Chapter 25 Consequences
“THAT’LL DO FOR today, Fiona. Ye must be dead on yer feet by now.”
Glancing up from where she’d just put another brick of peat on the fire, Fiona looked over to see Eithne emerging from the kitchen, carrying two earthen cups. With a sigh, the innkeeper settled herself onto a nearby chair and placed them on the table.
“Come. Sit for a wee while. Ye’ve certainly earned a cool ale.”
Fiona huffed a tired breath, brushing off her hands.
Indeed, she had—although she’d deliberately kept busy all evening, avoiding her own thoughts, avoiding meeting anyone’s eye, avoiding thinking about the future or the past. Being busy kept her rooted in the present, and that was the way she liked it.
Still, she could tell from Eithne’s face that the woman wanted to know a little more about her, and that was understandable.
Moving across to the table, Fiona settled herself into the chair opposite. She took the cup and lifted it to her lips, drinking deeply.
That was better. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was.
It was stifling in here, even with the fire burning low.
Weariness hit her all at once, heavy and insistent, pushing her down into her seat.
She’d been living on her nerves ever since leaving Dounarwyse.
Now, it felt as if everything inside her was giving way.
All she wanted was to crawl into bed, pull up the covers, and wish the world away.
Eithne watched her with frank curiosity, her blue gaze assessing. “So,” she asked quietly, “how is it that ye know Ailean Maclean?”
Fiona stiffened. Of course, she should have expected this. It was unusual for a man like him to show such interest in a woman like her, and after asking to speak to her privately, he’d set all the ears and tongues in the tavern flapping and wagging.
Curse him. She left scandal behind, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t follow her. The folk of Ardnacross would discover her shame soon enough.
It was a cruel twist of fate that his father had banished him to the very place she’d chosen as refuge. In a village this small, there was no avoiding him. And no avoiding the gossip that would follow.
Her belly twisted. What a mess.
Drawing in a steadying breath, she considered the story she would tell. She was loath to admit the truth; she’d no wish to be cast out again. Eithne seemed kind, but even kind people had limits.
“I did some work at Dounarwyse for a short while,” she said after a pause. “Lady Maclean commissioned me to work on a tapestry. That was a year ago. And I met the chieftain’s son briefly during one of his trips home from war.”
“He seems quite taken by ye,” Eithne said with a knowing smile.
Fiona’s cheeks warmed. “Perhaps. But the man is an incorrigible flirt. I try not to encourage him.”
“Well, I can see why the lasses favor him. He’s braw indeed,” Eithne replied, eyeing Fiona in a way that made her suspect she saw right through her.
“I remember him from his last couple of visits, but he seems a little different this time.” A faint line appeared between her brows. “Troubled. Subdued.”
Fiona shrugged as if she had no notion why that might be.
Silence settled between them as they sipped their ale. The common room was blessedly quiet now, with only the soft pop of the dying hearth and the muted sounds of Ewan tidying in the kitchen.
It was a companionable moment, and after the day she’d had, Fiona found she needed it more than she’d realized.
At last, she cleared her throat and met Eithne’s eye. “So … did I pass my first day of work?” she asked, trying to sound lighter than she felt. “Will ye keep me on?”
Eithne inclined her head. “I think so. Ye’re the hardest-working lass I’ve ever had serve in here.” She paused. “Just make sure ye don’t exhaust yerself.”
Fiona smiled back. “I was hoping to make a good impression,” she admitted. “Though I am a hard worker.”
Their gazes held for a moment before Eithne nodded, her lips curving into a half-smile.
She was an interesting woman, friendly yet reserved. There was none of the instant closeness Fiona had once shared with Carrie, and remembering how that had ended, she knew that wasn’t such a bad thing.
She wasn’t looking for friendship here.
Just a job. A roof. An honest living.
Carrying a lantern, Fiona stepped outside to the low-slung annex at the back of the tavern.
The night was fine. A silver moon rode high in a cold black sky. All was still, save for the distant bark of a dog.
After the noisy sprawl of Dounarwyse Castle, Ardnacross felt half-asleep—quieter even than Craignure. It would take some getting used to. But her days would be full. And that was what mattered.
