Chapter 7 The Drums of Bealtunn
THE CLATTER OF hooves made Ailean glance up.
He had been checking Sgòth’s legs, ensuring no swellings or windgalls were forming. He pushed the stallion hard on their rides and would not risk lameness through neglect.
But Sgòth was no longer his focus.
The company that had just passed beneath the portcullis and drawn their horses up a few yards away claimed his full attention. Surprise filtered up before a grin broke free. “Ye rogues …” He straightened. “What are ye doing here?”
“Thought we’d pay ye a surprise visit for Bealtunn.” A tall, sun-browned warrior with wavy dark hair vaulted from his chestnut stallion and strode toward him.
They clasped forearms in the customary warrior’s greeting before Ailean yanked Craeg into a rough embrace. “It’s been too long.”
“Indeed, it has,” the Chieftain of Moy replied. He gestured toward a tall, slender woman seated atop a bay garron, her dark hair braided neatly down her back. “I’ve been promising Hazel a visit for some time,” he said. “She’s never seen Dounarwyse.”
Hazel gazed about her with open curiosity. Though she had been wed to Craeg for over eight months now, all of this was still new to her—the keep, the bustle, the weight of clan life. Until recently, she had lived quietly near Lochbuie, a herb-wife in the oakwood beyond Moy.
Ailean, if he were honest, thought his friend a fool. Craeg had been dragged back to Mull and into responsibilities he had never wanted, bound into a betrothal he had resisted—until Hazel. She had undone him utterly, nearly costing him his relationship with their clan-chief.
Ailean didn’t understand why Craeg would risk everything for a woman, especially one from such humble origins.
Even so, he liked Hazel. She was spirited yet steady. In the months following, she’d proven herself a fine chieftain’s wife. Maybe Ailean needed to eat his words. “Ye’re welcome here, Lady Hazel,” he greeted her with a nod.
“Thank ye, Ailean,” she replied warmly.
“And we even managed to drag this grumpy bastard out of Duart,” Craeg added, nodding toward the final rider.
Tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair pulled back at his nape and a short beard shadowing his jaw, Greig sat rigidly astride his horse.
“Craeg nags like a fishwife,” Greig muttered. “It was either ride with him or lose my hearing.”
Craeg snorted, though concern now shadowed his gaze. “A bit of levity would do ye good.”
Greig shot him another dark look.
A woman emerged from a building—one of the old stores that had been converted into a dye-house—a basket of cerulean wool under one arm. Her unruly mane of golden curls, pulled away from her face today, tumbled down her back.
Ailean’s gaze immediately snapped to her.
He found it impossible not to stare at Fiona whenever she crossed his path.
Nearly a month had passed since her arrival at Dounarwyse, and his initial interest in her was growing, especially since their collision on the stairwell a few days earlier.
The feel of her soft body in his arms, the scent of rosemary that enveloped him for a few moments, had sent a jolt of desire straight to his groin.
There was no doubt about it—the woman fascinated him. She was proud and reserved, yet with the body of a siren. And he hadn’t imagined the way her pupils dilated at his closeness—or how her lush breasts had risen and fallen sharply. He’d been near enough to get a glimpse down her deep cleavage.
She glanced his way then, her spine stiffening when she caught him looking at her.
A heartbeat later, a faint blush rose to her cheeks. She then cut her attention away and hurried toward the entrance to the tower house.
Ailean tracked her, his gaze lingering on the gentle sway of her hips as she walked.
He’d always enjoyed the thrill of the chase.
He liked having to ‘earn’ a lass. Fiona Mackinnon appeared determined to resist him, yet she was weakening.
He could sense it. Excitement quickened in his gut.
The woman was becoming something of an obsession.
He should leave her be, he knew it—for his father had made it clear his sons weren’t to swive any of his servants—but something about her captivated him.
“Some things never change, I see.” Greig’s voice drew his attention. “Still looking for somewhere to stick yer rod.”
“Watch yer mouth in front of Hazel,” Craeg growled.
Meanwhile, Ailean stilled, his eyes narrowing. Teasing was one thing, yet his cousin had just overstepped. “Bitterness doesn’t suit ye, Greig,” he replied, his tone chilling.
