“Agreed,” he replied earnestly. “I would have it no other way.”
“And third,” she concluded, her voice carrying the weight of her final condition, “should either of us find the match unsuitable, we part ways with honor, free from obligation or expectation.”
“An honorable release, should it come to that,” Alisdair affirmed, extending his hand.
“Then we are agreed,” Fiona stated, accepting his hand with a firm shake, her expression almost trusting.
“Aye, we are,” he replied.
She still glared at him, but it wasn’t as intense as when she’d first approached.
“Forgive me, Fiona,” he faltered. “I did not mean to… I’ve not considered your thoughts on this matter as I should have.”
“Ye’ll need more than gentle words and soft glances to mend this, McClain.” Her voice was steady despite the tempest raging within her. Fiona was unyielding, a fortress unto herself, and she would not allow her defenses to be breached by remorse alone.
“Ye ken nothing of what I want or who I am,” she continued. “If ye truly seek to know me, then ye must understand—I am no prize to be bartered.”
Alisdair, recognizing the truth in her declaration, nodded slowly, the weight of his misjudgment on his shoulders. He’d approached her father as he would any father. He should have spoken to her first, for she was not like any other woman. She was a warrior in her own right.
“Then let us begin anew,” he offered tentatively, aware that the path to her heart would be fraught with trials of its own. “On your terms, Fiona. Teach me to see you… not as a McAfee or a means to an alliance, but simply as yourself.”
Alisdair’s gaze met Fiona’s, his blue eyes a mirror to her own. “Fiona,” he began, the timbre of his voice betraying a rare tremor of uncertainty, “I have been a warrior all my life, trained to wield sword and strategy over words. But this moment calls for honesty, not arms.”
He paused, searching her face for signs of softening, for a crack in her armor. “I admire ye, not just for your skill with the bow or your command on the battlefield, but for the fire within you that refuses to be quenched. You’ve captivated me in ways no other has, and the thought of joining our clans… it is more than politics to me.”
“Ye speak of admiration, Alisdair McClain,” Fiona replied, her voice less steely than before, “yet ye understand little of who I truly am. What is it that ye desire? Is it the woman standing before ye, or the alliance she represents? Or is it the idea of having a warrior defend ye as ye sleep?”
“’Tis you,” he replied, each word deliberate, as if he were laying down his weapons at her feet. “Aye, I cannot deny that an alliance would benefit us both, but ’tis not my sole desire. I wish to understand the lass who can outshoot any man, who speaks her mind without fear, and whose laughter is a melody that I’ve come to yearn for, even from afar.”
“Ye yearn for my laughter?” she asked, amusement in her tone.
“Aye.” Alisdair smiled hopefully. “Your laughter, your spirit, your heart. All of you, Fiona McAfee.”
And though she did not voice it, Fiona acknowledged that perhaps there was more to Alisdair McClain than she had believed. But if he desired a marriage between them, she must observe what was there.
*
Fiona’s laughter mingledwith the rustle of leaves, a sound as unexpected as it was delightful. Alisdair stood before her, mock indignation on his face, having just recounted an exaggerated tale of a misadventure involving a stray goat and his brother Lachlan.
“Ye expect me to believe that a wee beastie outwitted all three of the McClain brothers who are here?” Fiona teased, her blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “I suppose next ye’ll be telling me the goat now sits at yer council meetings.”
“She does,” Alisdair played along, his broad shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “The creature has proven itself quite the tactician. Perhaps I should seek its counsel on how to win the affections of a certain lass.”
“Och, if ye require the wisdom of goats, then ye may be in dire straits indeed,” she snorted, her blond braid swaying as she tilted her head, regarding him with amusement.
As their laughter subsided, they found themselves standing mere inches apart, the air charged with a newfound intimacy.
“Ye’ve a way with words, Alisdair McClain,” Fiona murmured, her voice carrying a new warmth.
“Only when inspired by the right company,” he replied, his gaze fixed on her lips.
Her breath hitched slightly, as if the gravity between them pulled her closer still. And then, as natural as the wind that caressed the highland heather, Alisdair lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers—a kiss as tentative as it was tender—a first bloom of passion.
Drawing back, Fiona met his gaze, silently conversing with him. Her heart pounded like the drums of war, yet for a moment, all talk of alliances and duties faded into the background.
“Alisdair, I—” Fiona stammered. “I’m not certain ye should be kissing me yet.”
He nodded, his expression serious. “Ye canna make that a condition of courtship. It would be the death of me!”
