The gathering at Contullach Castle was timed to coincide with the full moon, giving the clansmen the advantage of moonlight to travel, providing there was no heavy cloud. They began arriving days before, the favoured ones putting up at the castle itself, others filling the local inn, staying with family or bedding down wherever they could. Ailsa had been very busy, helping out in the kitchens as well as practising her new pieces in readiness for the festivities.
On the night of the ceilidh she asked Simple Rab to carry her harp to the great hall and place it on one corner of the dais, the chairs reserved for Fingal and his most honoured guests taking up the rest of the space. The room was filling up, voices rising as the guests greeted one another with boisterous good humour, and Ailsa had to lean close to fine tune the strings. She enjoyed these evenings; they gave her an opportunity to play jigs and reels for dancing rather than the slow and often melancholy airs that Fingal preferred.
A sudden hush fell over the room and Ailsa glanced up in time to see the Laird of Ardvarrick walk in, his kinsman at his side. Tamhas Rathmore had honoured the occasion by wearing tartan trews and jacket, but Logan Rathmore was resplendent in a blue velvet coat, heavily laced with silver, and white knee breeches. Ailsa had never seen any man dressed in such a sumptuous manner before and guessed it was the English fashion. She could not deny he looked very handsome, so much so that the breath caught in her throat just to look at him.
‘Whisht now, Ailsa McInnis, this will never do,’ she told herself crossly. ‘Get on with tuning the clàrsach and let the man be.’
She managed to adjust the strings to the correct pitch, but it was a struggle. Unusually, she could not drag her attention away from what was going on in the hall. Her uncle was in the best of moods and greeted Ardvarrick cheerfully.
‘Logan Rathmore, welcome to you. I hope you have come prepared to dance, sir.’
‘I have indeed.’
Ewan was standing close by and gave a snort of derision.
‘Can you do so, in those heels?’ He pointed to the Laird’s blue leather shoes with their red heels and silver buckles.
Ardvarrick glanced down at his feet.
‘Oh, I think I shall manage. They are very low heels, after all.’ There was a definite drawl to his voice and Ailsa thought he was teasing, although his face was perfectly serious. ‘The ladies will have to forgive me if I am a little out of practice when I stand up with them.’
He looked up as he spoke and caught Ailsa’s eyes, a gleam of amusement in his own. Now she knew he was teasing! She quickly averted her gaze and bent her head over her harp as a hot blush mounted her cheeks and her heart pattered unsteadily in her chest. It was as if he had been inviting her to share the joke.
Fingal was laughing. ‘Och, I am sure they will do that! And talking of the ladies, you will remember my daughters, Màiri and Kirstin, but there are others here you may not know...’
More guests were arriving and everyone was beginning to chatter. Gradually Ailsa relaxed. Her uncle had not noticed the look Ardvarrick had given her and now the Laird’s attention had moved on to the other ladies, those who were free to dance. Which was as it should be.
She placed her fingers on the strings and began to play softly, waiting for Fingal to give the word for dancing to commence. It would not be long now, most of the guests had arrived and servants were refilling glasses and tankards. Suddenly she realised Ardvarrick was approaching her, the skirts of his blue frock coat swinging gently against his long legs.
‘I have not yet bid you a good day, Mistress McInnis. A thousand pardons, it was very remiss of me.’
Ailsa swallowed and looked up, murmuring a reply. She could not ignore him when he was addressing her as if she was a fine lady. He was smiling at her and it was impossible not to smile back, to feel the tug of attraction. How she managed to keep her fingers moving and playing the right notes she could never afterwards understand.
‘Come, Ailsa, time to play the first reel of the evening!’
Fingal’s impatient bark brought the tell-tale flush to her cheeks and she bent her head closer to the strings.
‘And I am engaged to dance the first with your charming lady, Contullach, so lead me to her!’
