Chapter 27 Visitors to the Tavern
LAYING THE FINAL stone on the wall he’d been building, Ailean slid back down his ladder. Reaching up, he then massaged a stiff muscle in his shoulder.
God’s blood, this really was back-breaking toil. At this rate, he’d be a cripple by the time this tower had been rebuilt.
If I ever manage it.
Aye, there were times when the task seemed just too great—when his goal to get the roof on by Yule felt unreachable.
He’d enjoyed working alongside the stonemasons back at Dounarwyse. He’d liked the simple work and the banter between the men. But repairing this tower was another matter entirely. For two long months, he’d slaved here, and progress was painfully slow.
And that in itself was a lesson to him.
It made him realize how impatient he’d been before now; how he’d ridden on natural talent and the arrogance of youth for too long. Working on this tower was truly testing his mettle.
Picking up his trowel and empty mortar bucket, he gingerly picked his way down the staircase to the lower floor. A wooden floor above now provided shelter from the elements, although he’d covered the planking with hide to keep the rain off and prevent damage while he rebuilt the walls.
Kendrick Mackinnon and his men had truly laid waste to this place.
And though Ailean wasn’t old enough to remember the blood feud between the clans, he couldn’t help but feel a stab of anger toward the Mackinnons for what they’d done here.
He held no such grudge toward Bran Mackinnon, though.
He’d met the Mackinnon chieftain several times now, for Bran was wed to Mackenna, Lady Kylie’s sister, and they’d visited a few times over the years.
He was a good man. But his father hadn’t been.
And this tower was just one of the scars he’d left behind him.
One day, it would stand tall and proud once more. And when that day came, Ailean would be able to feel pride in knowing that it had been by his own hand.
Even so, he was weary this evening. His body ached, and his throat was dry.
Moving to the table in the corner, he poured himself a cup of water, draining it in a few gulps, before pouring himself another. He then took the cup with him and ventured outside.
The light was beginning to dim, the golden dusk settling around him. Like most strongholds on Mull, Ardnacross Tower had a fine vantage point, and with the Sound looking like beaten bronze this evening, he found himself captivated by the view.
There truly was no finer place than Mull.
And whenever he’d been away on the mainland fighting, he’d felt it calling him back.
It was in his blood, in his bones, this island—but nowhere had ever felt more like home than Ardnacross.
And ever since he’d begun work here, the feeling of belonging had drilled deep into him.
Even before his father had banished him here, he’d been drawn to this village, riding out here for no purpose really, other than to find some peace.
Moving back from the tower, he turned from the view and lifted his chin, surveying his work with a critical eye.
It was hard to believe that two moons had passed, for the tower still looked in a poor state of repair. But he’d made some headway, all the same. He’d cleaned away the lichen and moss—where he’d repointed much of the walls on the ground floor—and now was beginning work on the upper floors.
With a sigh, he shifted his attention from the tower, his gaze settling on the huddle of thatch-roofed bothies below. Then his eyes found the largest of them, where smoke wreathed up from a chimney—The Shepherd’s Crook.
It had been a week or two since he’d last shown his face there.
He tended to avoid it except when necessary, for seeing Fiona just made things awkward. Understandably, she was frosty with him now, and respecting her wishes, he didn’t try to make conversation when he went. There was no banter, no flirtation. And he tried not to hold her gaze.
He’d been a fool that morning, locking eyes with her as he had.
In truth, he’d been watching for her while he’d been haggling with the wattle merchant.
In the end, he’d gotten a good price for a few bundles, which he was making into a door for the tower.
But when he’d seen her in the midst of that conversation—looking lovely in her blue woolen shawl, stray curls caught by the wind—he’d found it impossible not to stare.
And then she’d blushed.
And it had felt as if something had kicked him in the guts.
Christ. This was new. The sensation had almost felt like … pining.
How he’d wanted to go to her then, to talk to her, to ask how she’d been, to reach out and stroke her cheek. But of course, he hadn’t done any of those things.
He’d just gawked at her like some half-wit.
And it was just as well she’d hurried on.
His belly rumbled, reminding him that apart from some bread and cheese, he’d eaten little today. He’d grown leaner of late, his muscles—already honed from years of training—growing stronger still.
What he needed was one of Ewan’s fine meals and a tall tankard of bitter ale.
And what he also needed was to see Fiona.
He wouldn’t speak to her. He wouldn’t bother her. Just being near her would be enough.
He caught himself then. Was loneliness finally getting to him?
Aye, maybe that was it. He had locals coming and going to help him, but every evening and every night the walls seemed to press in, and he felt achingly alone.
