Fiona swallowed. Her throat ached. “Aye. It is.”
“I wish to make things easier for ye,” Kylie continued. “Return to Dounarwyse. Take up yer loom again. The tapestry is waiting. It needs yer hands.”
For a heartbeat, Fiona saw it: the familiar chamber, the bright threads, Arabella’s chatter.
But she’d never really belonged there.
“I cannot,” she said hoarsely. “When I left Dounarwyse, I swore I would never return.”
“Ye may change yer mind,” Kylie replied gently. “No one would judge ye.”
“This isn’t pride,” Fiona insisted. “I’ve built something here. Ardnacross is my home now.” She faltered, remembering Beth’s poison at market, then pushed the doubt aside. “This is where I belong.”
Kylie’s lips curved faintly. “Ye sound a great deal like Ailean when Rae offered him his title back.”
Heat rushed to Fiona’s face. The comparison stung. She opened her mouth to deny it, but no words came. She turned away instead.
Silence settled between them.
At length, Kylie sighed. “Very well. If ye will not return to Dounarwyse, I’ll bring the work to ye. Yer loom. The tapestry. I’ll continue to pay ye monthly and provide all materials. Ye need only weave and send the finished work to me when it’s done.”
Fiona’s breath caught. “Ye wish me to continue it …here?” she whispered.
“Aye,” Kylie said simply. “Where ye work matters little. I would rather have ye safe and willing here than resentful within my walls. Will ye accept?”
The choice settled in Fiona’s bones, and she nodded. “Aye. I will.”
“Good.” Kylie smiled, relief flickering across her features. “A wagon will come within the week. When ye need more supplies, send word.”
Fiona nodded again, still dazed by the offer.
Kylie turned to leave, then paused. Her gaze sharpened thoughtfully. “I think there’s more to yer decision to remain at Ardnacross than ye admit.”
Fiona frowned. “What do ye mean?”
“Only that Ailean lives here too.”
The words struck like a thrown stone.
“I came here not knowing he would,” Fiona said quickly, heat rising up her neck. “I—”
“Of course,” Kylie said gently. “But once ye knew … ye stayed.”
Fiona’s chest tightened. She could not meet the woman’s eye.
Kylie’s voice softened further as she added, “Pride is a cold bedfellow, Fiona. If ye look beyond it, ye’ll understand why ye’re still here.”
33: A COLD BEDFELLOW
BALANCING FOUR DISHES of pie, two on each arm, Fiona stepped through the kitchen doorway into the common room—and froze.
Every man in the place was climbing to his feet.
Tankards lifted.
For a heartbeat, she thought a fight had broken out, or that they were cheering some jest she’d missed. The air rang with the scrape of benches and boots, the roar of voices cut short mid-laugh. Wood smoke curled thick beneath the rafters, the fire gilding a forest of raised cups.
And every eye was on her.
