Chapter 12 Hard Truths
A STUNNED SILENCE fell.
Dizziness washed over Fiona. Shite. This was the last thing she needed. “Arabella—”
Arabella’s gaze snapped to her. Her grey eyes clouded first with surprise, then hurt. “Why didn’t ye say?”
Fiona made a small sound in the back of her throat. She then waved a hand in what she hoped looked like a nonchalant manner. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Of course, it matters.” Arabella watched her now with a shrewd look that made Fiona’s skin prickle. “Every lass in Dounarwyse wants a chance to dance with Ailean. He sets hearts aflutter wherever he goes.” She winked then, the hurt fading from her eyes. “I don’t believe it … ye’re blushing.”
Fiona swallowed. Hard. “I’m not. It’s just hot in here.”
And that wasn’t a lie. They’d crossed the threshold from spring into summer. The air drifting through the open window was humid and heavy. Her kirtle clung to her back—and more so now that sweat had broken along her spine.
She couldn’t let either woman suspect what had truly happened the night before, or she’d be out on her ear.
Foolish chit. She’d watched lasses all her life ruin themselves over men not worth the trouble, who’d thrown caution aside for a single night of passion, only to regret it the next day.
As she did now.
Lord, she wished she could go back in time. Refuse Ailean’s dance. Spurn his flirting. Better yet, feign a headache and miss the Bealtunn celebrations entirely. But it was foolish to dwell on what couldn’t be undone. What mattered was ensuring no further damage was wrought.
“He’s charming, to be sure,” Fiona admitted after a pause. “Though he does have a high opinion of himself.”
Arabella snorted with laughter. Her shoulders relaxed. A good sign. She was already on her way to forgiving Fiona for the omission. Arabella wore the world lightly. She wasn’t one to harbor grudges.
Carrie, on the other hand, regarded Fiona with narrowed eyes, as if she were a cuckoo making itself comfortable in a dunnock’s nest. She didn’t like that look.
It set her hackles rising. And yet, at the same time, guilt stabbed at her.
She’d all but forgotten Carrie the night before.
As soon as Ailean had swept her into his arms, she’d been oblivious to anyone except him.
What kind of friend did that make her? She needed to smooth this over.
“Ye danced long with Rowan,” Fiona said carefully. “I saw.”
In truth, she’d barely noticed, but she didn’t want to admit such.
Arabella had just handed them both cups of wine and was helping herself to the largest honey cake. She could eat them all. Fiona had lost her appetite.
“We did,” Carrie admitted. Her expression didn’t warm. “He is a good dancer. Indeed.” The words were stiff. Overly formal. Not like Carrie at all. “When I looked for ye later, ye were nowhere to be found.”
Fiona’s heart thudded in her ears.
By the Saints, she wished her cheeks would stop burning. They were betraying her completely.
Remain calm. Everything depended on it.
“In truth, dancing so long exhausted me.” Fiona lifted her cup and took a fortifying gulp, wishing it weren’t watered down. “And the smoke gave me a headache. Eventually, I bid Ailean goodnight and returned to the castle.”
Carrie nodded. Her expression clouded, uncertain, almost as if she believed her.
Good. She needed to redirect this conversation, and quickly.
“Enough about me,” Fiona said with a tight smile. “I’m glad ye and Rowan finally had time together. Did ye talk much?”
Carrie’s fingers tightened around her cup of wine. She hadn’t yet taken a sip. “We spoke between dances. Drank mead. Ate buttered bread.”
“And what did ye speak of?” Arabella asked eagerly. Excitement gleamed in her eyes. Her father kept her well-cossetted, but she loved to hear about the adventures of other lasses. Those who didn’t have an overprotective Da, like Jack Maclean, watching over them.
Carrie’s gaze never left Fiona’s face. “I wanted to know his thoughts. His opinions … his stories from childhood.”
Ice pooled in the pit of Fiona’s belly. Something was wrong. Arabella seemed oblivious, yet she wasn’t.
“I tried to draw him out,” Carrie continued, eyes hardening. “But at every turn … he steered the talk back to ye.”
Fiona’s legs were leaden as she climbed the final narrow steps to her bower.
She was bone tired. She’d slept little the night before and had fought fatigue all day. Worse still, the happiness she’d found within these walls felt close to shattering.
Her exchange with Carrie still haunted her.
Even Arabella’s smile had faded afterward.
The bitterness in Carrie’s voice had been unmistakable.
In a few carefully chosen words, she’d made it clear she believed Rowan was smitten with Fiona, and that she might steal the man Carrie had quietly loved for years.
Fiona had tried to explain. She’d assured Carrie she had no interest in Rowan, no romantic regard at all. Carrie hadn’t truly listened.
A door had slammed shut between them.
Carrie had left shortly after. Fiona had returned to the loom while Arabella resumed untangling the thread, the silence strained but merciful. Arabella hadn’t pried.
