“Well, she’s forgivenme.”
“Aye, but ye don’t have to sound so pleased about it.” He pulled a face then. “Yer crime wasn’t as great as mine.”
“No,” Diarmaid said, a sly look creeping across his face. “But then, the lass doesn’t pine for me.”
Ailean choked on the mouthful of ale he’d just taken. When he’d finished coughing, he shot Diarmaid a sharp look. “Ye do talk rot.”
The carpenter shrugged. “Do I? I spend some time with the lass, ye know?”
He did, and Ailean couldn’t help the spike of jealousy that followed. He had to content himself with the occasional glimpse of the woman he wanted. Always from a distance. Always fleeting.
But Diarmaid here—the smug prick—spent every day working next door to her. They likely took meals together, and when Ailean had accompanied Lady Kylie down to speak to Fiona, he’d noted how much tidier the garden was looking.
Fiona had become an entrenched part of Diarmaid’s life.
Not his.
“Good for ye,” Ailean said tersely, wishing he’d taken a seat elsewhere tonight. He liked Diarmaid well enough, but this evening, the man chafed at him.
He’d been busy ever since his father’s visit, and he’d also found a strange peace after making things right with his family. He didn’t like being at odds with them. It pleased him to know he would still be serving his father—and in an important way too. It came as a relief too that his brother respected his decision to remain here and allowhimto take the title. They both knew Lyle would make an excellent laird.
But underneath it all, Ailean suffered.
He kept busy—too busy sometimes. He fell into his bed exhausted each night. It was easier that way, because when he had time to think, his thoughts always drifted to Fiona.
But it was hopeless, for the lass reviled him.
And now, Diarmaid was blethering on about her, unwittingly twisting the knife.
Ailean just wanted to change the subject.
“Fiona’s usually a sunny lass,” Diarmaid went on, choosing to ignore his companion’s glower. “But over the past weeks, her light’s dimmed. She doesn’t smile often. I catch her with a faraway look in her eye. I thought when the loom arrived a week ago, she’d perk up. But if anything, she’s grown sadder.”
Ailean’s belly clenched. “That doesn’t mean she’s pining, ye fool,” he growled. “It just means I hurt her badly.”
“Take the wool out of yer ears, man. I was wed for over five-and-twenty years, and I can tell ye … I understand women better than ye ever will.”
Ailean snorted and was about to tell Diarmaid that letting lust muddle his wits was what had led him to spill secrets to Beth—but he didn’t get the chance. Diarmaid had the bit between his teeth now. “The lassispining,” he insisted. “Forye.”
Ailean’s heart began to pound, a sensation close to panic clawing its way up his chest.
“Ye have no proof,” he muttered.
“I don’t need it,” Diarmaid countered. “My gut tells me so.”
34: WRITTEN ALL OVER YER FACE
EITHNE PLACED THE tankard of ale in front of Fiona. “Drink up. Ye look like ye need it.”
Fiona eyed her. “Do I?” She huffed softly.
“Well, I do, at least.” Eithne settled into the chair opposite her with a sigh. “That’s better.” She lifted her own tankard and took a gulp.
It was a familiar scene, the two of them sitting by the glowing hearth. The common room was empty now, for it was late, and apart from the crackle and pop of embers, all they could hear was Ewan—the clank of iron pots and the thud of wooden trenchers as he finished tidying up. It was a routine Fiona had grown used to, one she’d come to look forward to. A quiet moment between two friends every evening.
However, the probing look in Eithne’s eyes made her want to raise her shields.
“Saturday nights are always the busiest,” Fiona said lightly. “No one has to rise early tomorrow.”