She heard the Laird’s cheerful words, glimpsed him walking away with her uncle and turned her attention back to her music. Good heavens, what was wrong with her, that she should turn into a simpering miss because he had deigned to greet her? Foolish, she berated herself. Foolish and dangerous.
Ailsa watched the company as her fingers drew one lively tune after another from the strings. It was easy to spot Logan Rathmore in his velvet coat, the silver lace gleaming in the candlelight. He joined in every jig and reel, dancing with grace and agility. His heeled shoes were no impediment and although he went the wrong way occasionally, it was no more than many others on the dance floor. It amused her to see how Màiri and Kirstin were falling over themselves to catch the attention of the new Laird and how Ewan, who rarely danced, claimed Kirstin for his partner as soon as she had finished reeling with Logan.
And so it went on. Ardvarrick showed no preference for any lady, partnering old and young alike with equal delight. The perfect guest, thought Ailsa, and for the first time in years she wished that she might dance. That was impossible, alas, her uncle would not allow it.
When the initial round of dancing had ended, Logan escorted his partner back to her seat and went off to the table to collect his glass. Ailsa McInnis was still at her harp, busy adjusting the pegs with her silver tuning key. Her burnished curls fell over her shoulders and along with the tartan gown of green and purple, the colours reminded him of the varied hues of the moors and glens. She was definitely a lady of the Highlands, he thought, enjoying the pleasing picture she made.
‘You are smiling, Logan Rathmore.’ Morag Contullach came up to him. ‘I hope that means you are enjoying yourself.’
‘Aye, madam, I thank you. ’Tis a while since I attended a gathering such as this.’ He glanced towards the dais. ‘I am particularly liking the music.’
‘Ailsa is a good harper, better even than her mother now, I think.’
‘Music is a gift that runs in the family, then?’
‘Aye, and a much valued one. Contullach women are generally fine musicians, although sadly, my own girls take after me and do not have a musical ear. But Ailsa’s mother, and then her aunt—both Fingal’s sisters, you know—were harpers here for many years.’
‘And does Mistress McInnis dance as well as she plays?’
He knew as soon as the question left his lips that he had made a mistake. The lady’s response was undoubtedly cool.
‘My niece’s role at Contullach is to play the harp. It is an important post and Fingal values her highly. I am aware that many now prefer pipes or fiddles to be played at gatherings, but my husband’s family have always had harpers.’ She looked him in the eye and added, ‘Ailsa never dances, so it will do you no good to ask her, Logan Rathmore.’
He inclined his head in acknowledgement and thought ruefully that he was again being warned off. Odd, but of no matter, since he would be leaving Contullach in the morning and would not return for months.
Fingal was calling for another reel and Morag turned to him.
‘If you are free, sir, I will find you another partner.’
Logan would have liked to remain at the side of the room, listening to the music, but he knew his duty. With a smile and nod of acceptance, he drained his glass and followed his hostess.
Another hour of dancing and the room had become very warm. More refreshments were brought in, including pastries, and the assembly fell upon them, eager for their share. Logan was not hungry, but he was hot and in the crowded confusion it was easy for him to slip away. From the window he had noticed a small paved area below, edged with a stone balustrade. It had presumably been built by some earlier Contullach in an attempt to soften the austere appearance of the old castle and it would be the perfect place to cool off.
He quickly left the house and made his way around the building to the small terrace. The moon was sailing high, painting the landscape in blues and greys, and Logan perched himself on the balustrade, twisting to look out across the glen to the rising hills beyond. It was a calm night without a breath of wind. After the heat and noise of the hall it was a relief to sit quietly, away from the curious glances and speculation of so many strangers.
He wished he had not come. He scowled down at the ground, kicking at one of the weeds sprouting between the stone flags. What had possessed him to change his mind about Fingal Contullach’s invitation? He could not deny he knew the answer to that. He had walked out of the castle in a buoyant mood, his spirits lifted by the successful meeting with Contullach and the exceptionally fine weather, so that when he had seen the pretty harper tripping across the yard he had yielded to the temptation and sent Tamhas back to say he would return for the gathering, after all.
