She walked a few yards from the inn and spun sharply, with Ailean halting just short of colliding with her. Arms folding tight across her chest, chin lifting, she faced him. “Out with it.”
He looked older tonight. The careless charm was gone. His green eyes were shadowed, his jaw tight, as if the day had carved years into him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. The words came out rough. He swallowed and tried again. “I’m … so sorry, Fiona. I—God’s blood, I handled it badly. I didn’t want ye to leave Dounarwyse. I thought—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. “—I thought I could fix it after.”
Her pulse thudded in her ears. “Ye had yer chance to defend me,” she said, voice clipped. “And ye held yer tongue.”
Color flared along his cheekbones. “I did. And I deserve yer anger. I know that. But ye should know … Lady Kylie wants ye back. Ye can return. Ye don’t have to serve ale here. Ye can finish yer tapestry.”
The image rose unbidden: her loom in the tower chamber, Arabella chattering beside her, sunlight pooling across the threads.
For a heartbeat, longing made her chest ache.
Then shame followed. Cold and sharp. She saw the whispers. The looks. The knowing smiles.
The loom vanished.
“I can’t show my face there again,” she said. Her voice wavered. “Not after—”
“Don’t” —he cut in— “pay the whispers no mind. They’ll pass. What matters is that ye aren’t ruined.”
She stared at him, struck by how simplistic his view of things was. “Aren’t I?”
Silence followed, and eventually, he raked a hand through his hair and muttered a curse. “This is the last thing I wanted.”
She let that hang. It changed nothing.
“So, this is yer punishment?” she asked then, gesturing toward the ruined tower looming north. “To rebuild …that?”
He stilled, his throat working. “My father disinherited me.”
Fiona’s breath caught. The world seemed to tilt. For a moment, she couldn’t speak.
“Lyle will be chieftain,” he added quietly. “Not me.”
The weight of it settled between them. Fiona blinked. She hadn’t imagined he’d fall so far. “Well … I suppose ye got what ye wanted.”
Ailean exhaled slowly. “It’s been building a while … between Da and me. I dragged ye into it. He’s right in some ways. I chafe. I always have. And now … I’m banished here to make something of Ardnacross Tower.”
“So, ye really are staying,” she whispered.
He nodded.
Dizziness swept over her, and she took an involuntary step back.
She had come here to escape him, yet he’d followed.
He moved toward her. She retreated again, keeping the distance.
“Let me make this right,” he said, his tone imploring now. “Let me help ye, Fi—”
“Don’t call me that.” The words cracked. “I don’t need ye to fix anything.”
Alarm flared in his eyes. “Ye’re a gifted weaver. Ye deserve better than this.”
“The local weaver turned me away,” she snapped. “This is what I have. And I don’t want yer pity. Or yer guilt. Yesterday told me exactly where I stand.”
He flinched.
