Chapter 25
25
Rain pelted the windows and fell in muted thuds onto the thatched roof of the house. Saoirse stood at the basin, staring out the window. Or, rather, pretending to stare out the window. The rain was so strong, it distorted the view beyond the sheet of water. Behind her, Aileen stood at the stove, frying some fish for their breakfast while humming a tune from the previous night. The same tune Saoirse desperately wanted to get out of her head. The slow, mournful air that she’d danced to with Owen had haunted her all night. Her eyes drifted closed, and she swayed gently back and forth, suddenly back in his arms. She could smell the wool and leather wafting from him and hear his heart thundering in his chest. Her scalp tingled where he’d laid his head, and her lips buzzed with the desire to reach up and brush them against his.
A loud clank shook her back to reality. You’re supposed to not be thinking about that. She turned to Aileen. “Do you need any help?”
Aileen, who seemed equally far away in a daydream of her own, blinked slowly. “I’m sorry. What was that?”
“Can I do anything to help?” Saoirse asked again.
Aileen shook her head and slid two pieces of fish onto two plates. Saoirse glanced back toward the window. “Owen already ate,” Aileen said, answering Saoirse’s unasked question.
“Right, of course.” She sat down and filled their teacups.
They ate in relative quiet for a long while until Aileen broke the silence. “’Twas great craic last night, aye?”
Saoirse nodded, studying her friend’s face. “You definitely seemed to have a grand time,” she said at length, a knowing smile tickling her lips.
Aileen blanched. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” Saoirse said, shrugging, “first, there was the first pancake.”
Aileen blushed and dropped her gaze to the table, a wee giggle escaping her lips.
“Then ya won the pancake race,” Saoirse continued. “And then, of course, there was the dancin’.”
“I’d say I’ll be the reigning pancake race champion for years to come,” Aileen said on a laugh. “As for the dancin’...”
Saoirse smiled. “It seemed you and Hugh really hit it off.”
“Och.” Aileen stood to clear their dishes and refill their tea. “We just needed to round out our set. And Mister McDonagh needed a partner.” Aileen shrugged and Saoirse noticed how she avoided her gaze.
“Oh, right. Yes, of course.” Saoirse stood. “And I suppose it would’ve been rude to leave him without a partner for all the couples dances.” She winked at her friend, enjoying immensely how it made Aileen blush even further.
“Indeed,” Aileen said, her voice threatening to crack with laughter. “Besides, if ya wanna talk about couples dances, ya should be talkin’ about yerself and me brother.” Aileen pinned Saoirse with her own knowing look.
Now it was Saoirse’s turn to have heat flush her face. Her pulse quickened. She liked it much better with the tables turned the other way round. “Let’s not talk about that.”
Laughing again, Aileen nodded. “Ah, so she can dish it out, folks, but she can’t take it.”
Saoirse rolled her eyes and moved to the front door. She started pulling on a pair of wellies, then tossed a shawl around her shoulders.
“Ah, c’mon,” Aileen said, closing the distance between them. “It’s just a bit of fun.”
Saoirse forced a lightness into her voice that she didn’t feel. “Oh, I know. I just need to get a wiggle on in the shed.”
“Mm.” Aileen searched her face for a moment, not looking the least bit convinced. “If ye’re sure.”
“Aileen,” Saoirse said, laying a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I’m made of sturdier stuff than that. I assure you, it takes a lot more than a wee joke or two to offend me.”
“Alright.” Aileen relaxed, and an easy smile spread across her face. “Owen said he’d be up to the shed after he saw to the sheep.”
Saoirse nodded and opened the door just as a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, followed almost immediately by a deafening crack of thunder.
“ ádh mór ,” Aileen called into the melee.
Saoirse hurried out into the storm, grateful for Aileen’s wish of good fortune as she weathered the elements. The ground almost ran like a river, and the hill behind the house looked like a waterfall. It would appear she’d need all the luck Aileen could wish her. The fleeting thought sprang to her mind that it seemed a miracle the house wasn’t flooding. But she pushed it from her mind as she tried to figure out the best way to get up to the shed. The road path had a good inch or so of water running down it, covering thick mud, no doubt. But the path cutting through the grass behind the house was cascading like Glenevin Waterfall. She decided to take her chances on the muddy road.
Several minutes later, soaked to the bone, with mud covering her wellies almost to the top, she arrived at the weaving shed. She unlocked it, went inside, and made quick work of lighting the lanterns. She wished, not for the first time, that the shed had a small hearth in which to light a fire, in order to lend more heat to the space. Alas, she would have to hope working the loom would suffice in warming her up. She removed her cloak, shook the excess water from it, and hung it on the peg by the door. As she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, she hovered her hands over one of the lanterns and rubbed them together, thankful for even the modicum of heat it provided.
She waited until she was certain her sleeves and hair were dry enough that they wouldn’t drip all over the thread as she wove. Granted, tweed was known for the protection it provided against the elements. It was a great natural barrier from the rain. However, the majority of that protection came from the tight weave of the cloth, rather than the yarn fibers themselves. And she didn’t want to do anything to risk the quality of the weave or cause the colors to bleed.