He should have realised the Contullach ceilidh would be a far cry from the elegant parties he had attended in Hampshire. Not that he was so grown in conceit he could not enjoy dancing the jigs and reels he had learned as a boy, but he did not like being the object of speculation, the women eyeing him as a potential husband for themselves or their daughters and as for the menfolk—
Logan sighed. The men regarded him as an outsider and some, especially Ewan Cowie and his cronies, looked at him with barely concealed hostility. Not that it surprised him. There had been no love lost between their families for generations and that would not change overnight. Perhaps he had been away too long, perhaps he had grown soft. He did not relish battling his neighbours and the elements to make a life for himself here.
He heard a faint rustle and looked up as a figure appeared. Even in the moonlight he recognised the dainty outline immediately. Ailsa McInnis. When she saw him, she stopped and began to turn back.
He rose. ‘No, don’t run away, mistress. I pray you, stay.’ He added coaxingly, ‘There is sufficient room out here for both of us.’ She had not moved, but at least she was still on the terrace. ‘I promise you I am perfectly harmless.’
She shifted from foot to foot, clearly nervous. ‘I came out for a little air.’
‘Yes, I did the same. We are fortunate, fine evenings such as this are rare. The weather in this damned place is something savage.’
‘It cannot be so different from Ardvarrick.’
She sounded offended and he immediately begged pardon.
‘You are right, although my home benefits from being nearer the coast.’
‘No doubt you are missing your English weather.’
‘I am. I am missing England a great deal.’ He shook off the thought and gave a rueful laugh, ‘I beg your pardon, I am being very ungracious and without cause, too, for the night air is balmy and, even in the moonlight, the view from this terrace is pleasing.’ A noise from above made him glance up. ‘Although they have now opened the window so it is not quite as peaceful here as it was.’
Ailsa moved silently towards the balustrade and looked out across the valley.
‘On a clear day one can see the full length of the glen,’ she told him. ‘It changes with the seasons, but is always beautiful.’
‘I am sure it is.’
She was quick to discern that he was being polite rather than sincere and turned to look at him. ‘You do not agree?’
‘On the contrary, the mountains and glens of the Highlands are magnificent, as fine as anything I saw on the grand tour.’
‘But you do not love it.’
‘I was very fond of it, once.’ Logan hesitated. ‘No doubt I shall be so again. In time.’
They stood in silence, each lost in their own thoughts while chatter and laughter floated down from the hall.
At last, Logan said, ‘Do you play again tonight?’
She nodded. ‘Later. First there will be poetry and song, even stories. Do you not wish to go back and listen to them?’
‘When I am a little cooler, perhaps. You play very well.’
‘Thank you. You dance very well.’
Her polite response made him smile. ‘You flatter me. I am out of practice, but I am surprised how quickly the steps came back to me. How long have you been Contullach’s clàrsair?’
‘More than four years now.’
‘Truly?’ He was surprised. ‘You must have been full young when you took up the post.’
Her head went up, as if he had insulted her. ‘I was fifteen. Many girls are married by that age.’
‘True.’ He made a slight bow. ‘I beg your pardon, mistress.’
She frowned at him. ‘Now you are mocking me.’
‘No, no, I assure you I am not! I would never mock you.’
She looked unsure and for a moment he thought she might run away. He wanted to keep her with him and sought quickly for something to say.
‘Do you not wish to listen to the poems?’ Logan cursed himself silently for his folly. He was giving her the opportunity to leave him! To his relief she shook her head.
‘I have heard them many times before and I know them by heart. ’Tis the same with the songs. But perhaps you should listen to them, Master Rathmore. They are entertaining.’
‘I am sure they are, but I will no doubt be expected to dance again later.’ He sat back down on the balustrade. ‘I need to rest.’
