Still, the shadow lingered.
As Fiona pushed open the door to her tiny chamber beneath the rafters, tears pricked her eyes. What was this? She wasn’t a weeper. She was too practical for that.
Yet the day had worn her down, and she’d nearly undone herself.
She crossed to the small window, where rolled sacking served as a shutter, and pushed it open. The view stretched south to where a rugged coastline met a slowly darkening sky.
At this hour, many servants enjoyed a brief respite—going out for a stroll or drinking and playing at dice or knucklebones in the kitchen below. Fiona often joined them. She’d take pleasure in sitting with Carrie, sharing wine and gossip.
But Carrie hadn’t sat beside her at supper tonight. Instead, she’d chosen a place near Essie, the cook. The snub had been deliberate—and it stung.
Suddenly, her new life, and the joy it had brought, seemed fragile. She’d thrown herself eagerly into her friendship with Carrie. It had burned hot and fast, yet wasn’t built on strong foundations. It could easily crumble if she let it.
“I need to make her understand,” Fiona whispered. “I don’t want Rowan.”
Anger flared—at Rowan most of all. The man was a dolt. Why hadn’t he encouraged Carrie? Why was he blind to what was before him?
That complication was the last thing Fiona needed.
She rested her hands on the stone lintel and gave herself a stern talking to. “Remember who ye are, Fiona Mackinnon,” she muttered, even as the intoxicating memory of Ailean’s hands on her intruded, the wicked promise in his eyes. “Remember what matters … and why ye arehere. Don’t go throwing away yer future … over a rogue.”
“What a relief it is to be outside,” Arabella said with a sigh. “It was unbearable in that workroom.”
Fiona nodded, glancing up at the hard blue sky. The lass wasn’t wrong; it was a scorching day. Even the thick stone walls hadn’t kept the heat at bay, and there was no sea breeze to ease it.
By midafternoon, Arabella had rebelled, insisting on a walk along the shore path.
“Days like these are rare,” she informed Fiona as they passed beneath the portcullis. “We must profit from them.”
“Aye, but the tapestry won’t weave itself,” Fiona muttered.
The lass shot her a quelling look. “Ye chain yerself to that loom. It’s not healthy.” And with that, she hooked her arm through Fiona’s and led her down toward the village.
Sunlight bathed the fields, where folk worked the run rigs, hoeing, weeding, and planting. Women gathered washing. Fowl scratched at the dust. An elderly woman shelled beans on her doorstep and called out to Arabella, who waved and smiled back.
They were nearing the village edge when Fiona noticed activity ahead.
A long, low-slung building made of stone crouched on the edge of the road. Men worked atopTheDounarwyse Tavern’sthatched roof, stripped to the waist in the heat.
And among them—
Ailean.
Tall, lean, auburn hair tied at his nape. His body gleamed with sweat as he drove nails into the timber.
Fiona’s step faltered.Mother Mary.This was the last thing she needed.
After Bealtunn, she’d behaved herself. She’d worked hard these past weeks to keep her world narrow, moving between her workshop, the kitchen, and her bower. All to avoid trouble. And she’d succeeded. Until today.
He looked up then, and their eyes met.
“Ailean!” Arabella called, waving. “Aren’t ye meant to be meeting with yer Da and the bailiff?”
“I was,” he admitted easily, his gaze never leaving Fiona. “But Lyle fancies taxes more than I do.” He gestured to the roof. “The lads needed help.”
Arabella blinked. “Ye prefer this?”
“Aye.”
