Chapter 22 DON’T CRUMBLE NOW
AILEAN REACHED CRAIGNURE in the early afternoon.
The day was breezy yet warm, with fluffy clouds scudding across a robin’s egg blue sky. It both surprised and concerned him that he hadn’t met Fiona on the road, for he’d ridden Sgòth hard, and he wondered if some passing traveler had picked her up and sped her on her way.
The sun warmed Ailean’s back as Sgòth clip-clopped along the road leading into the fishing village. A familiar scene greeted him. Fishermen were hauling in the morning’s catch. Bairns ran, chasing each other along the shore. The smell of smoking mackerel and herrings drifted across the waterfront.
Ailean paid none of that any mind.
He was here to find Fiona.
It didn’t take him long to find her family’s cottage. There were few Mackinnons in these parts, and one of the fishwives on the docks had told him that Bryce Mackinnon, the carpenter, lived on the southern edge of the village, down a path bordered by tangles of rosemary and thyme.
Knocking on the door, Ailean was greeted by a sour-faced woman of middling years.
However, despite the bitter set to her mouth and jaw, he immediately recognized Fiona in her. She had the same curly golden-blonde hair, although streaked through with grey. But her face had a harsh edge, as if she’d suffered one too many disappointments in life.
Casting a gaze over him, she inclined her head, taking in no doubt the fine cloth he wore and the stallion standing behind him, marking him as someone of note. “Aye?” she asked.
“I’m Ailean Maclean, son to the Chieftain of Dounarwyse.
” His belly hardened as he introduced himself.
His father hadn’t disowned him, but he might as well have.
The ache of rejection sat like a clenched fist under his ribs.
He’d done his best not to think about it, to focus on locating Fiona, but hurt bloomed now, making his breathing grow shallow. “I’m here to see Fiona.”
The woman started before confusion clouded her grey-blue eyes. “Fiona isn’t here,” she said, frowning. “Is she not at Dounarwyse?”
His pulse kicked. “No,” he said roughly. “She left this morning. I thought she’d come back here.”
The woman snorted. “Well, she hasn’t.”
“Who is it, Ma?” Two young women appeared behind their mother.
Fiona’s sisters. She’d mentioned them, and one glance told him her descriptions had been accurate.
They were both pretty yet wore petulant expressions.
They were dressed in richly-hued kirtles, much finer cloth than he’d have expected a carpenter’s daughters to wear.
“Did ye hear that?” the woman said to them. “Yer sister’s left Dounarwyse.”
One of the lasses gave a rude snort. “She didn’t last long.”
Their mother turned back to him, eyeing him shrewdly. “What did she do? Disgrace herself?”
Ailean clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to discuss what had transpired the night before with these women. He could already see that Fiona would find no allies here. He’d only give them fodder for gossip.
Dolt.
He should have heeded her vow never to return here. Fiona wasn’t a lass to speak idly. Indeed, after only a few moments in the company of these women, he could see why she’d made that decision.
“There was a misunderstanding,” he said after a pause. “I’ve come to put things right with her. The Lady of Dounarwyse wishes her to return.”
Fiona’s mother raised her brows. “Well, that’s a relief. Her coin has been welcome indeed … and we wish to receive more.” She gestured to her daughters. “Thanks to those silver pennies, my girls can dress properly for once.”
Ailean’s gaze narrowed. It dawned on him then that, not only had Fiona sent some of her first wages back here, but that instead of using the coin for practical things, they’d frittered it away.
Fiona’s sisters eyed him hungrily now, naked appraisal in their gazes. One pushed out her bosom and pouted. The other flicked her hair and smiled coyly beneath lowered lashes.
Ailean ignored them. Instead, he took a step backward. He was wasting time. Fiona wasn’t here. And she wouldn’t be returning.
“Ye’ve been travelling long,” Mistress Mackinnon said then, favoring him with a lengthy, scrutinizing look that made his skin prickle. “Do come in and have some ale to slake yer thirst.” Behind her, the lasses preened once more.
