Chapter 17 An Unwanted Suitor
LETTING AILEAN AND Rowan continue their verbal sparring, Fiona rushed after Carrie.
Lord, the lass moved faster than a greased eel, but eventually, she reached her. At the edge of the field, she caught Carrie’s arm. “Stop. Don’t run.”
Carrie wrenched free and rounded on her, eyes blazing.
“I didn’t encourage him,” Fiona said hoarsely. “Ye saw.”
“I don’t need yer pity,” Carrie snapped. “But why must ye always rub Rowan’s interest in ye in my face?”
“I didn’t!”
“Ye did. Letting him take that ribbon.” Her lip curled. “How fine it must be for ye, Fiona Mackinnon. Two men competing for yer attention.”
Heat washed over her. “I didn’t encourage him.”
“Ye could have said ‘no’.” She looked Fiona up and down scornfully then. “I don’t understand why ye turn lads witless … but ye do.”
Fiona flinched. The words stung worse than a slap.
“Ye are just as bonnie as me,” she pointed out.
It was true. Fiona’s figure was fuller, lusher; that was the only difference.
But many a man preferred a lissome woman, and there had been times Fiona had envied her friend’s slender, elegant beauty.
Yet Rowan seemed immune to it. “This isn’t my fault. Can I help if he’s pushy?”
Carrie’s lip curled, clearly unconvinced by her argument.
Frustration erupted within Fiona then. “Ye’d let a man I’m not even interested in come between us?” She’d always hated it when lasses fought over lads. Few were worth the trouble. But she had her pride too. She wouldn’t let Carrie shame her.
Carrie made a disgusted sound and stepped back. “I was wrong. We can’t be friends … not any longer.”
She turned and walked away.
Fiona didn’t follow. There wasn’t any point in trying to salvage the unsalvageable. No, their friendship—as much as she’d clung to it in her first days here—had never been real.
Her mood shadowed now, she returned to the crowd, but she did not go to watch the racing.
At the far end of the field, she could see Ailean atop his grey stallion and Rowan swinging himself up onto the back of a leggy black courser. The horses were dancing with impatience, tossing their heads, hooves stamping the turf.
She turned away.
She wanted no more part in any of it. Her stomach still felt tight and sour from her quarrel with Carrie, and the last thing she needed was to be dragged further into that tangle.
Instead, she kept to herself.
Digging into her coin purse, she bought a small cake studded with raspberries. The sharp sweetness burst across her tongue. She wasn’t truly hungry, but the simple pleasure comforted her.
She drifted through the press of bodies and noise until she found herself near the ring where men were tossing the caber.
A heavy pine trunk lay on the trampled grass, and two competitors were testing its weight, rolling their shoulders and flexing their hands. Around them, folk shouted advice and wagers.
Tay was there, Midge weaving busily around ankles like a furry shadow. He was deep in conversation with two farmers, coins changing hands.
When he spotted Fiona, his weathered face split into a grin. “Care to join us, lass?” he asked. “A silver penny says it’s Lewis who sends it the farthest. Or do ye fancy Brochan today?”
Fiona snorted. “A silver penny is too rich for me.” Indeed, she’d just sent most of her first pay back to her ungrateful kin in Craignure; she wouldn’t waste the coin she had left on a wager.
“Wise,” Tay said solemnly. “Gambling is the root of all evil.”
His terrier chose that moment to nose insistently at Fiona’s skirts. Smiling, she crouched and gave him the last crumb of her cake. Midge accepted it before darting away again.
As the men in the ring readied themselves, Tay drifted closer, the betting finished for now.
“How’s yer great tapestry coming along?” he asked.
“Well,” Fiona said. “I’m about to weave the first of the birlinns on the sound. I made a sketch from the scene ye told me about and showed it to the laird. He was very pleased.” She smiled at him. “He said yer memory serves ye well.”
Tay huffed. “It’s a compliment indeed if Maclean thinks so. He was there, after all, when those birlinns came in. Hard days, those were.”
“Ye should come up and see the tapestry sometime.”
