Chapter 18 ABLAZE #2
“Come, lad.” Essie approached then, her usually harsh features blunted by exhaustion. “Let’s find ye somewhere to bed down indoors.”
Stu nodded, but not before he cast Ailean a look that reminded him of an adoring puppy.
“Ye have an acolyte there,” Lyle noted as he approached. Like Ailean, his brother was sweaty and dusted in ash. His short dark hair was singed at the ends, as were his eyebrows.
Ailean snorted. “Aye? If only ye had looked at me that way.”
Lyle pulled a face. “I might have done, if ye hadn’t been so insufferable when we were bairns.”
His younger brother’s tone was light, yet there was an undercurrent.
They both knew that Ailean hadn’t been the easiest of elder brothers.
He’d been highly competitive and insecure.
His wild nature had often clashed with Lyle’s steadiness.
He was ashamed to admit it, but he’d bullied the lad often.
If their positions had been reversed, he wasn’t sure he’d be fond of his elder brother.
He recalled then the look their father had given Lyle earlier that day.
The fierce pride in his eyes.
Did Rae Maclean wish Lyle were his firstborn?
Essie departed with Stu, and Lyle moved off too, disappearing back inside the tower house to find his bed and make the most of what remained of the night.
Meanwhile, the laird oversaw his men as they lay wet sacks on the roofs around the other buildings inside the barmkin. Just in case the heat from the smoldering ruin of the bakehouse or the badly damaged kitchen caused any further problems.
One by one, everyone left the barmkin, including his father.
But Ailean remained. He, too, had worked hard to ensure the fire was well and truly out, but now, he leaned against the wall on the northern edge of the barmkin.
Unlike the other residents of the castle, the fire had roused something in him.
It made him feel truly alive. The heat, the danger, had awoken the same sensations as when he strode into battle, swinging his broadsword and facing down the English.
In the aftermath, it was difficult to settle.
Every sense was alert. Coiled energy filled him.
After the tense meeting with the MacDonalds, his first thought had been that they were responsible for the fire. However, his gut told him it was more likely to have been an accident. Kitchen or bakehouse fires were common; it was why they built them separately from the tower house.
Restlessness continued to churn through him, seeking an outlet. He felt like leaping onto Sgòth’s back and galloping into the night, risking his neck on the narrow coastal path at a gallop.
He wouldn’t do such a thing though, for he wouldn’t put his loyal stallion’s life at risk either.
Even so, he knew he wouldn’t be able to return to his bed and sleep. He was too stirred up.
Meanwhile, Fiona had busied herself in putting away the pails that had been used to put out the fire. Some of them had been taken from her dye-house.
He tracked her as she made a few trips from the well to the timbered building, his gaze lingering on the gentle sway of her hips.
The golden light of the torches that hung on chains from the nearby walls clung to her; it highlighted the creaminess of her skin and the lustrousness of her hair. And those sinful curves.
Hunger stirred in the pit of his belly.
No, he didn’t want to return to his bed. He wanted to lose himself in this woman.
And so, as she disappeared inside the dye-house once more, with the last of the pails, the glow of a lantern emanating from the open doorway, he pushed himself off the wall and followed her.
A few yards distant, in the shadow of the barracks, Rowan Maclean watched the laird’s firstborn disappear into the dye-house, watched as the door whispered shut behind him.
Shite-eating bastard.
Rowan balled his hands into fists at his sides, clenching hard.
He should have known. All the signs had been there over the past six weeks.
He’d seen Ailean dance with Fiona at Bealtunn. He’d witnessed the way he flirted with her. And the way the lass blushed sometimes when Ailean’s gaze met hers.
Lucifer’s balls, he was a fool.
Here was he, pining after her, while all this time, she’d been spreading her legs for someone else. Someone he could never compete with.
Rowan’s fingers tightened, his joints creaking now. He paid the discomfort no mind. All he could feel was burning humiliation.
Ailean always got the lasses. They flocked to his good looks and boyish grin like wasps to honey. He shone like the sun, casting all other men into shadow. It didn’t matter that he’d never wed the likes of Fiona Mackinnon, or that Rowan’s intentions regarding the lass were real.
All that mattered was that Ailean had his conquest.
Rowan’s throat started to ache. He’d lingered in the barmkin once the fire had been dealt with, waiting as one by one, the residents all departed.
He’d watched Fiona, awaiting his chance to be alone with her.
He intended to pour his heart out; to admit that she consumed his thoughts.
That he wished to woo her, to make her his sweetheart and maybe, one day, his wife.
But Ailean had just shattered his plans.
Bitterness stung the back of his throat, and his gut started to burn.
Ailean had sailed through life. He’d returned from fighting the English with barely a scratch upon him. He’d one day inherit all of this, would wed a fine lady, and rule. They were friends, yet there had always been a part of Rowan that resented Ailean for the luck he lived by.
He was a smug prick.
Not for much longer.
Rowan stepped out of the shadows and moved toward the tower house.
Maclean shall hear about this.