As she set to work, humming the song Owen had taught her, the storm outside raged on and grew more and more intense. Before long, she could hear the maelstrom over the din of the loom, which set her nerves on edge. If things got much worse, she wouldn’t be able to make it back down to the house. Or worse, Owen wouldn’t make it up to the shed and would possibly end up stuck out in the fields with the sheep if visibility got to be too poor.
Suddenly the door flew open and, as if summoned by her thoughts, Owen appeared. The wind tore the door from his grip and slammed it against the inner wall of the shed. He rounded it and leaned his entire weight against it, but the squall was an equal foe. Saoirse ran over to help. Rain lashed around the edges of the door and against her face, blurring her vision as the gale tore her hair from its place atop her head and plastered it to her face. Above them, the branches of the birch trees clacked together as though trying to join in the thunder’s torrent. They fought against the elements for what felt like hours. It was as if Finn McCool himself was pushing against them. Finally, feet slipping against the wet ground, they at last wrested the door closed and latched it.
They both leaned back against the door still, enjoying the relative quiet that now enveloped the small interior of the weaving shed. Their breaths came in heavy puffs, and water dripped down their faces and clothes.
“Thanks,” Owen said at length, his chest still heaving from the exertion.
Saoirse nodded, then closed her eyes and swallowed in an attempt to regain control of her breathing.
After another long moment, Owen pushed against the door to stand, then pulled off his soaked slicker and hat. He hung them on the peg with Saoirse’s cloak and then rubbed his hands back and forth over his head, trying to clear the water from it.
“My kingdom for a fireplace in here,” he mumbled.
Saoirse chuckled. “I’d had the same thought.”
Owen turned and eyed the western wall, as though trying to decide if it would be possible to put one in. At length, he spun and picked up a lantern. Hovering one hand over the top and wiggling his fingers in the warmth, he approached the loom. “Let’s have a look at how things are goin’, aye?”
Saoirse stepped around him and pointed out the length she’d been able to complete so far today. The room was dim at best, and the details of all the different specks of color, as well as the quality of the weave, were almost impossible to see.
Owen held the lantern aloft and bent until his nose was almost touching the tweed. “Not bad,” he murmured. When he lowered the lantern and tipped it forward, Saoirse’s breath hitched, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. She turned away, the fear gripping her chest nearly suffocating her.
“Are ya alright?”
Saoirse rolled her lips together and squeezed her eyes shut. “Mm-hmm.”
She heard Owen’s footsteps scuff over to her. “What is it?”
She opened her eyes and could just make out the glow of the lantern light, sending chills skittering up her spine and down her arms. She shivered to try to clear them. She attempted to force a lightness in her voice as she chuckled. “It just made me nervous ... you leanin’ over the tweed with the lantern.”
When he didn’t respond, she looked over her shoulder at him. His face was stoic, concern shadowing his features. “Fire makes ya nervous, doesn’t it?”
Her eyes popped wide for a split second before she righted them. Was it that obvious?
“And why wouldn’t it, with what happened to yer family?” He stepped closer, warmth radiating off of him and spreading across Saoirse’s back, despite the damp. “Want to talk about it?”
In a flash, she could see the charred rubble, smoke still wafting up from it. Screams she’d never heard echoed in her mind—what she imagined her family’s last moments sounded like. She shook her head. “I just had a bad experience, is all,” she said around the lump threatening to choke her.
His silence stretched long like the strands of warp running the length of the loom. Saoirse couldn’t decide if she wanted him to press her on it or not. She wanted so badly to be free of this burden but was also terrified at the thought of losing him—and Aileen—were he to learn the truth. Not to mention the rest of the community she was coming to love so dearly.
When he returned to studying the fabric on the loom, Saoirse released a breath that had been burning in her chest.
“Well done,” he said, nodding at what she’d completed so far. “Let’s keep it up. I’ll work on bundling up the completed rolls. Try to protect them in case the roof leaks or somethin’. You weave.”
Saoirse’s head bobbed as she reclaimed her place at the front of the loom. As she settled into her weaving pattern, she stole glances at Owen from time to time. She could see his shoulders flexing even under his jumper as he held the finished tweed aloft and folded it. When that task was completed, he started reloading the basket next to the loom that held the skeins of colored yarn that would be used on the shuttle.
The hours rolled by, and the storm raged on. At one point, it seemed to be dying out, but then the winds picked back up with such ferocity, Saoirse feared the whole shed might be swept away.
When the current skein of weft yarn was nearly spent, Saoirse cut it free from the shuttle and tied it off to the warp. She then straightened and stretched her arms high overhead and twisted back and forth. Taking a deep breath, she rolled her head from side to side and front to back.
