Chapter Three
Fiona nocked anarrow to her bow with practiced ease. A hush had befallen the onlookers, their breaths caught in anticipation. With the precision of a seasoned warrior, she drew back the string, anchoring it firmly against her cheek. The world narrowed to the target. The silence stretched, taut as the bowstring in her grasp. Then, release. The arrow flew true, slicing through the chilly air and embedding itself squarely in the bullseye.
The crowd erupted into cheers, yet amidst the cacophony, one figure remained silent, his gaze locked upon the archer with an intensity that bordered reverence. Alisdair McClain observed the flight of Fiona’s arrow with a warrior’s focus, noting not just the outcome but the elegance of her form, the unwavering determination set upon her striking features. Admiration flooded him, mingling with a curiosity that went beyond the mere appreciation of her prowess.
Alisdair stood slightly apart from the crowd. His piercing blue eyes, so often assessing strategies and opponents, now studied Fiona as though she were a fascinating enigma to unravel. The formal tenor of the gathering did little to mask the deep captivation that took hold of him. The very air around Fiona vibrated with her strength and spirit.
A tether pulled at Alisdair’s senses, urging him closer to the source of his intrigue. He observed, almost wistfully, the way her long blond hair, bound in a practical braid, had a few rebellious strands that danced with the morning breeze.
There was an undeniable pull, a gravitation toward a woman who held her own with such fierce independence. For Alisdair, whose life was a constant balance between duty and personal desire, Fiona represented an alluring challenge. She was a force, a flame, and he could not help but wonder what warmth or burn might come from drawing too near.
And it didn’t help that she wasn’t a troll at all, but a truly beautiful woman—one who made him want to move closer and get better acquainted with her.
Her next shot was equally as impressive. Alisdair smiled despite the gravity of his usual demeanor. He was witnessing excellence, and it stirred something within him—a yearning to understand the mind that guided the hand so steady and sure.
In the lull that followed, as Fiona prepared for another arrow, the whispers of political machinations and the weighty expectations placed upon his shoulders momentarily lightened. Watching her, Alisdair found himself longing for a reprieve from the constant talks of alliances and power—a reprieve he scarcely knew he craved until that very moment.
Alisdair wasted no time before approaching Laird Duncan McAfee. “Laird McAfee,” Alisdair began, “I’ve watched your daughter, Fiona, with great admiration. I’m very impressed by her ability with a bow and arrow.” He paused. “I seek not just her hand for the unity it might bring between our clans, but to understand the mind behind such strength. To cherish her, if she would have me.”
Laird Duncan’s gaze, sharp and discerning, assessed Alisdair’s earnest expression. “You speak of desires beyond duty, young McClain,” Duncan replied. His words were measured, betraying none of the turmoil that surely roiled beneath the surface. “Such matters are not decided lightly.”
“No, they are not,” Alisdair agreed. “But I would like to approach her with the thought of marriage between us.”
The laird nodded slowly, the subtle lift of his brow granting silent acknowledgment of Alisdair’s plea before turning his attention back to the archery range where his daughter still stood with her sisters. “I have promised Fiona she will have a say in whomever I choose as her husband. Ye may get acquainted with her, but understand that no decision will be made today.”
Fiona overheard the last fragments of their exchange as she was about to take another shot, her arrow poised unflinchingly on the string. Her heart beat with the rhythm of rebellion against the notion of being bartered like some prize steed, though just the day before, she’d agreed with her grandmother that she must remember her place when it came to marriage. After a swift release, her arrow sliced through the air, hitting its mark with a resounding thud. Yet her smoldering indignation overshadowed her satisfaction at the bullseye.
Clenching her fists at her sides, she prickled with anger. Her rage made its way up her arms. Her blue eyes, mirrors of the turbulent sky above, flashed fiercely. She gritted her teeth against the injustice. She had been given more freedom than most women, and she wanted to keep that freedom. It didn’t matter that the man discussing her hand with her father was the very man she’d get to know.
“Used as a pawn in a game where I control neither board nor pieces,” she muttered, rebelling against the tradition and expectation that threatened to drown her aspirations.
Fiona McAfee would not be maneuvered so easily. She would meet this challenge as she did all others—with a keen eye and a steady hand, ready to assert her place not as a mere piece to be moved at whim.
With the echo of her arrow’s impact still ringing in the glen, Fiona’s ire coalesced into a force as formidable as her archery. She strode across the field, each step a defiant drumbeat against the earth. Her eyes blazed. The crowd parted for her as if she were the blade of a claymore cutting through the air—a warrior on a battlefield of her own making. She had expected more from Alisdair from the mere glimpse she’d caught of him, but she knew that much was her own fault. She hadn’t gotten acquainted with him, and had assumed he would see her and desire more than a political alliance.
Alisdair, who had been conversing with a group of his clansmen, turned to see her walking toward him. His gaze met Fiona’s. There was no mistaking the fervor that propelled her. He straightened himself, his stance mirroring the readiness of one versed in the art of war. Yet it was not a physical confrontation that awaited him.
“Alisdair McClain,” Fiona began resonantly and commandingly, arresting the attention of all who stood near. “Ye think to propose a union with me as though I’m naught but land to be claimed or a title to be secured?” She reached out and poked him in the middle of his chest, unsurprised at his thick muscles.
Alisdair’s brow furrowed, taken aback by the intensity of her challenge. “Fiona, your valor is known far and wide—”
“Ah, my valor,” she scoffed, her sarcasm sharp as a dirk. “A convenient trait, I suppose, when it suits the ambitions of men.”
He held her gaze, recognizing the fierce intellect behind her words. “I sought only to express my admiration for you, not to reduce ye to a mere—”
“Admiration?” Fiona tilted her head. “Is that what ye call it? Forgive me, I mistook it for an attempt to secure an alliance through marriage without so much as asking for me consent.” She put her hands on her hips and glared up at him.
The corners of Alisdair’s mouth twitched, betraying his appreciation for her despite the gravity of the discourse. “I’ve underestimated the depth of your spirit, Fiona. Let it not be said that Alisdair McClain does not recognize the worth of a true partner.”
“Then regard me as such,” Fiona demanded, her tone softening ever so slightly, inviting a truce. “Not as a pawn, nor a prize, but as an equal. If ye truly wish to know me, do so on my terms.”
“And what might those be?”
“Firstly,” she began, a mischievous glint appearing amidst the storm in her eyes, “ye’ll cease these covert discussions with my father about our future and speak to me directly. After all, ’tis I who would be standing beside ye, and sleeping beside ye, should such a future come to pass.”
“Fairly spoken,” Alisdair conceded, a smile gracing his lips. “And I must say I do like the idea of sleeping beside ye.”
“Secondly,” Fiona continued, emboldened by his acquiescence, and willing to ignore his racy comment, “any courtship shall be genuine. No pretenses of duty or power—just Fiona and Alisdair, learning the measure of each other.”