He was relieved that she recognised he was teasing and did not look at him with disdain. Instead she laughed, a rich, merry sound that was very pleasant on the ear.
‘And I can hear the poems from here,’ he continued. ‘I should miss too much if I left the terrace now.’
She rested against the balustrade and they listened in companionable silence while from the window above the calm night air carried a loud, stentorian voice, rising and falling with the cadences of an epic poem. Another followed, then someone began to sing. It was a woman’s voice, loud and not particularly tuneful. Logan glanced at Ailsa and saw her wince.
‘That is Kirstin,’ she told him.
‘Ah, yes. She is betrothed to Ewan Cowie. Is it a love match?’
She hesitated. ‘Kirstin certainly loves him.’
‘But it is not reciprocated?’
‘He professes to love her, but one cannot deny it will be a providential union for him. Ewan is my aunt’s nephew and my uncle’s nearest male relative. By marrying Kirstin, it secures his claim to Contullach lands.’
‘There is a lot to be said for putting such matters beyond doubt.’
In the moonlight he saw her lips tighten, as if she had decided to withhold a response. Was she not happy with the betrothal, was she perhaps a little in love with Cowie herself? He was surprised at how much the idea irked him.
She looked up at the window as a new sound issued forth, the scrape of a fiddle. ‘Ah, now old Iain is playing. That is much better.’
Soon the notes of a familiar tune floated down from the window.
He said, ‘Perhaps you would like to return to the hall and dance.’
‘I was never taught the steps.’
‘I thought all young ladies learned to dance.’
Her hand fluttered. ‘I spent all my time with the harp.’
‘That surprises me.’
‘It was not considered necessary for me to dance, only to play.’
He heard the wistful note in her voice and said upon an impulse, ‘Then dance with me now. I think I can remember the steps.’ She looked up, startled, and he held out his hand. ‘You must have seen it performed often enough and will soon pick it up.’
Cautiously she took his fingers and he helped her through the moves. She was light on her feet and quick to learn. Logan guided her around, giving the occasional word of instruction. As her confidence grew, so did her smile and with the music drifting down from the open window, they danced on in the moonlight, laughing when they made a mistake.
All too soon for Logan, the dance ended. When they stopped, he bowed low over her hand.
‘Excellently done,’ he praised her. ‘You learn very quickly.’
‘Thank you, Laird.’ She dropped him an equally low curtsy. ‘I should hesitate to try it in company, but I did enjoy it.’
When she raised her head, he could see she was laughing. The moonlight sparkled in her eyes and he felt suddenly winded. By heaven, she was beautiful!
His hand tightened on her fingers as he felt a sudden desire to kiss her, but when he would have pulled her closer, she resisted him, the laughter dying from her face.
‘Sir—’
‘My name is Logan,’ he interrupted her softly. ‘I would be honoured if you would call me by my name.’
‘I cannot,’ she cried. ‘I should not be here. Oh, pray you, let me go. I should never have come outside!’
She was genuinely distressed and he released her immediately.
‘You have done nothing wrong, mistress. I assure you.’
She shook her head. The moonlight glinted on the tears trembling on her lashes and his hands went out again.
‘Ailsa, believe me—!’
But she was already hurrying away from him.
Logan watched her disappear around the corner of the house but he made no attempt to follow her. He rubbed his chin. It had been nothing more than a dance, a shared moment of innocent pleasure. He had acted purely out of a wish to amuse her, to entertain her. What was there in that to distress her so? He remembered his sudden flare of desire. Perhaps she had seen that in his eyes, perhaps she had guessed how much he wanted to kiss her. If that was the case, then he was sorry for it. He meant her no insult and he would tell her so. He must do so, if he had the opportunity, before the evening was out.
He sat down again on the balustrade, a rueful smile twisting his lips. He could not deny the encounter had entertained him, too. He felt a little jolt of surprise when he realised it was the first time since Lady Mary had so cruelly rejected him that he had felt a spark of interest in any woman. Not that Ailsa could be likened to Lady Mary Wendlebury, whose fair beauty had been considered by everyone to be incomparable.