She needed time. Time to heal. Time to begin again.
Ye could go back, a small voice whispered. Lady Kylie would welcome ye.
And she would. Fiona was grateful for that kindness. Lady Kylie had always treated her with warmth and respect.
If only her opinion were the only one that mattered.
But when Fiona thought of the servants within those walls—of Rowan, who’d betrayed his own friend out of spite, and of Carrie, who’d resented her over a man not worthy of either of them—she knew returning would be a mistake.
Of course, Ailean hadn’t understood. He’d looked at her with exasperation, then with that quiet, pleading expression, as if willing her to set pride aside. But he was the laird’s son. Until yesterday, he’d never known what it was to stand where she stood.
How precarious it was.
She’d known though—and yet she’d still taken the risk.
Thinking of Ailean made her belly tighten, her chest ache. No. She would not dwell on him. Not now. With luck, his father would summon him back within a few weeks. Rae Maclean’s temper would cool. Ailean’s birthright would be restored. He would be forgiven.
She felt a small, bitter twist in her gut at that.
Life had always been easy for Ailean. No wonder he was so reckless. No wonder he’d believed he could throw everything away and somehow still land on his feet.
And what’s yer excuse? The quiet voice asked. Why did ye let him near ye?
Aye, that was the question. She’d told herself she’d been carried away by the excitement of it all, and there was truth in that. But it wasn’t the whole story. Perhaps there was something in her that broke things before they could break her.
As she stepped into her small room beside the laundry, her throat started to ache.
Maybe, deep down, she hadn’t believed she was worthy of her position at Dounarwyse.
Maybe there was a part of her that believed the words her mother had spat at her over the years.
Lying upon a bed of rough sacking, Ailean stared up at the night sky. The floors above had given way, and the roof had long since collapsed, giving him an unobstructed view.
God’s blood. The task before him was enormous. Crushing.
He’d asked two lads to help him with the well the following morning.
He’d also ordered some hide to create an awning.
Not that a roof mattered tonight—the weather was fine enough at present.
After leaving the tavern, he’d picked up some sacks to make a bed with, and he’d brought up some firewood and a pail of water for Sgòth.
He was exhausted. His body felt leaden. His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep.
Yet still he couldn’t seem to drop off.
His mind was too active.
Of course, he had to get a proper roof on this tower before the weather turned, by Yuletide at the latest. One by one, he catalogued the tasks before him, and all the supplies he’d need to get things done.
But as he planned, something else tugged at him.
Fiona.
She was here in Ardnacross. This was a small place, which meant she’d catch glimpses of him more often than she’d like over the coming months. They couldn’t avoid each other.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that either, yet the stubborn lass refused to return to Dounarwyse.
Huffing a curse under his breath, Ailean rolled over onto his side.
She was just making life harder than it needed to be.
He’d thought she’d want to return to her loom. He knew she was ambitious, that she had dreams of weaving a future for herself—literally. But she’d dug her heels in.
And part of him understood why it would be humiliating to go back to the castle.
Because of ye. It was as if his father were whispering to him then. The games ye play have consequences, ye selfish arse.
He rolled onto his back once more and stared up at the swathe of glittering stars above him.
Fiona had said worse though.
Her words had flayed him like boning knives—more so because each one had landed.
He’d had no defense against her accusations. There was none he could make that wouldn’t sound glib.
Suddenly, he’d seen himself through her eyes: a shallow man who used his charm as both a shield and a weapon. Aye, he could seduce a lass with a melting smile, but he could destroy her with one too.
And he couldn’t lie to himself, not now. It had been a game—a delicious one.
But it wasn’t any longer. He was genuinely sorry for what he’d done, yet wasn’t surprised she didn’t believe him. Words were easy for a man like him.
Actions were what mattered.
Closing his eyes, he breathed shallowly now, pain blooming under his ribs.
His father had stripped him of his birthright, and that hurt, but the old man’s poor opinion of him stung worse.
As did Fiona’s.
He’d burned his life to the ground, but there was hope amongst the ashes. His father had punished him, but he’d also offered him a chance to redeem himself.
And he would. Stone by stone.
And somehow, he would find a way to make it up to Fiona as well.