His expression shifted, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “I don’t usually go above stairs in the tower house, lass … not unless there’s a rat on the loose. Not sure I’d be welcome.”
Fiona gave him a quick, conspiratorial smile. “The laird doesn’t need to know.”
Before he could reply, a roar went up from the ring.
The first man had heaved the caber, but it wobbled and fell wide. Now, the second—Brochan—lifted it with a grunt, balanced it for a heartbeat, and sent it end over end. It landed straight and true.
The crowd erupted.
“Cods,” Tay muttered. “That’s three silver pennies gone.”
Fiona winced. “A painful loss.”
“Aye. And I should’ve known better. Big men aren’t always the strongest.” He studied her for a moment, his gaze sharp. “Ye have settled in here, lass?”
“I have,” she said, suddenly uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “Mostly.”
He nodded, then said quietly, “It hasn’t escaped me that ye and Carrie no longer sit together at meals.”
The words struck harder than she’d expected. She drew a breath. “Some friendships don’t last.”
“That’s a pity,” Tay replied. “We’re a small community. Makes life easier if folk don’t fall out.”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Fiona said, meeting his eye once more. “She set her heart on a lad who didn’t return it. And when he turned his eye on me instead, it was me she blamed.”
Tay grimaced. “Och … I don’t miss being young. Too much fire, not enough sense.”
“I didn’t want to lose her,” Fiona said with a sigh. “But ye can’t force someone to stay yer friend.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I’ll say this … I’ll keep an eye out for ye, lass. Even if I’m not such fine company as young Carrie.”
She laughed, and some of the tightness in her chest finally eased.
Turning, she let her gaze wander over the sea of color and movement.
On a small platform, Grace and Arabella were dancing to the skirl of a piper, red hair flying like banners as they spun and laughed.
Fiona smiled. And then, without meaning to, her attention lifted toward the far end of the field. The race was done. A rider was wheeling his horse in a tight, triumphant circle, waving a blue ribbon overhead.
Rowan. He was whooping like a boy, searching the crowd for her. Not finding her.
Fiona’s smile faded.
She had an unwanted suitor now, and she wasn’t sure how she was going to shake him.
But one thing was certain—she didn’t need her life to get any more complicated.
Shouts to her right drew her eye then.
Grateful for the distraction, she shifted her attention to the edge of the field, to where a group of men—newcomers clad in leather with vibrant red sashes—approached.
Fiona’s gaze narrowed as she studied them.
She’d seen that plaid often enough in Craignure. MacDonalds.
One of the new arrivals, a solid man with thinning brown hair, strode into the field, raising a hand high. “Rae!” he shouted.
Around ten yards distant, the Chieftain of Dounarwyse turned from where he’d been watching his nieces dance. Rae Maclean’s dark brows drew together in surprise, and he moved away from his wife, striding toward his visitor. “Callum,” he called out. “To what do we owe this unexpected visit?”
Fiona stiffened. Was this man Callum MacDonald—the clan-chief of the MacDonalds of Sleat on the Isle of Skye? An important visitor indeed.
The man smiled, the expression softening what was an austere face. “We were traveling back from Oban, and I thought … why not avail myself of some fine Dounarwyse hospitality?” His gaze swept his surroundings. “And I can see the lads and I chose the right day for a visit.”
“Ye did,” Maclean replied, although Fiona noted the wariness in his expression.
Awkward silence pulsed between them for a few moments, heads turning to watch the two men eyeball each other. And then, the chieftain roused himself, as if remembering his manners. “Well met, MacDonald. Come … ye and yer men must join us.”
The pavilion cloth snapped softly in the summer breeze, letting in stripes of gold light and the distant roar of the games. Outside, people cheered; inside, the air was thick enough to choke on.
Ailean wiped the condensation from his cup and watched Callum MacDonald over the rim.
The man sat opposite Rae with the ease of someone pretending to be comfortable.
He was broad through the shoulders, his sparse brown hair slicked back from a high brow, his expression grave.
His son sat to his left, stiff as a spear shaft, while the MacDonald captain lounged nearby, one boot crossed over the other, hand never far from his dirk.
