His smile widened. “Nosy woman. Ye’ll find out soon enough.”
His hand sneaked down, palming the swell of her backside through the sheepskin.
“Come on. Let’s get dressed and be on our way.”
Sgòth’s hooves beat a steady tattoo on the frozen ground as the stallion cantered west, carrying them inland from the village.
The sun had fully risen by now, gilding the hills, melting the frost, and bathing the land in pale autumn light. Samhuinn was only days away. They passed the bonfire the locals were building for the occasion. It would burn for most of the night on that eve, and Fiona looked forward to joining the villagers of Ardnacross—drinking wassail, eating fuarag, dancing around the fire, and doing it all with Ailean at her side.
Warmth suffused her chest. It all felt dreamlike.
She’d gone to him without expectation. The weight of her feelings had sat like an anvil on her chest. She’d only wanted relief, hadn’t thought about the future, hadn’t imagined he might propose. She’d only wanted to be near him. The longing had been unbearable.
But he’d surprised her.
This man often did.
There was depth to him she hadn’t seen months ago. The real Ailean wasn’t a man of poor character. He was strong and kind, protective and courageous to a fault.
And he was hers.
Tears of joy filled her eyes. The cold wind stole them away as she leaned back against his chest, enjoying the press of his thighs against hers. Riding with him like this—wind in her hair, frost under hoof—was exhilarating.
Soon they reached a hill where two lines of standing stones rose against the sky.
The earth there felt older somehow. The grass thinned to wiry silver tufts, and the wind carried a strange stillness, as if the hill kept its own counsel.
Fiona stared as Ailean drew Sgòth to a halt. “I didn’t realize there were stones near here.”
“The locals call them the Ardnacross Stone Rows,” he replied, swinging down and helping her after him. “Diarmaid told me about them shortly after my arrival. I rode up to take a look.”
She smiled and climbed the incline, weaving between the monoliths. Tall and thin, their pitted surfaces were worn by centuries of wind and rain, freckled with pale lichen and creeping moss. The stones did not stand as a straight path but in two quiet lines, skewed from one another, as if set by hands that followed a logic long forgotten.
Between them lay low mounds edged in smaller rocks—old cairns, half-sunk into the soil. The grass grew darker there.
Fiona touched one of the stones. It was colder than the air: dense and immovable.
Silence unraveled across the hilltop.
Even the wind seemed to hush within the rows.
From here, she could see smoke rising from Ardnacross village to the east and the outline of higher hills to the west.Beyond them, the Sound flashed dull silver. Yet inside the stones, the world felt distant.
Happiness filtered like sunlight through her chest.
She turned to find Ailean watching her, his expression serious. “It is special,” he murmured. “I’m glad ye feel it too.” He placed a palm next to hers against the stone. “The people who raised these were like us, lass. Hundreds of years ago … that’s all. Time is the only thing that separates us.”
Her skin prickled. Aye, it was true. Men and women had always loved. Always lost, hoped, and strived—and they always would. Places like this reminded them they were merely custodians.
“When I stood here alone,” he continued, “I knew this place belonged to my heart. Or my heart belonged to it. I felt it in my bones.”
“Ye are indeed a proud Muileach,” she teased.
“I am,” he replied with a grin. “Even on campaign on the mainland, I itched to return.” His expression clouded slightly. “That’s why returning to Dounarwyse was hard. I wanted to belong there as Lyle did. But I’m too proud and stubborn to rule beside my father. I needed land of my own.”
Proud and stubborn.They had that in common.
“And now, ye have it,” she said, curling an arm around his waist. Her gaze flicked to his hand still resting beside hers on the monolith. “It’s exciting, isn’t it? A blank slate.”
