She had no reason for a low mood. Indeed, that warming scene inThe Shepherd’s Crookstayed with her. She was welcome here once more. And just as well too, for Ardnacross had her heart. The morning sun on the hills, the cadence of men’s voices as they worked in the fields, and the rumble of the waves against shingle—she loved it all. She was financially secure too now, with work for at least a year.
She should have been content.
But she wasn’t.
Something wasn’t right. As the days had passed, a dullness had settled over her.
Pride is a cold bedfellow.
Kylie’s words haunted her.
She tried not to think about Ailean, although she’d caught glimpses of him once or twice. He’d dropped intoThe Shepherd’s Crook,though she’d let Eithne serve him. She’d kept her distance. Still, she’d felt his gaze on her now and then—never lingering. He understood. A line had been crossed.
Heaviness dragged at her as the last supplies were unloaded. Kylie had ordered extra thread, more than she’d expected. After the men departed, Fiona returned to the shed and carefully unwrapped the tapestry.
It was untouched.
Her gaze lingered on the blue of the water, the grey of the walls, the clinker-built pirate cog she’d just begun.
Excitement flickered, piercing the heaviness.
Tracing her fingers along the tightly packed weft, memories rose unbidden—of a sunny chamber at Dounarwyse, of stolen hours, of peace she’d once dared to hope might last.
Ailean. Suddenly, she recalled the brush of his arm against hers as they sat side by side at her loom, the way he’d teased her, and the sense of belonging that had wrapped itself around her for a brief time.
Her vision blurred.
“Ye will get over this,” she told herself firmly. “Overhim.”
But, even to her own ears, the words rang hollow.
Fiona was pouring ale into a patron’s tankard when the door opened, and Ailean walked intoThe Shepherd’s Crook.
Curse her heart—it jolted in her chest.
He looked windswept, bringing with him a cold draft that he shut out quickly as he closed the door and shrugged off his heavy fur-lined cloak.
“The wind’s cold enough to freeze yer balls off,” one of the shepherds called out. “Isn’t it, Maclean?”
“Aye,” Ailean replied with a lopsided smile. “Thought I needed some of Ewan’s cooking to warm me through.”
The fire roared. The air was thick with wood smoke and too many bodies pressed close, but it was far more pleasant than being outside. There were more couples than usual tonight, huddled over steaming bowls of boar stew with platters of coarse oaten bread and cheese.
Eithne greeted him with a smile. “Find yerself a seat, Maclean, and I’ll bring ye a meal.”
He nodded, smiling back, and then his gaze shifted to Fiona. Of course, he’d seen her the moment he stepped inside. She knew it, even as she pretended that he hadn’t.
When their gazes met across the smoky common room, they acknowledged each other. Properly—for the first time since she’d fled the tower. Ailean’s smile faded. Slowly, almost tentatively, he nodded.
Fiona nodded back and turned away, finishing pouring the ale. Her hands were shaking.
“All well, lass?” a shepherd asked, frowning. “Ye’re all flushed.”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, retreating into the kitchen.
“So, she hasn’t forgiven ye yet, lad?”
Ailean gave a humorless half-laugh and mopped up the last of his stew with a hunk of bread. It was one of the most delicious things he’d ever eaten, and after a day laying stones while a vicious wind whipped in off the Sound, the meal was welcome indeed. “No,” he said with a shrug. “And ye can’t be surprised.”