Ailean eyed her. He’d rather sup with lepers. “No,” he said curtly. “I must find her. Good day to ye all.”
Turning, he crossed to Sgòth and vaulted onto his back. Moments later, he was cantering away from the carpenter’s cottage.
Cods.
He needed to find Fiona. She hadn’t been on the southern road. Where had she gone?
Worry churned through him now.
He’d ask around. Perhaps she’d taken lodgings at one of the two inns here instead of facing her family.
Surely, someone had seen her.
Fiona limped badly as she made her way into Ardnacross.
The sun was high in the sky. It was at least noon, or shortly after. Her belly was empty, although she barely noticed her hunger, for a heaviness had wrapped itself around her, pushing down on her shoulders like a great yoke.
She’d been largely oblivious to her surroundings on the path north.
After leaving Dounarwyse, she’d followed it along the rocky shore as the sun rose over the Sound.
The morning had been windy and cool, cooler than it had been over the previous hot spell.
But she welcomed the cold slap of the breeze on her cheeks as she walked.
She didn’t want to think about what she’d left behind or what a mess she’d made of things. And she didn’t want to think about Ailean either.
She was conflicted. As disappointed as she was in him, as humiliated as she’d felt in that barmkin as his father had challenged him, she also had to take some responsibility.
She’d willingly taken his hand and traveled along a path she’d known could only lead to ruin—she just hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself.
Having Ailean’s attention had made her feel special, but it had come at a price.
She stumbled as tiredness caught up with her, biting back a curse as pain lanced up her left foot. Both feet felt as if they were on fire. The blisters had formed and then burst as she walked. Her boots were comfortable enough for day-to-day work, but they weren’t meant for long distances.
However, she’d had no choice.
Pausing on the last brow of the hill that led down to where Ardnacross crouched, she cast an eye over the village. It was smaller than she’d hoped. Windswept, with the ruin of a tower shadowing it to the north.
Unlike Craignure, which was a fishing village and port, Ardnacross was a crofter’s hamlet.
Nonetheless, crab cages sat on the shingle shore, and a couple of creel boats had been pulled up above the tide line.
Her gaze then slid over the green fields and hills west of the village, as she took in the patchwork of long run rigs and the sheep grazing upon the hills.
The sight of the sheep came as a relief.
Wool was good. It meant she would have yarn and thread for spinning and weaving. It meant there was likely a weaver here already; hopefully, one who needed some help.
Halting, Fiona made her way over to where a lichen-encrusted boulder rose a few feet from the rocky path.
Before entering Ardnacross, she needed a plan. She needed to rouse herself from her numbness. She needed to think.
Unfastening the pouch Tay had given her, she opened it and peered at the contents.
He hadn’t lied. The purse contained mostly coppers. She had a few silver pennies, but not enough for her to set herself up as a weaver on her own here. Not enough to rent a workshop and buy the materials she needed, or to commission a loom to be made.
No. She would need to find work quickly.
Even so, Tay’s kindness made a little of the numbing fog slough away, letting pain through. She swallowed hard to ease the sudden lump in her throat.
What a mess.
Somehow, his generosity made this all harder to bear.
Never had she felt so alone. Used. Her family had only ever wanted her around for the coin she earned, and to Ailean, she’d only ever been a conquest.
Her eyes started to sting, and her vision misted. And then, before she could stop them, hot, scalding tears began rolling down her cheeks. She’d done so well to keep herself together over the past hours. She’d thought she’d be able to continue.
But the moment she’d stopped, the moment she’d taken a deep breath, the dam had burst. The gravity of her situation could no longer be denied, and she was now placing her hopes in the hands of strangers.
She’d always been so resourceful, so capable, but she was about to put herself truly to the test.
What if the people here were cold and unfriendly? What if they didn’t welcome strangers and bid her to keep moving?
Would she be forced to leave Maclean lands and venture across the border?
Tobermory lay farther up the coast, a bustling fishing port that would likely offer more opportunity—and they were her clansmen too, Mackinnons—but she’d lived her whole life among the Macleans. These lands were her home, and the thought of leaving them filled her with dread.
