She already knew the answer.
She’d suffered enough humiliation tonight. No more.
Halfway down the stairs, she paused upon the landing, just feet away from her workshop. Nothing within that room belonged to her—least of all the tapestry she’d been weaving. She would leave it all.
And yet, there was a part of her that wanted to slip inside, to light a candle and view her work one last time. Her unfinished tapestry. God, the thought of leaving behind her weaving tore her to shreds. Her lovely new life at Dounarwyse was over.
But she needed to be gone, well before dawn. With the sunrise, word would start to spread within the castle. Soon, all would know her shame.
She couldn’t bear it.
Pride dictated that she flee now, under the cover of darkness.
She still felt numb. In shock. It was protecting her from the pain that loomed like a specter—the agony born of humiliation and disappointment.
No. She had to keep it all at bay until she was a safe distance from this place. Her survival now depended on it.
And so, she kept moving, creeping down the stairs to the entrance hall at the foot of them. She hauled the heavy oaken door open and slipped out.
Dawn was closer than she’d expected. The eastern sky was beginning to lighten.
The smoke had cleared now. However, an acrid, burnt tang still permeated the barmkin. And in the torchlight, the bakehouse and the kitchen were a mess. A lengthy repair job awaited.
Fiona couldn’t bring herself to care.
Crossing to the gates, she approached one of the men on guard there. She didn’t recognize him, which was good. Muscular, clad in leather, and with a helmet jammed upon his head, he viewed her suspiciously. “It’s early to be up and about,” he greeted her.
“The laird has bid me to leave … now,” she lied. “Please open the gates.”
“They remain shut until dawn,” he replied, stubbornness creeping into his voice. “Ye’ll have to wait.”
Panic fluttered up. She couldn’t wait.
She couldn’t stand here watching the castle wake and hearing the whispers start to circulate. She had to get out.
“Fiona,” a gruff voice hailed her then, and she turned to see Tay step from the shadows. The rat-catcher had just emerged from his cramped lodgings next to the guardhouse. Midge followed at his heels. He beckoned to her then. “Come here, lass.”
Heart thumping against her ribs, Fiona complied. And as she drew near and caught sight of his grizzled features, gilded by torchlight, her belly clenched.
Christ’s blood. He knows.
“I heard the exchange down here earlier,” he admitted gruffly, concern shadowing his gaze.
Her throat constricted, tears prickling behind her eyes.
The numbness was sloughing away. Hot, prickling humiliation was rising like a tide.
“So, ye understand why I’m leaving,” she whispered back. “Why I have to?”
He nodded. And suddenly, his face looked even older than before. Weary and sad. “How much coin do ye have on ye?” he asked.
“Enough,” she replied hoarsely. “I’ll make it last.”
Another lie. She didn’t have much at all. She’d sent most of her first pay back to her family. What remained would buy her bread and cheese for a few days, little more.
He unfastened a coin purse from his belt and handed it to her. “Here. It’s not a king’s ransom … mostly coppers … but it’ll help ye gain lodgings if yer family won’t have ye.”
Fiona’s throat started to ache, her vision swimming.