His friend merely shrugged, although Ailean marked the aggression simmering in his eyes.
These days, Greig appeared at war with the world.
They’d both fought together at Murray’s side, both helped the Guardian of Scotland gain victory, but Greig had paid a high price while Ailean had returned home a hero.
It caused tension between them that had been absent before.
Ailean decided he wouldn’t take things further. Stepping back from Sgòth, he signaled to a lad to take his stallion back into the stables. “Ye’ll all be thirsty after yer journey. Join me in the hall for an ale.”
“I thought ye’d never ask,” Craeg replied, helping Hazel down. He hesitated before stepping toward Greig.
“Try to help me, and I’ll knock yer teeth down yer throat,” Greig growled.
Craeg halted, brow furrowing. “Have it yer way.”
Greig swung his leg over the pommel, twisted, and slid to the ground—but his weight faltered. His right leg buckled, and he sprawled backward onto the cobbles.
In an instant, Ailean and Craeg were there, hauling him upright.
“Get off me,” Greig snarled, shoving them away. “I don’t need help.”
“I’d say ye do,” Ailean replied evenly. “And being proud about it only makes ye look like a fool.”
Greig’s face flushed dark with fury.
Ailean hadn’t seen Greig since Samhuinn the year before—four months after he’d taken the injury. He’d hoped he might rally, yet the English blade that had laid Greig open from hip to knee had changed him. Pride had curdled into bitterness.
Wordlessly, Craeg fetched the wooden stick lashed behind the saddle and handed it over.
Greig snatched it, wincing as he leaned his weight onto the crutch. His gaze cut to Ailean—dark, sharp, full of pain. “So,” he ground out, “how about that ale ye promised?”
Fiona drew her woolen shawl tighter as she walked down the causeway leading from the castle toward Dounarwyse village.
Summer was nearly upon them, but the night air still carried a coastal chill.
“Isn’t the bonfire magnificent?” Carrie asked, gesturing toward the great blaze crowning the hill south of the clustered stone bothies. “And the drums have started.”
They had—the steady thud of calfskin drums rolled through the night, mingling with the shrill whistle of a few simple flutes. The music called folk from hearth and field alike. Though the people of Dounarwyse now worshipped God in the kirk, they still clung to the old ways too.
From a distance, Fiona could almost imagine black-robed druids circling the flames. Her skin prickled.
Torches bobbed as a small group of villagers gathered around the blaze, calling out blessings to the land and livestock.
Some of the lads and lasses were taking turns leaping over the smoldering embers at the fire’s edge, hands linked, their laughter echoing over the hillside.
Bairns, wee Stu among them, ran about with little garlands of hawthorn and daisies, trailing them in the smoke-scented wind.
Many lasses wore wreaths of wildflowers atop their heads, as did both Fiona and Carrie.
These fire festivals were woven into life here, just as they were in Craignure.
Craignure. She hadn’t thought of home in a while now.
She’d been so busy that she rarely dwelled on what she’d left behind. Nonetheless, a tug of guilt occasionally pricked her, and it did now.
“Ye are looking severe for such a festive eve?” Carrie observed.
“I was thinking of my family,” Fiona replied. “My sisters drink too much mead and make spectacles of themselves at Bealtunn.”
She hadn’t been thinking about Maisie and Cate’s wild behavior at all.
Instead, she was wondering how her family fared.
Money would be tight. Lady Kylie was due to hand over her first pay the following day, and Fiona had decided to send most of it home.
If she were honest, to do so irritated her—for she’d sworn she’d let her sisters pay their own way—yet she didn’t want them to think she was selfish.
The coin would see them right. She didn’t expect any gratitude. Ever since her arrival at Dounarwyse, she’d heard nothing from them.
Carrie laughed as they joined the throng. “Do ye miss yer sisters?”
Fiona shook her head. “I’m much older than Maisie and Cate. Ma had me young … she always complained that I ruined her life … that I was the reason she had to marry Da.”
Carrie winced, although Fiona shrugged. “She can say worse.”
“Ye did well to get out then.”
“I did.”
They walked on, linking arms as they climbed the hill to where men and women still danced around the roaring fire, spinning in wide circles. Their cries, mingling with the pounding of the drums, were primal. Almost sensual.
