And as he stood there, frozen with a strange indecision that made it feel as if weights were attached to his ankles, his thoughts went to Fiona once more.
Where was she?
Now that he had stopped—now that his future stood here in ruins around him—the full impact hit him like a fist to the chest.
He’d done this.
He’d ruined not only his future, but hers.
And while he’d been taking those risks, he hadn’t cared. He’d known exactly what he was doing. He’d known the danger he was courting. But that had just added fuel to the excitement.
And there’d been a part of him that had believed, come what may, he’d be able to talk his way out of it—that he’d be able to make excuses, spin a few lies so that he and Fiona could continue their meetings, or at the very least escape any consequences.
But he’d been lying to himself.
It was bad enough that he’d set fire to his own life. That was his prerogative, as long as he didn’t harm anyone else.
But he’d dragged Fiona into his downfall.
And for that, he was truly sorry.
The afternoon shadows were lengthening when Ailean finally decided it was time to stop for the day. He’d done all he could. His back was aching. His fingers were bruised and sore from shifting rocks and stones, from clearing a path through the rubble and trying to create a shelter for himself in one corner of the ruined hall. He couldn’t do anything more for the moment.
He’d downed the last of his ale, and now his throat was parched, his belly growling with hunger. It was time to go for food and supplies.
He tied Sgòth up inside the crumbling shell of what had once been the stables. The stallion had grazed for most of the day, but he would need water. Ailean would bring him up a pail from the village when he returned.
Slapping the stallion on the rump, he made his way down the slope toward the village. He needed to ask around and find someone who could help him make the well usable.
Ardnacross lay partly in shadow now, and the men and women who worked the fields were making their way home. It was a good time to go intoThe Shepherd’s Crook, to ask some questions and get the assistance he needed.
The full coin purse jangled at his belt as he walked. His father had given him plentiful pennies, but he’d need to use them carefully. He had a lot to buy, and he could already see his funds running out sooner than he’d like.
Pushing his way inside the tavern, he was greeted by the rumble of conversation and the delicious aroma of roasting mutton. His mouth started to water. It reminded him that ever since he’d left Dounarwyse, he’d barely eaten. And although he still felt sick to his stomach over what he’d done, his hunger wouldn’t be ignored now.
The musty smell of hops assaulted his nostrils too, reminding him of just how thirsty he was. The air was close and smoky, and he caught the hint of sweaty bodies pressed too close. Yet it was a familiar smell, and not one that he shunned.
He needed these people. They were all he had now.
His gaze swept over the crowded common room, noting how men stopped their conversations, their drinking, and their games of knucklebones to look at him. Conversation died.
Of course, they all knew he was here. They’d been wondering when he’d show his face.
Even so, discomfort stole over Ailean. He wished he were anonymous. He wished he were just one of them. Maybe oneday, he would be, but he’d have to work for it. For now, he was a stranger, an oddity, and he would be the subject of gossip in this small place.
However, as his gaze continued to roam the common room, looking for a spare seat he could squeeze into, it alighted on a woman.
His breathing hitched.
An instant later, warmth rolled over him.
He’d found her.
Cheeks flushed from work, Fiona Mackinnon stood by one of the tables. In one hand, she held a jug of ale, and in the other, a tankard she was just about to fill. She wore an apron over her kirtle, and her curly blonde hair had been tied back from her face. Her blue-grey eyes were wide and startled.
She watched him as if Lucifer himself had just stepped into the tavern.
24: FACE-TO-FACE
