly unladylike sound—and rolled her eyes. “He’s like a guard dog at times. Ye’re right. He never lets Grace and me out of his sight.”
“That’ll be because he understands the nature of men,” Fiona replied. “And knows better than to trust them.”
Arabella studied her. “Ye seem awfully cynical.”
Fiona shrugged, rolling her shoulders slightly before returning to her work. The warmth of the sun eased the ache in her back, muscles tight from long hours of weaving. “Not cynical … realistic. There’s a difference.”
They fell back into their labor. The rhythmic clack of the shuttle and treadles, the dull thud of the beater, the whisper of wool sliding past wool—it formed a steady, reassuring song. One that had filled Fiona’s world for years. One she never wanted to be without.
“I hope one day I find a love like my parents’,” Arabella said softly, breaking the companionable silence.
Fiona smiled. She wasn’t surprised. In the fortnight since her arrival, she’d noticed Lady Tara and Captain Jack together—the lingering glances, the easy touches.
She suspected Maclean and Lady Kylie’s bond was just as strong, though more subdued in public.
Jack and Tara, however, made no effort to hide their affection.
Just the day before, she’d spied them kissing passionately in a doorway.
“They’re lucky indeed,” Fiona said. “What they have is precious.”
A crease formed between Arabella’s brows. “So, ye think it’s unusual?”
Fiona nodded, even as her chest tightened. She was only two-and-twenty, yet sometimes, she did sound like a bitter old spinster. “I’ve not seen many examples of it.”
“So, yer parents … aren’t happy together?”
The question gave her pause. She thought of Bryce and Nora.
They rubbed along, nothing more. Sometimes they argued; more often, they ignored each other.
Like two burdens forced to coexist. That sort of marriage depressed her far more than the fiery, tempestuous ones she’d seen among other couples.
Most unions among common folk were arrangements born of necessity.
A man needed a woman to keep his house and bear his bairns.
A woman needed protection. Love rarely entered into it.
And yet—like Arabella—there was a longing within Fiona. One she admitted to no one. It would have been embarrassing. She was too proud.
Still, she’d felt a pang when she saw Captain Jack pull Lady Tara into that passionate embrace. They’d kissed as if utterly alone.
Two decades together, and still like newlyweds.
It was hard not to envy Lady Tara’s good fortune. Captain Jack was a fine man indeed.
Yet the man’s resemblance to his nephew unsettled her.
Ailean.
She’d been so busy she’d seen only glimpses of him over the past weeks, but the incident with the groom and the horse lingered in her thoughts.
He hadn’t known she was watching. He hadn’t been performing.
And yet … she had been impressed.
That groom had needed to be dealt with. She broke bread with the man every day in the kitchen but found it difficult to be civil with him after what she’d witnessed; the cruelty had been unacceptable.
And though she knew better, her thoughts returned to the scene often—the gentle timbre of Ailean’s voice as he soothed the mare and settled the collie.
Each time, an unwelcome shiver of desire followed.
“Are ye cold?”
Arabella’s question snapped her back.
Curse it. She’d done it again.
“No,” Fiona said quickly. “It’s a fine morning.”
She gestured to the open window. With Bealtunn just a few days away, spring was easing toward summer. The wind had died for once, and the sky beyond was a rare, cloudless blue.
Too beautiful to be cooped up indoors.
Yet Fiona was, in many ways, chained to this loom. She wasn’t a lady free to stroll the grounds or ride at leisure. She was a servant.
And servants worked.
Luckily, the evenings stretched long now. Darkness came late. She’d take a walk around the walls and watch the sunset after her work was done.
“I suppose I’m just tired,” she said. “We’ve been working hard, haven’t we?”
“Ye should sleep after the noon meal,” Arabella replied. “The rest of us do.”
It was true. Fiona often began work alone in the afternoon while her assistant rested. The solitude helped her plan. But Arabella was right. She was pushing herself too hard. This tapestry would take time; she needed to pace herself.
“That’s a good idea,” she said with a smile. “Maybe I’ll do that today.”
Curse it! She’d overslept.
Ducking out of the doorway to her bower, Fiona dashed across the narrow landing and plunged down the spiral stairs.
She’d been more tired than she realized. After a hearty noon meal of boar stew and dumplings, she’d crawled onto her straw mattress, beneath thick woolen blankets.
I’ll just close my eyes for a wee while. Those had been her last thoughts before sleep claimed her.
When she woke and glanced outside, the sun was already sinking west.
She’d slept the afternoon away.
This wouldn’t do. Lady Kylie was kind—but she wouldn’t tolerate idleness.
Fiona’s cheeks burned.
Ye are a lazy, good-for-nothing lass. Her mother’s voice rang in her head. It didn’t matter how hard Fiona worked, or how much coin she sent home. In Nora’s eyes, Fiona would always be lacking. Always wanting.
Her cheeks burned hotter still.
If Ma could see me now, she’d crow.
So lost was she in self-reproach that Fiona paid little attention to the stairs. She flew down them—until she rounded the corner onto the second-floor landing and collided with a wall of leather and muscle.
“Oof! Careful there.” A strong arm caught her by the waist, steadying her before she could pitch sideways. “These stairs are dangerous. Ye should take more care.”
Breathing hard, Fiona lifted her chin and found herself staring into green eyes.
There was no flirtation in Ailean’s gaze now. Only concern.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I overslept after the noon meal … and now I’m late.”
“Being late is one thing,” he replied, releasing her—slowly, she noted, his fingers trailing over her waist and hip. “Breaking yer neck is another.”
She swallowed. He was right. She’d been reckless in her panic.
Some of the sternness faded from his face. “I never met my grandmother, for she fell to her death on these stairs. Da always forbade us from running.” His gaze held hers. “Mind yerself in future. Aye?”
She nodded. Heat flooded her cheeks; part embarrassment, part something far more unsettling.
They stood too close.
She could see the auburn stubble along his jaw. The flecks of moss and fern in his eyes. She inhaled his scent: leather, horse, and something spicy, like freshly sawn wood. It reminded her of her Da’s workshop.
“I will.” Her voice sounded too high.
Awareness coiled between them. The stairwell felt suddenly too warm.
Then his mouth curved into a lazy half-smile.
Dizziness swept over her. “I must be away,” she said, oddly breathless now. “Arabella will be waiting.”
“Of course.”
He didn’t move; there was nowhere to go in the narrow stairwell. To pass him, she had to squeeze by.
Their bodies brushed as she did so. Hips and shoulders.
Heat flared low in her belly—sharp, shocking—and then she fled.
The devil smite her, she needed distance. She needed to regain her scattered wits.
Ailean was dangerous, and she knew better.