How could one favour wild red hair and violet eyes over golden curls and eyes like the loch under summer skies? So blue that a man could drown in them. Who could prefer a slender sylph-like figure to Lady Mary’s luscious curves? She danced like an angel, too. He remembered watching her dance the courtly sarabande, her dainty foot peeping out beneath the brocade skirts, a froth of lace at her elbows enhancing the elegant lines of her arms. All London society worshipped her.
His English friends had given up on him, labelled him a lost cause where love was concerned and they were right. Until he met Lady Mary’s equal, he would not lose his heart again. Certainly not to the Contullach harper, it was inconceivable.
He was roused from his reverie by the sounds of the clàrsach cascading down to him from the open window. Ailsa had resumed her playing, this time a merry reel. It reminded him of his duty. Logan pushed himself to his feet. He should return to the hall if he did not wish to offend his host.
He brushed his hands over the skirts of his frock coat and began to walk back, but when he reached the corner of the house he stopped and looked back at the now empty terrace. What in heaven’s name had possessed him to try to flirt with Ailsa? For that was all it could have been, a sudden desire to enjoy a little dalliance with a pretty woman. It had meant nothing, that dance in the moonlight, the touch of hands. The exchange of glances.
Nothing.
Ailsa hurried back into the hall. The fiddlers were playing their final jig and she stood quietly at the side of the room to listen. Her heart was thudding quite painfully in her chest, but that was the exertion of running up the stairs, wasn’t it? Nothing to do with recognising the look in Logan Rathmore’s eyes. A look that both frightened and excited her, arousing unfamiliar feelings that must be suppressed. She knew all about the temptations of the flesh. The minister preached of it constantly, but until tonight she had not understood how powerful a feeling it could be. To want a man to hold you, to kiss you. She closed her eyes. To do more that she could not even imagine!
A voice hissed in her ear. ‘I saw you, flirting with the new Laird of Ardvarrick.’
‘Ewan!’ Her eyes flew open and she stared into his blotched and angry face. ‘I was not flirting, I would never do that!’
‘You know what will happen if Fingal finds out you were alone with him.’
She put up her chin. ‘I came upon Logan Rathmore by chance and he—he showed me how to dance.’
Ewan’s lip curled. ‘Is that what it was? I was watching you from the window and I would call it damn close to fornication!’
She flushed and swelled with anger at the injustice of his accusation.
‘How dare you! It was nothing of the kind!’
‘Fingal will not see it that way.’
Alarm fluttered in her breast. ‘You will not tell our uncle!’
‘Not if you do as I say.’ He picked up a lock of her hair and curled it about his finger. ‘You’ve grown into a fine woman, Ailsa McInnis. I had not seen it until now.’
‘Stop that.’ She slapped his hand away. ‘You are betrothed to Kirstin!’
‘That is a different matter.’ He leaned closer. ‘Leave your door unlocked tonight.’
‘I will not!’ She heard her name from across the room. ‘Fingal is calling for me to play. I must go.’
As she stepped away from Ewan, he caught her arm. ‘Let me into your chamber tonight, or I shall tell our uncle what I saw.’
Ailsa shook off his hand. She said scornfully, ‘Do so and I will tell him of your threats!’
With a toss of her head she returned to the dais, her hands clenched so tight the nails dug into her palms as she tried to calm her rage. How dare Ewan talk to her in that way? There were rumours that he flirted with the women in the village and she had once caught him kissing Peggy, the kitchen maid, but he had never before shown an interest in her. Why should he do so now? Perhaps he thought that because she had been out of doors and alone with Logan Rathmore, she would welcome any man’s attentions. The very idea of it made her shudder.
She was a harper. It was what she was born to be. Music was her calling and to allow herself to become attracted to any man would be disastrous. Dancing on the terrace with Logan Rathmore, her pulse racing when he smiled at her, she had come close to forgetting that. She must never do so again.
