And that wasn’t a lie. They’d crossed the threshold from spring into summer. The air drifting through the open window was humid and heavy. Her kirtle clung to her back—and more so now that sweat had broken along her spine.
She couldn’t let either woman suspect what had truly happened the night before, or she’d be out on her ear.
Foolish chit.She’d watched lasses all her life ruin themselves over men not worth the trouble, who’d thrown caution aside for a single night of passion, only to regret it the next day.
As she did now.
Lord, she wished she could go back in time. Refuse Ailean’s dance. Spurn his flirting. Better yet, feign a headache and miss the Bealtunn celebrations entirely. But it was foolish to dwell on what couldn’t be undone. What mattered was ensuring no further damage was wrought.
“He’s charming, to be sure,” Fiona admitted after a pause. “Though he does have a high opinion of himself.”
Arabella snorted with laughter. Her shoulders relaxed. A good sign. She was already on her way to forgiving Fiona for the omission. Arabella wore the world lightly. She wasn’t one to harbor grudges.
Carrie, on the other hand, regarded Fiona with narrowed eyes, as if she were a cuckoo making itself comfortable in a dunnock’s nest. She didn’t like that look. It set her hackles rising. And yet, at the same time, guilt stabbed at her. She’d all but forgotten Carrie the night before. As soon as Ailean had swept her into his arms, she’d been oblivious to anyone except him. What kind of friend did that make her? She needed to smooth this over.
“Ye danced long with Rowan,” Fiona said carefully. “I saw.”
In truth, she’d barely noticed, but she didn’t want to admit such.
Arabella had just handed them both cups of wine and was helping herself to the largest honey cake. She could eat them all. Fiona had lost her appetite.
“We did,” Carrie admitted. Her expression didn’t warm. “He is a good dancer. Indeed.” The words were stiff. Overly formal. Not like Carrie at all. “When I looked for ye later, ye were nowhere to be found.”
Fiona’s heart thudded in her ears.
By the Saints, she wished her cheeks would stop burning. They were betraying her completely.
Remain calm.Everything depended on it.
“In truth, dancing so long exhausted me.” Fiona lifted her cup and took a fortifying gulp, wishing it weren’t watered down. “And the smoke gave me a headache. Eventually, I bid Ailean goodnight and returned to the castle.”
Carrie nodded. Her expression clouded, uncertain, almost as if she believed her.
Good.She needed to redirect this conversation, and quickly.
“Enough about me,” Fiona said with a tight smile. “I’m glad ye and Rowan finally had time together. Did ye talk much?”
Carrie’s fingers tightened around her cup of wine. She hadn’t yet taken a sip. “We spoke between dances. Drank mead. Ate buttered bread.”
“And what did ye speak of?” Arabella asked eagerly. Excitement gleamed in her eyes. Her father kept her well-cossetted, but she loved to hear about the adventures of other lasses. Those who didn’t have an overprotective Da, like Jack Maclean, watching over them.
Carrie’s gaze never left Fiona’s face. “I wanted to know his thoughts. His opinions … his stories from childhood.”
Ice pooled in the pit of Fiona’s belly. Something was wrong. Arabella seemed oblivious, yetshewasn’t.
“I tried to draw him out,” Carrie continued, eyes hardening. “But at every turn … he steered the talk back toye.”
Fiona’s legs were leaden as she climbed the final narrow steps to her bower.
She was bone tired. She’d slept little the night before and had fought fatigue all day. Worse still, the happiness she’d found within these walls felt close to shattering.
Her exchange with Carrie still haunted her. Even Arabella’s smile had faded afterward. The bitterness in Carrie’s voice had been unmistakable. In a few carefully chosen words, she’d madeit clear she believed Rowan was smitten with Fiona, and that she might steal the man Carrie had quietly loved for years.
Fiona had tried to explain. She’d assured Carrie she had no interest in Rowan, no romantic regard at all. Carrie hadn’t truly listened.
A door had slammed shut between them.
Carrie had left shortly after. Fiona had returned to the loom while Arabella resumed untangling the thread, the silence strained but merciful. Arabella hadn’t pried.
