Rae looked as if the ground had shifted beneath him. “Ye’d rather steward Ardnacross than rule Dounarwyse?”
“Aye.”
The silence that followed was heavy—but not hostile. Only stunned.
Ailean met Lyle’s gaze. His brother stepped forward and clasped his shoulder, squeezing once. No further words were needed. None could have said more.
Then Ailean turned to Kylie. Her brown eyes shimmered with tears. He smiled gently. He loved her as fiercely as blood, and he knew she’d fought for him in his absence.
There was one more truth he could not leave unspoken.
“Ye should know,” he said softly, “that Fiona’s here.”
32: WE BOTH KNOW WHY
“I KNOW WHAT ye did, Diarmaid. I know about yer arrangement with MacLean.”
The carpenter looked up from where he’d been sanding a plank of wood. His shoulders stiffened, a nerve flickering in his cheek.
Fiona stood at the entrance to his workshop. After leaving Ardnacross Tower, she’d come straight here, still angry, still looking for a reckoning. And the look of guilt in Diarmaid’s eyes only incensed her further. “So, heboughtye, then?”
Diarmaid swallowed, eyes lowered. “He came to me on the quiet and offered me a silver penny a month, Fiona. To help ye out. And so … I agreed.”
Fiona glared back at him, even as hurt twisted in her chest. It all made sense now—why the taciturn carpenter had suddenly approached her. The shifty looks he’d given her at times. The way his eyes would shadow when she thanked him. Guilt. And it was written all over his face now.
“Ye never wanted to help me, did ye? But the coin was too tempting.”
He cleared his throat. “Business has been slow of late, lass. I was just helping myself out.” He brushed wood shavings off the leather apron he wore, still avoiding her gaze. “It started as a transaction. But if I’m honest, I’ve liked having ye around. Ye’vebeen a burst of sunshine in a life that’s been grey for a long while.”
Fiona’s breathing grew shallow at this, pity stirring within her.Soft woman. She was so easily moved. So easily manipulated by all these people. Was there anyone she could trust?
Yes. Eithne. Her friend wasn’t part of this. She couldn’t be.
“And ye spilled yer secrets to that awful woman,” Fiona went on, hardening her heart.
He flinched, confirming her accusation.
“She cornered me at market earlier,” Fiona continued, hands on her hips now, her heart thumping hard. “She humiliated me. Ye were supposed to sweeten Beth … not give her weapons to use against me.”
Reaching up, the carpenter dragged a hand down his leathery face. “Christ,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, lass. I was lonelier than I thought. We had a couple of suppers together, and too many ales. And then one evening, things went further.” His face flushed pink then. “Before I knew it, she’d pried the truth out of me. I told her not to say anything … to anyone. She swore she wouldn’t.”
Fiona pulled a face. “Aye, well. She’s a liar.”
They stared at each other then, the moment drawing out.
“Och, Fiona.” Diarmaid moved forward, halting when they were just a couple of feet apart. “This changes nothing. I want ye to stay. I want ye to continue working in the weaving shed just as ye have before. Build yer business. I’ll take no more coin from Maclean. I promise.”
Fiona stared back at him. Her first instinct was to throw his words back in his face—to tell him she didn’t want to have anything more to do with him, that his weaving shed and everything he’d offered her was tainted. But then common sense prevailed.
Sometimes a woman had to think about survival.
If she gave up her weaving, then Beth would have won. She’d go back to working all day inThe Shepherd’s Crook, and although she didn’t dislike the job, it wasn’t where her heart lay, and it paid little—not enough for her to make plans, to have something of her own one day. Aye, she’d worked upon a magnificent treadle loom at Dounarwyse, and had been surrounded by finery, but she was happier here, weaving in Diarmaid’s shed. It was a simple, honest life of her choosing; one that until this morning had felt earned.
“Maclean bought the miller too, I hear,” she said, her voice cold now. “Nothing was real.”
He made a sound at the back of his throat. “Of course, it was real. Yer talent can’t be feigned. The blanket ye made me is fine work indeed. And the miller came by yesterday to tell me how pleased he is with yer weaving. I hear he’s commissioned more sacks from ye?”
She nodded, giving him that.