Taking a few steadying breaths, Ailsa sat down at the harp and ran her fingers over the strings. She longed to play something slow and soothing, but her guests had eaten and drunk well and were in a lively mood. They cried out for more reels and jigs and she must oblige them.
Gradually, as her fingers plucked out the familiar tunes, the music worked its magic, driving away her cares. She was no longer anxious about Logan Rathmore. Why should he notice her when almost every woman in the room was sighing after him? It was only kindness on his part that led him to indulge her in a dance. Most likely he had forgotten all about it now and that was what she must do. He would be returning to Ardvarrick tomorrow and it was unlikely they would meet again for a long time, if ever.
Perhaps Ewan was right and the new Laird would soon return to England. Glancing up, her eyes immediately locked on to Logan Rathmore as he partnered a pretty young woman around the floor. One thing was certain: whether he stayed or not, it would not be long before such a handsome laird would find himself a wife and then he would have no time for being kind to Contullach’s harper.
As for Ewan, she would lock her door securely tonight and, if he carried out his threat to tell their uncle, she would deal with that when it happened.
All signs of the night’s revelries had been removed when Logan and Tamhas entered the hall the next morning, but few of their fellow guests were present.
‘I am not surprised,’ muttered Logan, when his cousin remarked upon it. ‘The wine and ale flowed freely last night. I wager there will be any number of sore heads today.’
Fingal Contullach was at the head of the table and he invited Logan to sit beside him, that they might break their fast together. Conversation was stilted, but food was plentiful, fresh bannocks served with ham, eggs and cheese, and Logan was content to enjoy his meal in near silence. However, when he would have taken his leave, Fingal invited him to go to his chamber where they might talk in private.
‘I have spoken with my kinsmen and tenants regarding the moving of our cattle,’ said Fingal, when they were alone.
‘Have you now? I thought that meeting would take place after the gathering.’
‘Aye, I had planned it that way, but those who mattered arrived early and we were able to discuss your proposal yesterday. We have come to a decision.’
Logan waited. He knew this would not come easy to Fingal Contullach, who was more used to resolving his arguments with violence than compromise.
‘We are minded to try your way, for next year,’ the older man said at last. ‘There are one or two more who need to be consulted, but I am sure they will fall in with our plans.’
Logan nodded. ‘Very well. I will get the papers drawn up and when the drovers arrive at the end of the summer they can be instructed to move your beasts with mine through the Bealach na Damh. But I give you fair warning, Contullach. This deal depends upon nothing breaking the peace between our people in the meantime.’
Fingal’s fierce eyes met his steadily. ‘There’ll be no more lifting of cattle if I can help it, Ardvarrick. You have my word on that.’
‘That is good enough for me.’
‘And you plan to bring the documents for signature in the spring?’ Fingal frowned. ‘You’ll not be thinking to travel here for the Candlemas Quarter Day.’
‘February?’ Logan shook his head. ‘Short days and foul weather make that impractical. However, Beltane should be time enough to have everything signed and sealed before the drovers arrive.’ He rose. ‘If the weather holds, though, I should like to call at Contullach again before—’
‘That you will not!’
The swift rebuttal of his suggestion caused Logan to raise his brows in surprise.
‘Oh? I had hoped we might put an end to this eternal feuding between our people.’
Contullach flushed and his chin jutted pugnaciously.
‘I am one for plain speaking, Logan Rathmore, and I tell you the ladies here are inclined to look favourably upon you. Too favourably!’
Logan felt self-conscious colour staining his own cheeks. ‘That may be so, but I assure you it was never my intention—’
‘It ain’t what you intend, man, it’s the ideas the women get into their foolish heads that is the worry! Ye’re a handsome dog, I’ll admit it, and your fancy English ways might well turn an innocent lassie’s head.’
