Her chest hitched, a pulse fluttering in her throat. “Stop it,” she whispered.
He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm lightly. “I shall … but know this. Ye are an angel, Fiona Mackinnon … and I will never forget yer kindness tonight.”
Letting her go, he allowed her to step back. Color flooded her cheeks before she turned away. “Let me see to that room for ye.”
30: THE THIEF
“COME, BROC. JUST a few yards more.” Fiona tugged at the rope, urging the goat down the pebbly path. They’d traveled north of Ardnacross to where the River Dòbhran rushed down over green hills to meet the water. And upon its southern bank sat a watermill. Smoke wreathed from the mill’s thatched roof, for this morning was a cool one, while its great wooden water wheel slowly turned.
However, the wether goat decided to be stubborn again. With a grunt, he dug his hooves into the path and lowered his head, refusing to go any farther.
Muttering a curse, Fiona stopped pulling at the rope, for she could see it would only vex the animal, put her hands on her hips, and glared at him. “Really? Do ye expect me to pull the cart myself?”
The wether snorted. He’d been an arse all the way from Diarmaid’s. Broc was the carpenter’s faithful companion. He pulled a small cart that the carpenter used to transport materials. Today, his cart was piled high with neatly folded sacks.
Twenty-five of them, just as Fiona had promised.
The miller would be waiting for her, but Broc had other ideas. Lurching sideways, he pulled over to where a rambling growth of wild rose grew at the path’s edge. He then began to hungrily munch.
Fiona watched him, frustration boiling up now. Diarmaid had warned her that Broc could be testy. She only hoped that once he’d enjoyed his treat, he’d be happy to move on. Nonetheless, it was fascinating to watch the goat eat the spiny bush, navigating the thorns with ease. She hadn’t realized that goats loved roses.
“Having some trouble, eh?”
A familiar voice hailed her then, and she turned to see Ailean walking toward her. He’d just left the millers and carried a sack of grain on one shoulder. His battered face had healed well in the past month, she noted, although he’d bear a scar upon his temple for the rest of his days. Approaching her, he flashed her a smile that made her pulse kick into a canter.
Curse her. Why did the mere sight of this man fluster her so? Apart from the morning when she’d removed the stitches from his brow, she’d barely seen him of late. They’d both been busy; she working hard on the miller’s sacks, and he on the tower.
Time was sliding by; winter approached with alarming swiftness. He’d needed help, to speed up progress, and as such, some of the cottars had downed their hoes and scythes to assist him.
Already, the weather had changed. Gone were the lazy days of summer. And what a glorious one it had been. The previous summer had been balmy, but this one had been even hotter. The locals were calling it the best harvest in years.
Ironic then, that this fine summer had nearly broken her.
Remembering this sobering fact, she lifted her chin and drew in a deep, steadying breath.Get a hold of yerself, woman.
“Broc is testing my patience, indeed,” she replied, nodding to where the goat still munched on roses. “And now he’s found a treat, I won’t be able to move him.”
“Aye, ye will.” He lowered the sack to the stony ground with a grunt and shrugged out his shoulder. “I’ll help ye.”
Before she could refuse his assistance, he moved close, took the rope from her, and stepped up to Broc’s side. He then took hold of the goat’s halter and tugged, pulling his head up. “Move on now, lad,” he said, his voice low and firm.
The goat eyed him, giving a vexed bleat. And then, to Fiona’s surprise, he went as meek as a lamb. The cart rumbled forward, and they were on their way once more.
Leaving the sack on the path’s edge, Ailean led the way down to the mill. Embarrassed by just how easy he made it look, Fiona followed. “Ye must have a masterful air about ye,” she muttered. “He doesn’t obey me like that.”
Ailean favored her with another smile, this one disarmingly boyish. “Goats have strong, willful characters,” he replied, “but they’re clever. They know when ye mean business.”
Fiona snorted at this.
They halted before the mill then, and Ailean helped himself to an armful of sacks.
“What are ye doing?” Her voice was higher than usual, warmth creeping up her neck. She’d appreciated his assistance with Broc, but this was going too far. “I can take it from here.”
“I’m sure ye can,” he answered. “But it’ll be quicker for ye, if I help.”
Fiona scowled, yet he paid her no mind, disappearing inside the mill with the sacks. Watching him go, she huffed a sigh of resignation. He was only being helpful; there was no need for her to be churlish. With that, she gathered an armload of sacks and followed him in.
A short while later, Fiona left the mill, the coin purse at her belt much heavier. It clinked as she walked, a pleasing sound indeed, and one that filled her with a warm sense of satisfaction. It felt good to earn well, and these days she was no longer tempted to send silver back to Craignure.