There was a purpose to this visit; Ailean felt it in his bones.
Rae, by contrast, looked relaxed—but Ailean knew his father too well.
The lazy drape of his arm over the chair back was studied.
The smile he offered their guests never reached his eyes.
Lyle sat beside Ailean, silent, fingers tapping against his knee.
Jack had angled himself slightly between his brother and the visitors without making it obvious.
They drank. They made polite remarks about the games. They spoke of the weather, of the crowds, and of the quality of the ale. All pleasantries, skirting around the question: why was the MacDonald clan-chief really here?
Finally, Rae set his cup down on the low trestle table between them with deliberate care. “Well then, Callum,” he said mildly. “Ye have never paid me a spontaneous visit before. What is it ye want?”
The pavilion seemed to shrink.
Callum’s mouth tightened. For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then he leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “I seek friends, Rae … allies. Sensible men who understand the direction this isle is heading.”
Ailean felt Lyle go still beside him.
Callum continued, voice calm, persuasive. “Yer cousin Loch has grown … difficult. Trade routes strangled. Agreements ignored. He hoards coin and influence as if Mull belongs to him alone. That is not the way of things. It never has been.”
Heat flared in Ailean’s chest. MacDonald was telling half-truths and dressing them up as reason. His father’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t interrupt.
“I offer partnership,” Callum pressed. “Fair division. Mutual protection. Together we could—”
“Enough.”
The word cracked like a whip through the tent. Ailean hadn’t realized he’d spoken until the silence fell. He leaned forward, hands clenched against his thighs. “How dare ye insult our clan-chief?” he growled. “Loch is blood to us. Ye think we’d turn on him because trade soured between ye?”
The MacDonald clan-chief’s gaze snapped to him, marking Ailean’s presence properly for the first time since he’d seated himself in the tent.
His expression cooled. “Young men mistake pride for wisdom.”
“And old men mistake ambition for justice,” Ailean shot back.
Rae’s hand closed on his forearm—firm, grounding.
“That will do,” he murmured. He met Callum’s gaze, and whatever warmth had existed before leached from his face.
“Ye misjudged yer welcome, MacDonald. We do not sell our loyalties. Not to ye. Not to anyone. Mull has its quarrels, but we settle them as a family. If ye’ve grievances with Loch, take them to him. ”
A long beat passed.
MacDonald rose slowly. His son and captain followed. Offense radiated from him like heat from a brazier.
“Very well,” he said stiffly. “I see where we stand.”
“Aye,” Rae replied. “Ye do.”
The MacDonalds shoved the tent flap aside and stepped out into the sunlight. The noise of the games rushed back in, loud and jarring.
The flap fell shut once more, muffling the cheers outside.
Rae did not move for several heartbeats. Face twisting, he reached for his cup and drank, though his gaze remained fixed on the point where the MacDonalds had disappeared.
“Well,” Jack muttered at last. “That was no friendly visit.”
“No,” Rae replied with another grimace. “It was a measuring.”
Lyle exhaled through his nose, while Ailean forced his clenched hands open, flexing his fingers.
“MacDonald is testing the shores before he launches his boats,” their father went on. “Today, it was words. Next time …”
Jack’s lips flattened into a thin line. “We’ll double the watches. Quietly. No need to alarm anyone.”
“Do it,” Rae said. “And I’ll send word to Loch. He should hear this from us … not through rumor.”
Ailean pictured the MacDonalds walking away from the games field and climbing back into their birlinn, their pride stung, their anger banked and waiting. The summer air suddenly felt colder.
“He came looking for cracks he could exploit,” Lyle ground out. “But he found none … and he never will.”
Rae glanced his youngest son’s way then.
The pride in his eyes took Ailean aback.
Something deep within his chest tightened.
Their father had never favored him with such a look.
He’d spoken out, defended his clan-chief, yet Rae hadn’t praised him.
“Remember that, Lyle,” the laird replied, oblivious to Ailean’s reaction.
“Whatever comes next, we stand as one. That is our strength.”