Page 59 of The Violet Raven

My father has worked tirelessly since dawn, and his efforts are undeniable. The once simple space now shines with life and warmth. Each table boasts a floral arrangement that brings an absentminded smile to my face.

“They bloomed early for ye this year, lass,” my father says, appearing at my side. He traces the delicate heather blooms with his finger. “Must’ve kent we needed ‘em to show face to celebrate my wee lass.”

Heather—the first to bloom in early summer, symbolising good luck and protection. Flowers symbolise many things; beauty, renewal, patience, protection, life, death… All things that resonate with someone who values all things granted in this life.

In these particular arrangements, he used many wildflowers, but each of our favourites is present; bell heather, thistle, lavender, and of course… “Primrose,” I whisper.

“Aye, wouldnae be a proper bouquet without it,” he says with a proud grin.

“They’re sunning, Da.” My smile is one of the most radiant of warmths I can muster. He stares down at me, as if memorising every detail of my face—each line, freckle, and flicker of emotion.

“Nae, my thanks are to ye for bein’ the best daughter a man could ask for.”

“Your opinion is highly biased, Da. After all, I’m your only daughter—no great competition there.”

His serious demeanour cracks, and a low chuckle churns from deep in his chest. “Ach, lass, always givin’ me strife. Still, if there were a hundred more, ye’d still be the best.”

I nudge him playfully. “Flattery will get you nowhere, auld man.”

He raises an inquisitive eyebrow at me. “Auld man? We’ll see who’s got the energy to outlast this ceilidh, eh?”

“Usual stakes, then?” I say, shooting him a mischievous grin.

His eyes shine with amusement as he crosses his arms over his chest, his expression mock-serious. “All yer mornin’ rolls,” he declares. “Hope ye’re prepared to go starvin’!”

I laugh and give him one last playful shove. “We’ll see!”

“Better go see that yer ma needs no aid, lest I get put in the bad books. Keep out of trouble, lass.” He kisses my head and strides off, leaving me to admire the courtyard.

Lanterns, wrought iron with elegant scrollwork from my grandparents, flank each floral display. The Sinclair Clan Tartan is draped over every table, chair, and archway, completing the scene. Nearby, guests are gathering around a table laden with fresh bread, bannocks, roasted meat, and Scotch broth. The aroma is heavenly.

I turn at a burst of laughter and spot Callan near the bonfire. Before I can join him, an imposing figure steps through the archway of the portcullis.

Marcus’s broad shoulders and confident smirk command attention. He bears a sinful smirk as he leans against the heavy stone wall and crooks his finger at me, which might work to curry favour from more obsequious females, but is vexing to me given the well-known fact that I don’t enjoy being summoned by men.

However, I decide it best to smile coyly and oblige to his request, and vow to mention it later. His usual gentlemanly and urbane manner still lingers underneath the man attempting to gain my attentions.

A chill sweeps through the air as I suddenly find myself rooted in place, held against an unforgiving frame as an arm holds me tightly at my waist. The very earth holds its breath at his arrival.

Finn’s touch is protective, but as I stare up at him, I see he isn’t looking at me, but at Marcus. There’s a visible challenging possessiveness in his eyes.

“Finn,” I whisper, drawing his attention.

He leans in to murmur, in a tone meant for my ears alone. “Ye’ve no reason to obey when summoned like a sheepdog.” His eyes burn into mine, and the frustration in his tone only serves to further my aggravation.

“I don’t believe he intended it that way, Finn.” I turn away from his searing gaze momentarily to glance at Marcus, and see his focus remains on where Finn’s hand clings to my waist.

Unspoken challenge hangs heavy in the air, thick with unyielding pride between the two of them. I can feel the tension between them—Finn’s open defiance, and Marcus’ silent demand.

“My statement stands,” Finn says, words as finite as the tight set of his jaw.

“You’ll have to let me be the judge of that.” My tone is resolute, matching the hard-pressed steel of his words.

I feel his fingers flex slightly, as if realising his overstep. A flicker of something—regret, perhaps—passes through his golden eyes before they retreat from mine. Slowly, he lets me go, a grin dancing at the corners of his mouth.

It’s then that Callan makes his presence known. “Triona, come sit by the fire.” Eager to dissuade overlookers, I stride toward where Callan stands at Marcus’s side.

When I near Callan, he crosses his arms, so I decide against further conversation. “I’ll leave the three of you to sort out whatever is necessary to get through this night,” I mutter, slipping past Callan and Marcus’s towering forms.