“Fiona.” His voice caught. Sweat prickled at his neck.Christ. “There was no trick. I did it because I couldn’t live with myself.”
She stilled, curls whipping in the wind.
“I’ll admit, back in Dounarwyse ye started as a conquest,” he said, the words tearing free. “A tumble. But after everything fell apart, I realized … too late … the truth.”
She stared at him as if he’d shed his skin and turned into one of the Sìth.
“I’m in love with ye,” he said. The admission hurt. “Ye’re far too good for me. I never meant to say this … but ye deserve the truth.” Nausea rolled through him. Still, he pressed on. “Ye stole upon me. I was full of myself when we met. This”—he gestured at the rising tower—“stripped all that away. Rebuilding it, stone by stone, has been even harder than I thought. This place has humbled me … but it has also made me understand what really matters. Too late, I saw what I’d found the day ye walked into my life … and what I lost. And I swore I’d never try to claim ye. That I’d love ye from afar. That seeing ye happy would be enough.”
“How dare ye tell me this?” she choked. Tears brightened her eyes. “Ye are lower than a worm.”
“I am,” he whispered. “But I do love ye.”
“No! Ye’re trying to twist me around yer finger!”
“No, Fiona. Not this time.” His chest burned. “I’ve never felt anything like this. No one tells ye loving someone is like having yer heart cut out.”
“Stop it!” she shouted. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I won’t hear another word!”
She turned and fled.
Ailean didn’t move. He stood rooted as she ran, as if she were escaping something monstrous.
Dizziness swept over him. “Ye stupid prick,” he whispered hoarsely, gripping the well for balance. “Couldn’t ye keep yer gob shut?”
She was never meant to know.
A better man would have stayed silent. A better man would have borne it.
He dropped his chin and dragged in a ragged breath, fighting to master himself. Tears burned behind his eyes.
He hadn’t hurt like this in many years—not since he’d lost his mother.
The day Donalda Maclean died, his howls had shaken the tower house. Lyle had been too young to understand, but Ailean had. He’d thought the pain would kill him. It hadn’t. He’d buried it instead and sworn never to feel that way again.
Somewhere along the road, he’d become a man he barely liked.
Pushing off the well, he stumbled inside. With shaking hands, he poured a cup of ale and drained it. It did nothing. His chest still felt crushed in a vice.
He needed a stronger drink. Diarmaid’s sloe wine.
Diarmaid.
A curse snarled out of him—then died.
No. This was his own doing. The truth was bound to surface.
He sank onto a stool by the cold hearth and buried his face in his hands. The pain wouldn’t recede.
A horse snorted outside.
“Ailean?” a voice called.
He staggered to the doorway.
Rae, Lyle, and Kylie Maclean sat mounted upon coursers in the courtyard.
“I never thought to see ye here.” Ailean poured his visitors cups of ale and handed them over. His father, brother, and stepmother had dismounted and followed him indoors.
