Chapter 24 Face-to-Face
DIZZINESS SWEPT over Fiona. Christ’s tears. No.
Had he followed her?
Surely not.
Ailean stood just inside the doorway to The Shepherd’s Crook. He was dressed lightly in dusty, dirty braies and lèine, his hair curling damply around the nape of his neck from the hot day. He didn’t look as if he’d just climbed off his horse.
But all the same, he was the last person on Mull she wished to see right now.
Frozen to the spot, she watched as he moved, crossing the common room floor and weaving in and out of a few tables in long, purposeful steps. And then he was standing in front of her.
“Fiona,” he greeted her, his voice slightly breathless. “I went looking for ye.”
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “Is that why ye’re here?”
“No,” he said, his voice lowering. “I’m the Steward of Ardnacross now. I’m repairing the tower north of the village.” He paused then. “Although I hoped ye might have passed this way.”
Her already racing pulse bucked against her ribs. Conflicting emotions crashed through her: foolish disappointment that he hadn’t come after her, and then sharp, piercing anger.
Did the knave think she’d be happy to see him?
All the same, his news—that he’d been made steward of this place—didn’t make sense at all. She wasn’t going to question him on it though. She just wanted him to be gone.
“I looked for ye in Craignure,” he said then.
She jolted. “I told ye I’d never go back there.”
He pulled a face. “Aye … after meeting yer kin, I understand why.”
Heat flushed over her. Oh God. Could her humiliation get any worse? Had he spoken to her parents? Her sisters?
Queasiness rose then. Now, they’d all know her shame. Her face started to burn, and she became aware that everyone in the tavern was staring at them.
This couldn’t go on.
She didn’t care what he was doing here. She just needed to get back to work for now and ignore him.
“Will ye be wanting ale and supper?” she asked curtly, gesturing to a free chair at one of the tables, where two crabbers were playing knucklebones.
“Aye,” he said, his voice subdued now. “Thank ye.”
“Good. Sit down then.” She turned on her heel and stalked back into the kitchen.
She realized, once she stepped inside, that she’d brought the jug and tankard with her—the tankard she’d been about to fill.
Damn it. It was only her first evening here, and she was already making herself look like she was useless.
Calm down, she told herself. Don’t let him rattle ye. Ye got here first. Ye have a job and a roof over yer head. Ye can’t let him ruin things for ye here too.
It might be a simple position at the tavern, but already a few hours in Eithne’s company had made her anxiety lessen a little.
The woman was kind, as was her husband, Ewan.
They’d given her a small room at the back of the building—a space all of her own, even though it was cramped—and agreed to pay her a copper a day for her work.
She couldn’t let them down, because if she messed things up here, there were very few paths available to her.
Heaving in a deep breath, and then another, she tried to get control of herself.
“Is something amiss, Fiona?” Eithne looked up from where she was slicing mutton and placing it onto a trencher with coarse oaten bread.
“No,” she said quickly. “I just realized I forgot something.”
Ducking her head, she pushed her way back out to the common room and delivered the ale to the impatient shepherd who had been waiting for it.
Ailean hadn’t taken a seat with the crabbers.
Instead, he’d moved over to the far side of the common room, where a group of men sat at a booth.
He was talking to them, and she was grateful his attention was elsewhere.
She then returned hurriedly to the kitchen. “We need another mutton, another supper, and an ale,” she informed Eithne, helping herself to more ale from a barrel. “The chieftain’s son is here.”
Eithne’s gaze glinted. “Is that why ye’re flustered? I heard Ailean Maclean rode in this morning. The whole village is talking about how he’s going to rebuild the old tower. It’s about time too. Although I have to say, it’s a strange task to give one man alone.”
It was indeed bizarre, to say the least. But Fiona didn’t want to dwell on it. She didn’t want to dwell on him either.
Waiting while Eithne dished up more mutton and bread, she took the trencher in one hand and a tankard of frothy ale in the other. She then drew in a deep breath and made her way back out into the common room.
One of the men had pulled out a Highland pipe and was now blasting out a rousing tune by the hearth, tapping his foot as he went. A few of the cottars around him had started to sing, their voices creating a din in the small, smoky space.
The noise and distraction were welcome.
She made her way across to where Ailean had pulled up a chair next to the men he was talking to and set his supper down with a thud. “That’ll be a copper.”
Breaking off his conversation, Ailean glanced up. He dug into his coin purse—which she noticed was bulging—and extracted two coins.
“I said just one,” she said, frowning.
“The other’s for ye, lass,” he replied with a half-smile.
Reaching out, she made a point of taking just one. “I don’t want yer charity,” she replied coldly, aware now that the other men at the table were watching her with unabashed interest.
She was making a bit of a scene, but her blood was up, and she didn’t care.
How dare this man walk in here, throw her a copper, and think he could make things right? He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. The sight of him reminded her of how he’d just stood there, silent and tongue-tied, while his father shamed them both.
Not waiting for his response, she turned on her heel and stalked off.
A few whistles and catcalls followed her.
“That’s it, lass,” one of the shepherds at a nearby table called out. “Ye show Maclean who’s master here.”
