He’d asked two lads to help him with the well the following morning. He’d also ordered some hide to create an awning. Not that a roof mattered tonight—the weather was fine enough at present. After leaving the tavern, he’d picked up some sacks to make a bed with, and he’d brought up some firewood and a pail of water for Sgòth.
He was exhausted. His body felt leaden. His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep.
Yet still he couldn’t seem to drop off.
His mind was too active.
Of course, he had to get a proper roof on this tower before the weather turned, by Yuletide at the latest. One by one, he catalogued the tasks before him, and all the supplies he’d need to get things done.
But as he planned, something else tugged at him.
Fiona.
She was here in Ardnacross. This was a small place, which meant she’d catch glimpses of him more often than she’d like over the coming months. They couldn’t avoid each other.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that either, yet the stubborn lass refused to return to Dounarwyse.
Huffing a curse under his breath, Ailean rolled over onto his side.
She was just making life harder than it needed to be.
He’d thought she’d want to return to her loom. He knew she was ambitious, that she had dreams of weaving a future for herself—literally. But she’d dug her heels in.
And part of him understood why it would be humiliating to go back to the castle.
Because of ye.It was as if his father were whispering to him then.The games ye play have consequences, ye selfish arse.
He rolled onto his back once more and stared up at the swathe of glittering stars above him.
Fiona had said worse though.
Her words had flayed him like boning knives—more so because each one had landed.
He’d had no defense against her accusations. There was none he could make that wouldn’t sound glib.
Suddenly, he’d seen himself through her eyes: a shallow man who used his charm as both a shield and a weapon. Aye, he could seduce a lass with a melting smile, but he could destroy her with one too.
And he couldn’t lie to himself, not now. It had been a game—a delicious one.
But it wasn’t any longer. He was genuinely sorry for what he’d done, yet wasn’t surprised she didn’t believe him. Words were easy for a man like him.
Actions were what mattered.
Closing his eyes, he breathed shallowly now, pain blooming under his ribs.
His father had stripped him of his birthright, and that hurt, but the old man’s poor opinion of him stung worse.
As did Fiona’s.
He’d burned his life to the ground, but there was hope amongst the ashes. His father had punished him, but he’d also offered him a chance to redeem himself.
And he would. Stone by stone.
And somehow, he would find a way to make it up to Fiona as well.
26: PICKING UP THE THREAD
Two months later …