Halting before the bonfire, Fiona found herself entranced by the dancing and the steady thud of the drums.
The rise and fall of lowing intruded then as farmers herded cattle through the fire’s smoke, a blessing for prosperity and fertility.
Women and men carried jugs of warmed mead, pouring it into wooden cups for revelers.
Honey cakes, oatcakes, and buttered bread were offered freely, and Fiona helped herself to a cup of mead and a honey cake, as did Carrie.
These treats were her favorite things about Bealtunn.
“Ye’ve got honey on yer cheek,” Carrie pointed out when Fiona was halfway through her cake.
Fiona flashed her a grin. “And ye have crumbs all over yer bodice.”
Carrie giggled, brushing at her kirtle. “A fine pair we are.”
Fiona spotted the laird and lady across the fire then.
Standing arm in arm, heads bent together as they talked, they made a handsome couple.
A few yards away, Captain Jack and Lady Tara watched the revelry.
Their eldest daughter, Grace, was with them, though not Arabella.
The poor lass had been struck down with a nasty cold the last few days, leaving Fiona to work alone at her tapestry.
Fiona’s attention lingered on the Macleans a moment longer, and then, without meaning to, her gaze searched the crowd.
She didn’t see him.
Disappointment stirred before she scolded herself. Goose! Why was she seeking Ailean out?
“Look … the clan-chief’s son is here.” Carrie tugged at her sleeve. “Although he looks as if someone just pissed in his porridge.”
Fiona turned—and her gaze landed on Ailean.
He stood with a tall man with tanned skin and a thick mop of dark hair, and a willowy woman wearing a fine blue surcote.
The Chieftain of Moy and his wife. Another man had joined them, leaning heavily on a stick, his face set in a deep scowl.
Fiona had heard enough whispers around the kitchen table to know that this was Loch Maclean’s firstborn.
“Greig Maclean hasn’t been making himself popular with the servants, I can tell ye,” Carrie said, leaning in. “This morning, Dora fled his chamber in tears. She was rousing the hearth and saw he was having trouble getting out of bed. She tried to help him, but he snarled at her.”
Fiona murmured something in response, though her eyes skimmed over the group. Aye, she’d heard how bad-tempered the clan-chief’s son was. However, she found it hard to concentrate on anyone except Ailean.
Firelight gilded his wild auburn hair. His loose linen lèine was open at the throat. He threw back his head then and laughed at something the Chieftain of Moy had just said, and her breath caught. No man should be so comely. It wasn’t fair.
Dizziness swept over her, a sensation as if she were falling.
Lord, what was the matter with her? Had the excitement of her new life, of this Bealtunn eve, addled her wits?
Ailean moved away from his father’s guests then, meeting Rowan, who handed him a cup of mead. The two men stood talking before the laird’s son gave his friend a playful shove. Fiona’s pulse kicked hard. She tore her gaze away, taking another bite of honey cake without tasting it.
Restlessness quickened inside her. I shouldn’t have come, she berated herself. I should go. Now … before he sees me. But her feet remained glued to the ground.
Next to her, Carrie had gone silent. Fiona stole a sidelong glance at her friend, noting the way her gaze followed Rowan.
“Why don’t ye ask him to dance?” she suggested, relieved to focus on something else besides Ailean.
Carrie flushed. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not? Lasses ask lads to dance all the time … there’s nothing wrong with it.”
Carrie’s lips thinned as she shook her head. Despite her confidence and ease among friends, she seemed loath to let Rowan know she liked him.
“Go on,” Fiona urged gently. “He seems like a good-natured lad … I’m sure he won’t mind if a bonnie lass approaches him.”
Carrie’s blush deepened, and she shot another nervous glance across the crowd—past where Tay the rat-catcher helped himself to four honey cakes, one of which he fed to his terrier. “Maybe I won’t have to,” she murmured. “They’re coming this way.”
Fiona followed her gaze. There he was—Ailean, heading straight toward her, Rowan walking at his side.
Shite. Fiona hurriedly wiped at the honey on her cheek.
She knew, as nerves fluttered beneath her ribs, that this was not an evening when she should be anywhere near the laird’s son.
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.