Her cheeks burned, sweat sliding down her back.
She wanted to snarl at the shepherd. She wanted to snarl at them all. She was sick of being humiliated. Tired to her bones of it.
She wanted to run from this tavern and keep running until she left it all behind her. But stubbornness dug in its heels. She’d already been cast from Dounarwyse because of him, and she wouldn’t leave The Shepherd’s Crook on his account as well.
A long evening followed. She’d hoped Ailean would eat his supper, down his ale, and leave. But he didn’t. Instead, he spoke to several men, clearly making connections and organizing things. She watched out of the corner of her eye as he handed over coin and extracted promises.
It was quieter in the common room now. A few patrons had gone home to their wives and bairns, resting up before another day of hard work. Eithne was serving a fresh round of ales to a group of men dicing in the center of the room, and Fiona was wiping down tables.
“Can we talk, Fiona?” She jumped before turning to find Ailean standing right behind her. “Just for … a few moments.”
“I’m busy.”
“Ye can take a few moments for yerself. Ye haven’t stopped all evening,” Eithne called out, waving her away. “Go on. Those tables can keep.”
Panic bloomed under Fiona’s ribs. She knew Eithne meant kindness, but she wasn’t helping. Unfortunately, the few remaining patrons were already watching; to refuse now would make a spectacle of it.
She threw down her damp cloth and pushed past Ailean toward the door.
The cool evening air caressed her face as she stepped outside. The slow gloaming settled over Mull, violet and gold. The last light shimmered across the still Sound. Somewhere nearby, a woman laughed, the sound bright and careless.
Fiona felt none of it.
She wanted to hit something.
She walked a few yards from the inn and spun sharply, with Ailean halting just short of colliding with her. Arms folding tight across her chest, chin lifting, she faced him. “Out with it.”
He looked older tonight. The careless charm was gone. His green eyes were shadowed, his jaw tight, as if the day had carved years into him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. The words came out rough. He swallowed and tried again. “I’m … so sorry, Fiona. I—God’s blood, I handled it badly. I didn’t want ye to leave Dounarwyse. I thought—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. “—I thought I could fix it after.”
Her pulse thudded in her ears. “Ye had yer chance to defend me,” she said, voice clipped. “And ye held yer tongue.”
Color flared along his cheekbones. “I did. And I deserve yer anger. I know that. But ye should know … Lady Kylie wants ye back. Ye can return. Ye don’t have to serve ale here. Ye can finish yer tapestry.”
The image rose unbidden: her loom in the tower chamber, Arabella chattering beside her, sunlight pooling across the threads.
For a heartbeat, longing made her chest ache.
Then shame followed. Cold and sharp. She saw the whispers. The looks. The knowing smiles.
The loom vanished.
“I can’t show my face there again,” she said. Her voice wavered. “Not after—”
“Don’t” —he cut in— “pay the whispers no mind. They’ll pass. What matters is that ye aren’t ruined.”
She stared at him, struck by how simplistic his view of things was. “Aren’t I?”
Silence followed, and eventually, he raked a hand through his hair and muttered a curse. “This is the last thing I wanted.”
She let that hang. It changed nothing.
“So, this is yer punishment?” she asked then, gesturing toward the ruined tower looming north. “To rebuild … that?”
He stilled, his throat working. “My father disinherited me.”
Fiona’s breath caught. The world seemed to tilt. For a moment, she couldn’t speak.
“Lyle will be chieftain,” he added quietly. “Not me.”
The weight of it settled between them. Fiona blinked. She hadn’t imagined he’d fall so far. “Well … I suppose ye got what ye wanted.”
Ailean exhaled slowly. “It’s been building a while … between Da and me. I dragged ye into it. He’s right in some ways. I chafe. I always have. And now … I’m banished here to make something of Ardnacross Tower.”
“So, ye really are staying,” she whispered.
He nodded.
Dizziness swept over her, and she took an involuntary step back.
She had come here to escape him, yet he’d followed.
He moved toward her. She retreated again, keeping the distance.
“Let me make this right,” he said, his tone imploring now. “Let me help ye, Fi—”
“Don’t call me that.” The words cracked. “I don’t need ye to fix anything.”
Alarm flared in his eyes. “Ye’re a gifted weaver. Ye deserve better than this.”
“The local weaver turned me away,” she snapped. “This is what I have. And I don’t want yer pity. Or yer guilt. Yesterday told me exactly where I stand.”
He flinched.
Good.
“I see ye now,” she said, breathing hard. “Beneath the charm … ye’re a self-centered cur. A man of poor character. I was nothing but sport to ye, wasn’t I?”
She watched her words strike, watched him flinch.
“No,” he replied hoarsely. “I—”
“If ye have any respect left for me, ye’ll treat me like a stranger,” she cut him off. “Let me rebuild my life.”
He stared at her as if she’d just slammed a fist into his gut.
For a heartbeat, she almost softened. Then she remembered his silence.
Her arms locked tighter across her chest. “Is there anything else?”
He shook his head, stunned now.
She stepped around him and walked back inside The Shepherd’s Crook.