“It’s tiring, isn’t—” A massive crash interrupted Owen. Something thudded heavily on the roof, then rolled down and crashed in front of the shed. The window to the right of the door exploded, knocking the lantern that had been sitting on the sill to the ground. The reservoir holding the oil shattered and the fuel spilled across the floor. Flames erupted and instantly spread across the path the oil had left.
Saoirse shrieked and collapsed into a ball on the ground. She covered her ears, unable to stand the sound of her own screaming but also unable to stop as, even from across the room, the heat washed over her back and the flames licked up the fuel from the floor.
Owen shouted, and his footsteps rushed toward the blaze. Saoirse remained curled up, eyes squeezed shut, hands pressed over her ears. But after a minute or so, the intensity of the heat began to wane, and it was only then she became conscious of the scuffs and thwaps that repeated over and over again.
A chill filled the air once more and then warm hands rubbed across her back. She jolted at the touch and curled even tighter.
“Easy now.” Owen’s voice was hoarse as he coughed. “Let’s get you out o’ here.” He hooked his arms underneath hers and pulled her to her feet. She couldn’t fully support her own weight, so she leaned into him. He wrapped one arm around her waist and helped her to the door. Rain poured in through the broken window, dampening the smoke that had filled the room.
Owen reached for the door, then paused. “Actually, it’s too bad out there. We’ll need to stay until it dies down.”
Unbidden, sobs shook Saoirse’s body once more.
“Shh, shh,” Owen crooned in her ear. “It’s alright. We’re alright.” He pressed a kiss to the side of her head and held her close. After a moment, he turned them back toward the loom. “Let’s get ya settled over here out of the elements.” They shuffled behind the loom, and he helped lower her down to sit.
“I’ll be right back,” he said and headed to the door.
Saoirse hugged her knees to her chest and buried her face in them. Her whole body shook, and her tears continued to flow. Sudden warmth drew her attention to her right side as Owen slid down next to her. One arm reached across her shoulders and pulled her to lean against his side.
“You’re shaking,” he said, his voice still raw. He softly squeezed her closer, and she buried her face into his shoulder. “It’s okay. Ye’re safe. I’ve got you.”
Sitting there, wrapped in his arms, Saoirse felt safe for the first time in weeks. And the relief of it pushed all the pain and heartache to the surface. Fresh sobs wracked her body.
He shifted to wrap both arms around her, cupping her head with his left hand. He held her and let her cry for a long moment, and yet her sobs didn’t slow. The storm inside her nearly matched the intensity of the one raging outside. “Hey, hey,” he said, his voice low and laced with concern. “It’s alright.” He pressed his lips against the top of her head and held them there for a beat before resting his cheek against the same spot.
At length, she began to calm, her breath hitching every now and then. He leaned back and brushed the hair away from her cheeks. When she met his gaze, his face crumpled. “Oh, peata .” He kissed her forehead, then pulled back to look at her again.
They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. When her breath shuddered again, he leaned in and kissed one cheek, then the other. Saoirse pressed into his kiss, eyes fluttering closed at the feel of his lips against her skin.
He reached up to brush her cheek with his right hand, but she noticed when his gaze fell on his scars, he made like he was going to drop it. Saoirse caught his hand, held his gaze, and brought his palm to her lips so she could press a slow, tender kiss to the wound that had slashed across it. “I kiss the hurt that brought you to me,” she whispered.
Owen’s shoulders relaxed, and he brushed his thumb across her mouth. His gaze flitted to her lips then back up to her eyes, and the air between them stilled. It seemed even the gales outside quieted as electricity buzzed in the air. He leaned forward slowly, his eyes searching hers. When his lips brushed against hers, feather light, it was as though he was asking permission to continue. Butterflies erupted in Saoirse’s stomach as she considered briefly the consequences if she were to give in to his kiss the way she so badly wanted to.
But sitting here, in his arms, feeling safe and secure for the first time in ages, with him looking at her that way, she wanted nothing more than to be consumed by his embrace. When their lips first met, the kiss began slowly, melting gently like ice in the sun on the first day of spring. It was as if they both wanted this moment to last forever and were unhurried, sinking deeper and deeper into one another, their lips speaking together all the things their words could never say.
When they finally pulled away, he pressed his forehead against hers. “Well, eh ... thank you for that.”
They both laughed nervously, and Saoirse playfully rolled her eyes. “My pleasure.”
Owen sat back against the wall, still studying her face. “But really, are ya alright?”
She searched his gaze, a new war waging in her heart. She took his hand in both of hers, her thumbs rubbing arcs on the back of it, his scars rough against her skin. While his wounds hadn’t actually brought him to her, they had allowed her to stay and get to know him. And now, after that kiss, it cemented in her the desire to be fully open and honest with him. If they were going to be romantically involved, she couldn’t imagine fully giving herself over to him without giving him everything—including her guilt-laden past. She swallowed down the terrifying unknown of how Owen would react and then took a deep breath.
“My family died in a fire.”
His brow creased in pity. “I know. I’m so sorry,” he said. The light through the window had begun to turn from black and silver to bluish gray.
She shook her head. “But there’s more. Lots more.”