Still, the shadow lingered.
As Fiona pushed open the door to her tiny chamber beneath the rafters, tears pricked her eyes. What was this? She wasn’t a weeper. She was too practical for that.
Yet the day had worn her down, and she’d nearly undone herself.
She crossed to the small window, where rolled sacking served as a shutter, and pushed it open. The view stretched south to where a rugged coastline met a slowly darkening sky.
At this hour, many servants enjoyed a brief respite—going out for a stroll or drinking and playing at dice or knucklebones in the kitchen below. Fiona often joined them. She’d take pleasure in sitting with Carrie, sharing wine and gossip.
But Carrie hadn’t sat beside her at supper tonight. Instead, she’d chosen a place near Essie, the cook. The snub had been deliberate—and it stung.
Suddenly, her new life, and the joy it had brought, seemed fragile. She’d thrown herself eagerly into her friendship with Carrie. It had burned hot and fast, yet wasn’t built on strong foundations. It could easily crumble if she let it.
“I need to make her understand,” Fiona whispered. “I don’t want Rowan.”
Anger flared—at Rowan most of all. The man was a dolt. Why hadn’t he encouraged Carrie? Why was he blind to what was before him?
That complication was the last thing Fiona needed.
She rested her hands on the stone lintel and gave herself a stern talking to.
“Remember who ye are, Fiona Mackinnon,” she muttered, even as the intoxicating memory of Ailean’s hands on her intruded, the wicked promise in his eyes.
“Remember what matters … and why ye are here. Don’t go throwing away yer future … over a rogue.”
“What a relief it is to be outside,” Arabella said with a sigh. “It was unbearable in that workroom.”
Fiona nodded, glancing up at the hard blue sky. The lass wasn’t wrong; it was a scorching day. Even the thick stone walls hadn’t kept the heat at bay, and there was no sea breeze to ease it.
By midafternoon, Arabella had rebelled, insisting on a walk along the shore path.
“Days like these are rare,” she informed Fiona as they passed beneath the portcullis. “We must profit from them.”
“Aye, but the tapestry won’t weave itself,” Fiona muttered.
The lass shot her a quelling look. “Ye chain yerself to that loom. It’s not healthy.” And with that, she hooked her arm through Fiona’s and led her down toward the village.
Sunlight bathed the fields, where folk worked the run rigs, hoeing, weeding, and planting. Women gathered washing. Fowl scratched at the dust. An elderly woman shelled beans on her doorstep and called out to Arabella, who waved and smiled back.
They were nearing the village edge when Fiona noticed activity ahead.
A long, low-slung building made of stone crouched on the edge of the road. Men worked atop The Dounarwyse Tavern’s thatched roof, stripped to the waist in the heat.
And among them—
Ailean.
Tall, lean, auburn hair tied at his nape. His body gleamed with sweat as he drove nails into the timber.
Fiona’s step faltered. Mother Mary. This was the last thing she needed.
After Bealtunn, she’d behaved herself. She’d worked hard these past weeks to keep her world narrow, moving between her workshop, the kitchen, and her bower. All to avoid trouble. And she’d succeeded. Until today.
He looked up then, and their eyes met.
“Ailean!” Arabella called, waving. “Aren’t ye meant to be meeting with yer Da and the bailiff?”
“I was,” he admitted easily, his gaze never leaving Fiona. “But Lyle fancies taxes more than I do.” He gestured to the roof. “The lads needed help.”
Arabella blinked. “Ye prefer this?”
“Aye.”
And despite herself, Fiona’s interest stirred. He looked happier here than she’d ever seen him. Relaxed.
“Why?” Arabella asked, clearly stupefied by his response.
His cheek dimpled as he smiled at his cousin. “It’s good, honest work, Bella.” He paused then. “I’ve always liked building things … working with my hands.”
His gaze flicked to Fiona once more, and heat rolled over her. They both knew what the man could do with his hands. She didn’t need reminding.
A heartbeat followed before he spoke once more. “And where are ye off to?”
“Just a walk,” Arabella replied, not seeming to notice the charge in the air, as if a thunderstorm had just rolled in. “It’s stifling inside.”
“Don’t go too far,” he said, brows drawing together. “Or I’ll come and fetch ye.”
Arabella waved him off.
His attention slid back to Fiona.
“I haven’t seen ye in a while, Fi.”
Her heart kicked. She wished he wouldn’t address her so informally. So intimately. “I’ve been busy.”
“All she talks about is that tapestry,” Arabella laughed. “I had to drag her away from the loom.”
Fiona tugged at Arabella’s arm, irritation spearing her. “Well, let us be on our way.” She didn’t want to come across as rude, but she really couldn’t linger here. No good would come from it.
They moved forward. However, Fiona made the mistake of raising her gaze once more. The men were staring at pretty Arabella, but Ailean was focused wholly on Fiona.
He smiled—warm, intimate.
And her belly somersaulted.