Logan felt his irritation growing. He had spent the evening dancing and making polite conversation, as any guest should, and this was the thanks he received!
‘You may be assured I would not encourage any one of them to lose their heart over me,’ he retorted. ‘I am not in the market for a wife and so you may tell them. But I take your point, Contullach, and I will stay away until the spring. Then, if all goes well and your people keep to the bargain, I shall return with the agreement drawn up for our signatures.’
Logan left Fingal Contullach and set off to find Tamhas, who had gone on ahead to the stables to make ready the horses. When he reached the outer door, Ewan Cowie was waiting for him.
‘A word before ye go, Ardvarrick.’ The man stepped in front of him, blocking his way. ‘I saw you, last night. On the terrace.’
The tone was belligerent and Logan stiffened, sensing danger.
He said coolly, ‘What of it?’
Cowie moved closer. ‘I wanted to give you a friendly warning. Do not trifle with Ailsa McInnis.’
‘Unnecessary!’ Logan’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. It was one thing for his host to voice his worries about the women under his protection, but he would not suffer an insult from Ewan Cowie! ‘I have already told you it is not my habit to trifle with young ladies.’
Something of his anger must have shown in his eyes, for after a moment Cowie stepped aside.
‘I am glad to hear that. Fingal is very fond of his music. It calms him. Soothes his temper. He would not take it at all kindly if he was to lose his harper.’
With no more than a contemptuous look Logan went out, but his thoughts were racing. Everyone was warning him away from Ailsa McInnis and now Cowie hinted at severe reprisals for anyone seducing her. Was the lady so special, or was he merely looking for an excuse to quarrel? Logan could not decide.
‘Well?’ Tamhas asked him as they rode away from Contullach. ‘What did the old man say?’
‘Contullach has agreed to sign. Not that I doubted he would. He knows that moving his cattle with ours can only be of benefit to all his people. I have made it conditional upon matters going well between us through the winter. If there are no serious breaches of the peace, then I shall return at the Beltane Quarter Day to sign the agreement with Contullach.’
‘Good work, Cousin. This should bring a lasting accord between the clans, because ’tis in all our interests to make this work, is it not?’ When Logan did not reply immediately, Tamhas turned to look across at him. ‘You are silent, man. What is troubling you?’
‘Ewan Cowie.’ Logan frowned. ‘I cannot be easy about the fellow. I fear he will cause trouble if he can.’
‘Nay, Cowie is a hothead, but he is to marry Contullach’s daughter next summer. He will not risk the old man’s displeasure, at least until the knot is tied.’
‘I wish I might share your confidence, Tamhas, but something tells me Ewan Cowie would risk a great deal to do me an ill turn.’
Tamhas laughed and shook his head and Logan said no more. Perhaps he was being fanciful, but he decided he would maintain the patrols watching over the cattle on his land and advise his tenants to remain vigilant. Just in case.
Ailsa kept out of the way until she was sure the Laird of Ardvarrick had left the castle. She had no idea if Ewan had carried out his threat to tell their uncle, but she would not risk encountering Logan Rathmore. Even a look might be misconstrued and bring Fingal’s wrath down upon her. She busied herself in the kitchens, then returned to her room where she lost herself in her music and did not emerge again until it was time for dinner.
With most of the guests departed, Fingal and his family were seated at the long table with those that remained and the rest of his household. Ailsa hurried in and slipped into her place, murmuring an apology for keeping everyone waiting. Across the table, Ewan Cowie gave her a bland smile. Hope began to rise. Perhaps he had not said anything after all.
By the time the meal was over Ailsa was feeling much more confident. Talk at dinner had been all about the ceilidh and she held her breath when Ardvarrick’s presence was mentioned. Kirstin and Màiri declared that he was indeed a fine dancer, but no mention was made of his absence during the interval and she began to relax.
After dinner Fingal called for the harp to be brought in.
‘You will play for us, Ailsa.’
‘If you wish, Uncle.’
