But no such tale appeared. There were the odd travelers from the castle, but none of them seemed to bring gossip. And with the passing of days and then weeks, and as the sting of humiliation faded, Fiona had gradually felt stronger.
When news did arrive eventually, she’d weather it.
Dour Diarmaid’s cottage sat behind the others, surrounded by an overgrown garden. Obviously, his late wife had tended it once. The carpenter had let it grow wild. A large wether goat was tethered in one corner. It watched Fiona balefully as she made her way up the path.
Knocking on the door, Fiona waited only a few moments before it flew open and Diarmaid stepped out. The man was brushing bannock crumbs off his front, his hair and beard looking even more disheveled than usual.
“Good,” he grunted. “Ye’re not late.”
She flashed him a nervous smile. “I’m excited to see the workshop.”
“Aye, well.” He jerked his head to the left. “It’s more of a shed … but it’ll do the job.”
He led the way down a path, past his own workshop, where the pungent and familiar smell of planed oak drifted out to greet her. She felt a twinge then—not of homesickness, but at the familiarity of that smell. It reminded her of her father, a man she’d adored as a bairn, worshipped even, but one who’d given her little love or affection in return.
Pushing aside the memories, she followed Diarmaid to a small shed at the end of the garden. She waited while he pulled open the wide doors, allowing the morning sun to stream in.
As he’d warned, it was a humble space—in a timbered building with a packed-dirt floor.
But it was clean. And it was hers.
A sturdy vertical, warp-weighted loom sat at the center of it, with a stool beside it. There were baskets of thread and yarn too, as well as a small hearth and iron pots for dyes stacked neatly in one corner.
Her vision misted, her throat tightening.
“What do ye think?” he asked, turning to her. “Will it do?”
“It’s perfect,” she said huskily.
“My Moira liked her weaving,” he said, his tone softening just a little.
Fiona turned to him, really looking at him for the first time. “When did ye lose her?”
“Nearly three winters ago now.”
“Ye still miss her greatly though … don’t ye?”
His throat worked, and he nodded, as if not trusting himself to speak. Then he cleared it. “She was the light of my life,” he said gruffly. “We never had any bairns. But we were happier than most couples. Losing her … it makes me wonder what the point is sometimes.” He hesitated, then added awkwardly, “Ye know … of life.”
Fiona didn’t reply at once. She didn’t want to make light of his feelings or offer him empty condolences. He wasn’t that sort of man.
“It must be painful,” she said at last, “to lose someone ye love so much.” Her throat tightened as their gazes met. “But ye were lucky, Diarmaid. Not everyone finds what ye had.”
27: VISITORS TO THE TAVERN
LAYING THE FINAL stone on the wall he’d been building, Ailean slid back down his ladder. Reaching up, he then massaged a stiff muscle in his shoulder.
God’s blood, this really was back-breaking toil. At this rate, he’d be a cripple by the time this tower had been rebuilt.
If I ever manage it.
Aye, there were times when the task seemed just too great—when his goal to get the roof on by Yule felt unreachable.
He’d enjoyed working alongside the stonemasons back at Dounarwyse. He’d liked the simple work and the banter between the men. But repairing this tower was another matter entirely. For two long months, he’d slaved here, and progress was painfully slow.
And that in itself was a lesson to him.
It made him realize how impatient he’d been before now; how he’d ridden on natural talent and the arrogance of youth for too long. Working on this tower was truly testing his mettle.
