Her arms trembled. One pie slid dangerously. She caught it just in time.
“What—?” The word died in her throat.
The men glanced at one another, a ripple of shared nerves passing between them. They’d planned this. She saw it now in the quick nods, the bracing breaths. Maccum, red to the tips of his ears, cleared his throat loud enough to carry.
“Mistress Fiona,” the shepherd said gruffly. The room held still. “Maclean spoke to us … told us plain he was to blame for the talk that followed ye. Said ye’d done no wrong. That the fault was all his.”
A murmur rolled through the crowd. Tankards didn’t lower.
Heat climbed Fiona’s neck. The pies burned her forearms, but she didn’t feel it. She could only stare. Things hadn’t been easy these past days. Ever since Beth’s outburst at market, the women who usually chatted to her kept their distance, and the men refused to meet her eye when she served them in the evenings.
It had hurt, for she’d found such contentment here, yet she’d had no choice but to brace herself and wait for the storm to pass.
But she hadn’t expected this.
“Ye deserved better than how we’ve treated ye, lass,” Maccum added, his voice roughening. “And I’m sorry for my part in it.”
Silence followed—heavy, expectant.
Then another voice rose. “My wife knows the truth.”
“And mine,” a crabber called.
“We’ll not have ye shunned in this village,” said a third. “Not for a lie.”
A rumble of agreement shook the room. Tankards lifted higher. Someone thumped a fist against the table.
“Ye’re one of us,” Maccum finished. “If ye’ll still have us?”
The words struck her square in the chest.
Fiona let out a sharp exhale. The common room blurred. These men—mud on their boots, smoke in their beards, hands cracked from work—stood waiting for her forgiveness.
Her throat closed painfully. She didn’t know what to say.
Slowly, carefully, she set the pies on the nearest table. Her hands shook. When she turned back, the tankards were still raised. Waiting.
“I …” Her voice caught. She swallowed hard and tried again. “Of course, I will.”
The tension snapped. A cheer erupted so loud the rafters trembled. Tankards crashed together. Ale sloshed onto the floor. Someone laughed, and another man whooped.
Fiona pressed a hand to her mouth, overwhelmed. Joy bloomed then, fierce and bright, under her ribs.
For the first time since Beth’s poison had spread, the knot inside her chest loosened.
She belonged here.
And the men of Ardnacross had just sworn it before the fire.
Fiona watched as the men unloaded the wagon. Her precious loom had been wrapped in sacking, and they carried it carefully through the garden—which, thanks to her efforts and the approach of winter, was much tidier now.
“The doors to the shed are open,” she called. “Just leave it at the center of the floor. I hope it fits!”
Diarmaid helped himself to two heavy clay pots from the wagon while Fiona picked up two large baskets filled with undyed thread.
“This is an important day indeed, lass,” Diarmaid said, flashing her a rare grin. It transformed his face, shedding years from him. Grief had hollowed him out, aged him beyond his years. It was good to see him smile.
“It is, isn’t it?” she replied, wishing she felt more excited.