She’d already lost so much.
Knuckling away her tears, she sniffed loudly.
“Pull yerself together, lass,” she muttered, angry at herself now. “Weeping won’t help ye. Ye need a plan. Ye need a job, and ye need a roof over yer head. Come on. Don’t crumble now. Anything has to be better than returning to yer family.”
And with those rallying words, she lurched to her feet, clenching her teeth as pain lanced through her blistered soles.
Suffering through it, she hobbled down the slope and into Ardnacross.
Although it was small, the village sported a tavern. A squat stone building with a stable and an annex attached. A weathered sign hung over the door, with a fading image of a shepherd standing proudly with his crook.
Squaring her shoulders, Fiona brushed at her face, ensuring no sign of tears remained. Then she drew a deep breath and pushed her way inside.
The smell of woodsmoke and something savory baking greeted her—warm, welcoming smells that made longing rise in her chest. For Dounarwyse: the home she’d found and then lost.
Stepping onto the sawdust-strewn floor, she looked around.
The tavern’s common room was empty at this hour. Not surprising, as most of its patrons would be out working the run rigs or watching their flocks.
It was a good time to ask questions without drawing too much attention.
“Welcome to The Shepherd’s Crook.”
A woman, scarcely more than a couple of years her elder, appeared in the doorway to what was presumably the kitchen.
She wore a flour-dusted apron over a worn homespun kirtle.
Her face was warm, open, and pretty. Fine flaxen hair was tied back in a neat braid over one shoulder.
Her bright blue eyes took Fiona in with interest.
“Good day,” Fiona replied, with what she hoped was a confident smile. “My name is Fiona … I’m a weaver from Craignure looking for work.”
“From Craignure, eh?” The woman eyed her, interest sharpening. “What brings ye here?”
“Family problems,” Fiona replied, even as her cheeks warmed. She didn’t want to lie, yet she couldn’t tell this stranger the truth. “Do ye know of anything going in the village?”
“Well … we do have a weaver already. Beth is her name. I can give ye directions to her home … it’s easy enough. This is a small place.”
Relief barreled through Fiona. Thank the Saints.
But the innkeeper went on. “She’s a prickly sort. If she denies ye, come back and see me.” She smiled. “I can’t give ye weaving work, but I need a lass to serve in here and clean rooms. My last one just went back to her family … belly full of bairn.”
Discomfort flickered through Fiona.
The words, though carelessly spoken, struck home like a well-aimed quarrel.
She and Ailean had been reckless. He’d spilled inside her. Soon, she might have another problem.
A sickly sensation rose then. Don’t think about it.
“I’m Eithne,” the woman said kindly.
“Thank ye,” Fiona replied, forcing herself to focus. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
A short while later, she left The Shepherd’s Crook and made her way up the dusty street to the weaver’s house. Eithne was right. It wasn’t far. Just as well, for she was limping badly now.
Knocking, she steeled herself.
The door opened to reveal a woman about ten years her elder. She’d been pretty once, perhaps, but the sour look on her face turned her haggard. Fiona’s belly dropped. “Good day … I’m a weaver from Craignure,” she said. “I’m new here and looking for work. Are ye in need of an assistant?”
The woman’s gaze narrowed, raking over her. “Running from something, are ye?”
“A falling out with my family,” Fiona said.
“Well, ye made a mistake coming here. Ardnacross doesn’t welcome women of yer sort.”
Yer sort? Heat flushed through Fiona. She hadn’t mentioned the scandal she’d left behind in Dounarwyse, yet somehow the woman smelled her shame.
“Ardnacross only needs one weaver,” Beth snapped. “There’s no room for ye. Be on yer way.”
The door slammed.
Fiona stared at it, her cheeks burning. Spine stiff, she turned back toward the street.
A woman with a swollen belly was hanging washing nearby and gave her a curious but not unkind look.
Fiona plastered on a smile and hobbled back toward the tavern.
“Well,” she huffed to herself, “looks like I’m about to learn some new skills.”