His eyes had glistened as he spoke of her. Once again, Fiona was touched.
At last, she bid him good night and stepped out into the evening.
The sun had long since set, and the evenings were drawing in now, but it was still mild and still. The moon was rising like a great silver onion, reflected in the glistening waters of the Sound.
She could have walked straight back to the tavern—her bed beckoned—but instead, she took the longer path that circled the village and hugged the pebbly shore for a time.
As she walked, her shawl about her shoulders, her boots scuffing on the stones, she reflected on her life here. It was good, and despite the ugly incident at the tavern, things were improving.
She could see light now. Hope. Her future in this village was taking shape.
Her gaze lifted to the black silhouette of Ardnacross Tower, perched like a sentinel north of the village. She imagined Ailean up there, seated by the hearth, or already asleep in bed.
A traitorous longing clutched at her; a desire for what she could never have. For what she knew had nearly ruined her.
Damn him.Even now, after everything, she still wanted him. She couldn’t help it.
But common sense prevailed. She’d made it clear he was to stay away from her. Their exchanges these days were polite and distant. And even after he’d trounced the MacDonalds, he hadn’t approached her. He’d only looked her way across the crowded common room, concern shadowing his eyes. And she’d noddedback, letting him know that although Jock’s grip had bruised her, she’d escaped unscathed.
Aye. She knew she must keep her distance. Must maintain this wall of reserve.
And yet, a small, traitorous part of her cried out for the closeness they’d once shared. And it hadn’t just been lust. His looks had melted her. His touch had scattered her wits. But it had been more than that. There’d been an ease between them. A sense that, had they spent more time together, they’d have been well matched.
But all of that was in the past.
She was about to turn away from the tower and take the fork in the path that would lead her back into the village when something on the hillside caught her eye.
Silhouettes.
Men. Four, no,fiveof them. They were stumbling down the hill, gilded by moonlight.
Fiona stopped short, her breath catching. She narrowed her eyes. The moon was bright, but at this distance, she couldn’t make out who they were. But she saw that two of them leaned heavily on the others. They were injured. And their descent was rushed—almost panicked.
Clutching her shawl about her, she moved off the path and onto the grass so her boots wouldn’t make a sound.
She crept closer and then stopped again.
At the foot of the hill, a cluster of horses awaited their riders.
She slipped into the shadow of a twisted oak and watched.
They reached their mounts. The two injured men had to be helped into their saddles. Even from here, she could hear curses. Oaths. Low, angry growls.
And then they were gone—thundering north into the darkness.
Heart pounding, she watched them vanish. Then her gaze lifted slowly to the tower above her. It loomed dark and menacing now.
“Ailean,” she breathed. And then she gathered her skirts and began the climb up the hill.
29: ANGEL OF MERCY
THE WAY UP the mound was rocky. Rough going, even drenched in moonlight. It was difficult not to turn her ankle or trip. No wonder those men had made such hard work of descending earlier.
But panic now thrummed in Fiona’s breast, and as she reached the brow of the hill and the tower itself, she broke into a run. “Ailean!” she called, her voice echoing in the stillness. “Ailean!”
No answer came.
Fearing the worst, she hurried across the courtyard, past a squat stone well, and turned left, climbing the four steps that led through the open stone archway. Someone had kicked the flimsy wattle door open.