It wasn’t a feeling he liked, or one he was used to.
He’d grown up around people, love, and laughter. And then, as a warrior, he’d been surrounded by other men. Being alone made him uneasy. It made him face his own thoughts, his own worries, his own fears.
And he didn’t like it much, if he were honest.
Decision made, he carried his cup inside before venturing to the well and drawing some water. He stripped off his sweat-soaked lèine and sluiced his face, shoulders, torso, and underarms.
It wouldn’t do to turn up at the tavern reeking of sweat.
Fiona might revile him these days, but that didn’t mean he had to offend her senses.
And so, retrieving a fresh lèine and tucking it into his braies, he made his way down the hill toward the tavern.
Pushing his way inside, he found it busier than usual. There were unfamiliar faces too—two lads, likely brothers from the look of them, sitting with a group of crofters, drinking ale and playing knucklebones. They were laughing raucously about something, the sound grating on Ailean’s nerves.
“Who are they?” Ailean asked Diarmaid as he slid into the booth opposite the carpenter.
“Och. Two loud-mouthed MacDonalds.”
“MacDonalds?” That immediately made Ailean’s ears prick up. “Of where?”
“Sleat, I believe.”
Ailean’s gaze narrowed. That interested him even more. Callum MacDonald’s visit to his father early in the summer hadn’t gone as the clan-chief had hoped. He wondered what these men were doing here.
He observed them. Both had hair the color of straw, with florid complexions made redder by ale. And he marked how the bigger of the two was eyeing Fiona.
She didn’t seem to notice, yet as she moved between the tables carrying trenchers of stew and dumplings and tankards of ale, the newcomer’s gaze tracked her.
And despite himself, protectiveness rose in Ailean’s chest.
“I don’t like the way he stares,” he muttered. “Did someone just give him a fresh pair of eyes?”
Diarmaid snorted a laugh. “Well, Fiona’s a bonnie lass.”
Ailean was about to reply, but Fiona was making her way toward them now. She favored Diarmaid with a warm smile, though her expression cooled when her gaze shifted to Ailean.
“Are ye ready for yer stew and dumplings yet, Diarmaid?”
“Aye, lass. Make it a hearty bowl for me.”
“And for me too,” Ailean added. “And a tankard of ale.”
She nodded curtly, turned on her heel, and moved away.
As she went, Ailean noticed the bigger of the MacDonalds stop mid-sentence and swivel to watch her. And then, the cur licked his lips. His brother leaned in and murmured something to him, and both men guffawed.
Ailean’s fingers curled into a fist beneath the table.
No, he didn’t like the look of these two—at all.
Approaching the table in the center of the common room, Fiona’s belly tensed.
She liked most of the locals who frequented this place. But the moment these two MacDonalds had swaggered into The Shepherd’s Crook, her senses had sharpened.
They sat now playing knucklebones with some crofters, behaving as if they owned this tavern, this village. They spoke and laughed too loudly, and when she placed their tankards before them, she overheard snatches of conversation that concerned her.
“We hear that Loch Maclean demands the highest rents in all of The Western Isles,” the smaller of the two brothers was saying to one of the crofters. “And Rae Maclean is his willing henchman.”
“Oh, how do ye know that?” The man brushed him off, though his brow furrowed. The tenants paid yearly rent to their chieftain, although they knew the laird of Dounarwyse collected the coin on behalf of the clan-chief.
“We’ve traveled all these isles, from Skye to Islay, and let me tell ye … yer rents are the highest. Mark my words. Maclean’s coffers will be bulging by now. I imagine he sits on a pile of gold at Duart Castle.”
The bigger of the two MacDonald brothers snorted. “Bleeding ye all dry, he is.”
Then his attention shifted to Fiona, his gaze sliding from her face down to her chest, where it lingered. He then gave her a slow, lecherous smile, and she just managed to suppress a shiver of disgust. “Ye’re a fine lass,” he murmured. “What’s yer name?”
She hesitated. Frankly, she didn’t want to engage with him at all. Ever since he’d sat down, he’d watched her like a wolf. “Fiona,” she said at last, reluctantly.
“My name’s Jock MacDonald, and this is my brother, Fife.”
“Bring us our suppers, woman,” Fife piped up, reaching for the knucklebones. “My belly’s empty, and that stew smells tempting.”
She nodded curtly and stepped back.
Her gaze flicked across the room to where Ailean sat with Diarmaid. She wondered why Ailean had chosen to sit with him. There were plenty of other empty seats, and Diarmaid was something of a curmudgeon. Beneath his gruff exterior lay a warm heart, but he did his best to keep it concealed.
