Picking up his trowel and empty mortar bucket, he gingerly picked his way down the staircase to the lower floor. A wooden floor above now provided shelter from the elements, although he’d covered the planking with hide to keep the rain off and prevent damage while he rebuilt the walls.
Kendrick Mackinnon and his men had truly laid waste to this place.
And though Ailean wasn’t old enough to remember the blood feud between the clans, he couldn’t help but feel a stab of anger toward the Mackinnons for what they’d done here. He held no such grudge toward Bran Mackinnon, though. He’d met the Mackinnon chieftain several times now, for Bran was wed to Mackenna, Lady Kylie’s sister, and they’d visited a few times over the years.
He was a good man. But his father hadn’t been.
And this tower was just one of the scars he’d left behind him.
One day, it would stand tall and proud once more. And when that day came, Ailean would be able to feel pride in knowing that it had been by his own hand.
Even so, he was weary this evening. His body ached, and his throat was dry.
Moving to the table in the corner, he poured himself a cup of water, draining it in a few gulps, before pouring himself another. He then took the cup with him and ventured outside.
The light was beginning to dim, the golden dusk settling around him. Like most strongholds on Mull, Ardnacross Tower had a fine vantage point, and with the Sound looking like beaten bronze this evening, he found himself captivated by the view.
There truly was no finer place than Mull. And whenever he’d been away on the mainland fighting, he’d felt it calling him back. It was in his blood, in his bones, this island—but nowhere had ever felt more like home than Ardnacross. And ever since he’d begun work here, the feeling of belonging had drilled deep into him.
Even before his father had banished him here, he’d been drawn to this village, riding out here for no purpose really, other than to find some peace.
Moving back from the tower, he turned from the view and lifted his chin, surveying his work with a critical eye.
It was hard to believe that two moons had passed, for the tower still looked in a poor state of repair. But he’d made some headway, all the same. He’d cleaned away the lichen and moss—where he’d repointed much of the walls on the ground floor—and now was beginning work on the upper floors.
With a sigh, he shifted his attention from the tower, his gaze settling on the huddle of thatch-roofed bothies below. Then his eyes found the largest of them, where smoke wreathed up from a chimney—The Shepherd’s Crook.
It had been a week or two since he’d last shown his face there.
He tended to avoid it except when necessary, for seeing Fiona just made things awkward. Understandably, she was frosty with him now, and respecting her wishes, he didn’t try to make conversation when he went. There was no banter, no flirtation. And he tried not to hold her gaze.
He’d been a fool that morning, locking eyes with her as he had.
In truth, he’d been watching for her while he’d been haggling with the wattle merchant. In the end, he’d gotten a good price for a few bundles, which he was making into a door for the tower. But when he’d seen her in the midst of that conversation—looking lovely in her blue woolen shawl, stray curls caught by the wind—he’d found it impossible not to stare.
And then she’d blushed.
And it had felt as if something had kicked him in the guts.
Christ. This was new. The sensation had almost felt like … pining.
How he’d wanted to go to her then, to talk to her, to ask how she’d been, to reach out and stroke her cheek. But of course, he hadn’t done any of those things.
He’d just gawked at her like some half-wit.
And it was just as well she’d hurried on.
His belly rumbled, reminding him that apart from some bread and cheese, he’d eaten little today. He’d grown leaner of late, his muscles—already honed from years of training—growing stronger still.
What he needed was one of Ewan’s fine meals and a tall tankard of bitter ale.
And what he also needed was to see Fiona.
He wouldn’t speak to her. He wouldn’t bother her. Just being near her would be enough.
He caught himself then. Was loneliness finally getting to him?
Aye, maybe that was it. He had locals coming and going to help him, but every evening and every night the walls seemed to press in, and he felt achingly alone.
