“Fiona?”
She looked up to see Ewan standing in the kitchen doorway, a drying cloth in his hands, alarm flaring in his eyes.
“She’s fine, love,” Eithne said quickly, waving him away. “Just give her a moment.”
Fiona was grateful for that. The tears flowed freely now, scalding. Eithne laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, saying nothing, just letting her know she was there.
Eventually, the tears slowed. Her throat was raw, her head aching.
Fiona lifted her chin. Eithne’s eyes were bright with tears too, but she smiled softly. “I think we both know what ye must do now,” she said, squeezing her shoulder. “Go to him.”
The sound of knocking ripped Ailean from his sleep.
Disoriented, he sat up, squinting into the darkness. The tower creaked around him, wind worrying at the stones like restless fingers. The fire in the pit had burned low, casting a faint red glow across the pavers. Another knock sounded, heavy and urgent.
He frowned.
It was late. No one should be climbing this hill at such an hour.
Wordlessly, he rolled out of bed, pushed aside the curtain that surrounded his sleeping area, and padded across the ice-cold pavers toward the door. Along the way, he hauled on his braies and seized the iron poker from beside the fire. After the MacDonalds’ attack, he wasn’t taking chances.
He halted before the doorway, body coiled. “Who is it?”
“Ailean,” a woman’s voice traveled through the wood. “God’s teeth. It’s freezing out here. Let me in.”
His breath caught.
Fiona?
He slid the heavy iron bar free and dragged the door open. And there she stood—a cloaked figure against the wild, wind-torn darkness. In one hand, she carried a lantern, the flame inside guttering violently.
“What the devil are ye doing out here on such a night?” he demanded.
“Can I come in?” she gasped.
Her voice was strained, and alarm thudded into his chest.
He stepped aside at once. She slipped inside, pushing her hood back, her gaze flicking to the poker in his hand. Her eyes widened.
He grimaced and offered a sheepish smile. “A knock at this hour makes a man twitchy.”
He shut the door and turned back to her.
She wasn’t looking at him. She set the lantern on the table and moved toward the fire pit, holding her fingers over the faint warmth. Silence stretched between them. He became painfully aware of his bare chest, the cold biting his feet, the way she stood rigid as a drawn bowstring.
Something tightened in his gut.
Four moons. It had been four moons since the dye-house.
His pulse lurched.
“Are ye with bairn?” he asked quietly.
Her gaze snapped to him. Surprise flashed across her face, followed by a faint blush. “No. My menses came a couple of weeks afterward.”
Relief struck first, sharp and immediate. Then disappointment, small and treacherous. He swallowed it down. He’d no right to feel either.
“Then why are ye here?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”