Nonetheless, he was talking with Ailean now.
As if sensing her gaze, Ailean looked up.
Annoyed at being caught watching him, she turned sharply and hurried back to the kitchen.
“I don’t like those two,” she said to Eithne as she waited for the woman to serve up the bowls of stew meant for Ailean and Diarmaid. “They’ve got big mouths, and it almost seems as if they’re trying to stir things up.”
Ewan, standing at the hearth stirring a second pot, glanced her way, frowning. “What are they saying?”
“Only that the folk here are being fleeced by the laird and the clan-chief … that the folk of Mull pay higher rents than anyone else.”
Ewan snorted, his kindly face hardening a little. “Those two idiots don’t know that.”
“Aye, but it doesn’t stop the men they’re playing with from worrying.”
She paused, her thoughts returning to the summer games. God, it felt like a year ago. So much had happened since. “Callum MacDonald visited Rae Maclean in early summer,” she said. “I don’t know what happened, but he left abruptly. I don’t think the conversation ended well.”
Ewan’s expression grew thoughtful. “There are rumors that Callum MacDonald has a bone to pick with Loch Maclean. Something about a trade agreement he refused years back. I wonder if he’s trying to find new allies here on Mull.”
He cast a narrow-eyed look toward the door, where rough laughter filtered in. “I, for one, will be glad when those two move on.”
So would Fiona.
Placing two bowls of stew and a tankard of ale on a platter, she made her way back into the common room, heading for Ailean and Diarmaid. As she passed the center table, Jock called out, “Aren’t those for us?”
“No,” she said curtly. “Others ordered before ye. Ye’ll have to wait.”
Her clipped tone only made the brothers laugh, as if they enjoyed provoking her. She kept walking, though warmth washed over her cheeks. Men like this liked a reaction.
Her pulse raced as she reached the booth.
“Are those knaves bothering ye?” Ailean asked as she set the bowl before him.
The stew was one of Ewan’s best—rich with venison and soft, pillowy dumplings bobbing in the gravy.
She shook her head. “Nothing I can’t manage.”
“I’d try to keep out of their way,” he said, ignoring her coolness. “Men like those are trouble.”
She hesitated, then leaned in. “They’re spreading rumors about yer father and the clan-chief,” she whispered. “Telling folk that they’re greedy for coin.”
His dark-auburn brows rose, then drew together. He looked suddenly very much like his father. “Thank ye, Fiona,” he said quietly. “I’ll keep an eye on them.”
She nodded and turned away.
And that was when she made her mistake. Sidestepping two crabbers who were laughing over something, she passed too close to the center table. Jock’s heavily muscled arm shot out and hauled her onto his lap.
“Flirting with other men?” he growled in her ear, holding her fast against him as she struggled. “I don’t like that. Ye should have eyes only for me.”
“Never mind that,” his brother replied with a snort. “Where’s our stew?”
“First,” Jock said, reaching up with his free hand and palming a breast possessively, “I need to stake my claim.”
Fiona snarled a curse, struggling harder.
“Get yer hands off her.”
A low, hard voice cut through the room.
She froze.
Ailean loomed over them, fists clenched at his sides.
“Says who?” Jock sneered, tightening his grip.
“Ailean Maclean,” he said coldly. “Steward of Ardnacross.”
Both brothers stilled. They then exchanged a glance before Jock laughed. “Go back to yer supper, steward, and let us have our fun.”
He let go of her breast then and reached down to lift her skirts. But he never got the chance.
Ailean’s fist crashed into his jaw. Jock’s head snapped back. His grip loosened.
Fiona wrenched free and stumbled away just as Ailean grabbed Jock by the collar, hauled him up, and head-butted him. The big man reeled.
Fife leapt to his feet, shouting abuse.
Ailean let Jock crash to the floor and turned on Fife.
Fiona backed toward the kitchen, heart pounding.
Ailean moved like the warrior he was—fast, ruthless, precise. His fist drove into Fife’s belly, doubling him over, then another smashed into his mouth. Blood sprayed.
Fife staggered back, clutching his split lip. “Ye’ll pay for that,” he choked out.
“Neither of ye are welcome in Ardnacross,” Ailean ground out, nodding toward the door. “Collect yer brother and be gone before more harm comes yer way.”
The other men in the tavern were on their feet now, watching, ready to step in if needed.
Jock staggered up, dazed, shot Ailean a murderous look, and lurched for the door. Fife followed.