Màiri giggled. ‘If she can play!’ When Ailsa looked up, she added spitefully, ‘We have heard all about you slipping away with the new Laird last night.’
Ailsa looked at Ewan. His smirk told her all she needed to know and her anger rose.
‘I did not slip away with anyone!’ She turned to Fingal. ‘I went outside for a little air and Ardvarrick was already there. It was nothing more than a coincidence, Uncle, I swear it.’
‘That is not what Ewan told me.’
‘Then he lies!’ She glared at Ewan, who raised his brows at her.
‘Do you deny you were alone out there with Logan Rathmore, flirting with the man?’
‘I was not flirting! It was a chance meeting. He showed me how to dance a few steps and then I left him.’ Ewan’s sneering laugh enraged her still further. ‘How dare you accuse me of dishonourable behaviour, Ewan Cowie, when you wanted me to buy your silence.’ She turned again to address Fingal. ‘He said I should leave my door unlocked last night, Uncle. He promised if I allowed him into my room, he would say nothing!’
Kirstin gave a little scream. ‘Is that true, Ewan?’
He was quick to deny it. ‘She lies, sweeting. She is trying to shift the blame from herself on to me.’ He took Kirstin’s hand and went on, his tone as sweet as honey, ‘She is jealous of you, Kirstin. She knows I am in love with you and will not even glance at her.’
His earnest manner and soft looks convinced his betrothed. She cast an angry glare at Ailsa, who tried to protest.
‘Kirstin, I have never—’
‘Enough!’ roared Fingal. He waved towards the dais, where Simple Rab had placed the clàrsach. ‘Play me one of your airs, lassie, and we shall soon see how innocent ye are.’
With a defiant toss of her head Ailsa sat down at the clàrsach, but as she ran her fingers over the strings she was assailed by doubts. She might argue that it was nothing more than an innocent encounter with Logan Rathmore, but she could not forget the exhilaration she had felt dancing with him, the little shiver of pleasure that had run up her arm when he had taken her hand, or the way her insides had twisted when he smiled down at her. She had relived the moment over and over again. It was burned into her memory, but was that enough to destroy her gift for music? She knew she was about to find out.
Ailsa took a deep breath, clearing her mind and giving her attention to her fingers as they began to pluck a tune from the silver strings. She relaxed as the familiar music filled the room. As she played, her aunt and Màiri busied themselves with their embroidery, and her uncle leaned back in his chair, listening with his eyes closed. Only Ewan and Kirstin paid no heed to the music. They were sitting together in the corner, whispering and giggling. Ailsa lowered her head again. Far from being jealous, she pitied Kirstin. Ewan might have reassured her this time that he was faithful, but sooner or later his future bride would discover the truth.
Ailsa played on until Ewan took his leave and Màiri and Kirstin drifted away. Only her aunt and uncle remained. She finished her piece and rested her hands against the strings to silence them. Fingal was asleep in his chair and snoring gently.
‘I hope, Aunt, that you and my uncle believe now that I have done nothing wrong.’
‘Aye, we believe you,’ replied Morag, packing away her tambour frame. ‘But you must take care, Ailsa. You must always be on your guard. You know the consequences of becoming too friendly with any man, do you not?
‘I do, Aunt, and I have no intention of losing my gift for music. It is my life and I want no other.’
Fingal stirred in his chair. ‘Aye, well, don’t you forget that, lassie.’
‘I am not likely to do so, Uncle. It is Ewan Cowie who wants to make mischief.’
‘He was trying to protect you, girl. You should be grateful!’
‘Grateful!’ She gave a gasp of indignation and was about to make an angry retort when she saw Aunt Morag shaking her head at her, warning her to hold her peace.
‘Perhaps, Husband, you should drop a hint to Ewan,’ Morag murmured with a quick, sympathetic glance towards Ailsa. ‘He would do well to remember that he is engaged to our daughter and he will answer to you if he hurts her!’