Page 3 of Only a Highlander Will Do

A fairy circle could be a dangerous place or, conversely, it could bring good fortune. Fiona hoped her gift to the fairies who created the ring of mushrooms might shift their favour towards the latter. More than ever, she needed luck to smile upon her since her father had been acting very secretively as of late.

Knowing she could delay no longer, Fiona twisted her hair back into a knot and slid the combs in place. She tucked her spade back into her basket, which she kept hidden nearby, then stood and dusted the dirt from her hands on the skirt of her simple and unadorned muslin gown. The gown had once been her mother’s, but that was what Fiona liked about it; wearing the garment kept her mother’s memory close to her. She allowed herself a sentimental smile as she made her way through the heavy wooden door that used to be the entrance to the castle and exited into what must have been a splendid courtyard at one time.

Her smile slipped at the sight of her father’s herd of sheep, their only source of income, grazing on the grass that grew around the ancient stones of Ulster Castle. Fiona sighed. How she would love to restore the castle to its original glory. Perhaps in time, if her father selected her a husband with a similar temperament to herself.

She hoped to marry a peaceful man who loved a simpler life. A man who was interested in preserving their Scottish heritage and staying far away from the political tension that grew between the isle’s clans each and every day. He would be a gentle man, who smiled easily, laughed often, and gave his wife the freedoms she desired.

Her head filled with happy thoughts, and with a summertime bouquet clutched in her hand, Fiona stepped inside the dower house. With a spring in her step, she closed the door and turned, intending to head to the kitchen for a vase.

“Where have you been?” her father asked brusquely as he took two steps, then stopped.

“Out walking, Father.” It was always her response, for her father did not find maintaining one’s health to be a frivolous endeavour.

His eyes narrowed on the bouquet in her hands. “It matters not. You won’t be frittering away your time for much longer.”

Fiona clutched her bouquet a little tighter, trying to keep the dread that rippled through her from showing on her face. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I have accepted an offer for your hand in marriage.”

Fiona gasped. “Father?”

“The documents have been signed. It’s as good as done.”

She knew this day was coming, and she now understood her father’s odd behaviour as of late. She had at least hoped to be part of the discussion. Fiona paused to gather her wits before she could speak. “Might I at least hope that he is a gentle man?”

Her father frowned. “I have no idea what kind of man he is, except that he is very forceful and a little frightening.”

Her body went numb and the flowers she had so carefully picked fell to the floor as she tried to contain her horror. “And yet you accepted his offer of marriage to me?”

“I had no choice, Fiona,” he bit out. “It was made abundantly clear to me that either I allow him to marry you or we would be stripped of everything we have—including our lives.”

“I think I prefer death,” she said in a suffocated voice. For years she’d tried to understand her father, and somewhere in her heart she sympathised with his pain and bitterness. He’d lost his wife, her mother, when Fiona was only a child, and he’d never entertained marrying again to beget the male heir he wanted so desperately. “I wish you had been given a son by some means or another. But I am not to blame for your lack thereof. I’ve tried to be a dutiful daughter, to keep us in relative comfort despite our lack of funds. I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me . . .” Her voice trailed off at the hardening of his expression.

“You have no choice.”

Fiona knew her father would not be swayed by any amount of pleading on her part. So, she lifted her chin and, clinging to what was left of her dignity, asked, “Who is this man?”

“Alexander MacDonald.”

Fiona stared at him in stupefaction. “He is older than you are.”

“Not the laird—his son and future heir, Alex.”

Fiona clutched her hands before her, trying to still the alarm quaking inside her. “Please, Father, don’t make me do this. I’ve never even met the man, yet I know the MacDonalds are cruel. And Alex MacDonald has a reputation as a hellion.”

“He did not appear as such when he made the offer for your hand. Besides, it matters not. We have no means to withstand their warriors should they attack, and with scarce a clan connection to support us here on the isle, we are alone.”

“Then let us leave the isle and go to Fraserburgh and rejoin the rest of your clan. Even though we have broken ties with them. I can’t imagine they would abandon us in a time of need.”

“We cannot. My ancestors made it clear they wanted nothing more to do with me after I married your mother, an enemy of the clan. It is why we came to the Isle of Skye.”

The foyer swam before Fiona’s eyes. “Then all of this will belong to the MacDonald clan.” She motioned to the precious walls around her. She knew every inch of the panelled walls, every nick and groove in the wood.

“Not until I die,” her father said in a curt voice.

Not only would she have to marry a MacDonald, she would also be forced to leave the one place where she truly felt free to be herself. She turned her tear-filled gaze towards her father. “Please, do not make me do this. Let me stay. I will follow your every rule. I promise.”

“I’ll not bargain with you any further, Fiona. Alex MacDonald will make the rules for you now.” Her father’s tone held a note of finality.