Chapter 28 Unfinished Business
STEPPING BACK, FIONA admired her work.
No, it wasn’t a grand tapestry showing the Macleans in victory at Dounarwyse, but it was a fine job nonetheless. She’d woven a blanket for Diarmaid using wool from the local sheep, and she’d dyed it reds and greens—the colors of the Maclean plaid.
It was a surprise for the carpenter. He’d commissioned a plain blanket for his bed, but he wouldn’t be expecting this.
She’d used up nearly all of her red madder dye and would need to source more, but it was worth it. After all, the carpenter had given her a chance to weave again.
And her days here in Ardnacross had transformed.
Eithne had managed to get her some work. Now that Diarmaid’s blanket was done, she had a few more to weave for other villagers.
Fiona had never been so content with her life.
She rose early each morning to help Ewan and Eithne in the kitchen and often went out to collect supplies for them on market day.
Then she would arrive at Diarmaid’s bothy as early as she could manage, greet Broc the goat as she strode up the path, throw open the doors to her shed, light a lantern or two if the day was dark, and begin work.
And when she was at her loom, the time always flew.
A smile curved her lips—before a clearing throat drew her attention.
Turning, she saw Diarmaid standing in the wide-open doorway, his gaze fixed on the loom. “Oh!” she said, waving her hands in exasperation. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“It’s bonnie, indeed,” he said, his voice unusually gravelly. “Is that for me?”
“Aye,” she said with a smile. “It’s my way of thanking ye for yer generosity.”
His gaze shadowed, and he swallowed.
She hadn’t expected her words to move him so much, but clearly they had. “Couldn’t resist a peek, could ye?” she teased.
He scratched his jaw. “Actually, that wasn’t my purpose in seeking ye out this morning.”
He jerked his chin toward the other end of the garden. “The miller is here. I believe he wants to commission some work from ye.”
Fiona grinned and leaped to her feet. More work would be a boon indeed.
Following him down the path into the overgrown garden, she spied a heavyset man with close-cropped red hair waiting.
Nervousness fluttered in her belly.
She’d thought about approaching the miller, yet had heard from Eithne that Beth wove all the sacking for the watermill just north of the village. She hadn’t wanted to offend the woman and so had left well enough alone.
But now, here was the miller.
He’d come to her.
“Good morning,” she greeted him with a smile.
“Good morn, lass,” he said, his tone a trifle impatient. Clearly not a man who liked to be kept waiting. “I’ve got a job for ye. It’s been a fine summer, and we’ll have more oats and barley than we know what to do with. Our grain stores are full, and I’ll need as many linen sacks as ye can manage.”
Fiona nodded, her mind already working. Linen sacks were straightforward to weave.
“I’ll need to order in some bolts of spun thread,” she told him. “But once I’ve got my loom warped, I’m fast. I can have at least twenty-five for ye within the next month.”
His eyes widened. “Well. Ye’ll be able to start sooner than ye think. I’ve got the bolts of spun linen ready to go.” He paused. “And of course, ye’ll give me a good price?”
“I will,” she assured him. “A copper for two sacks?”
He hesitated, doing his own sums. “Aye, lass. That’ll work for me.”
He stepped back. “I’ll see those bolts delivered tomorrow.”
And with that, he left.
Only when he was gone did Fiona turn to Diarmaid, a grin stretching across her face. “Did ye hear that?”
“I did, lass. Every word.”
Their gazes held for a moment.
“This means I have a business here.” She pulled a face then, her excitement dimming. “Although Beth won’t like this. She’ll be beelin’ when she hears I’ve stolen her work.”
“Och, she’ll get over it,” Diarmaid said, waving the idea away. “I’ll see if I can sweeten her up a bit. The widow’s been soft on me for a while. Maybe I’ll take her out for a meal and some ale at The Shepherd’s Crook.”
“But ye’d better do it on my evening off,” Fiona replied, smiling at his plan. “Ye won’t sweeten her with me serving ye.”
He nodded. “Good point.”
She studied him for a moment, smiling. She really was growing fond of Diarmaid.
“Speaking of days off … I’m not working at The Crook this eve. How about I spend the afternoon working in yer garden, and then I make ye a hearty supper?”
He waved her away. “Ye don’t have to look after me. I know I look like a helpless case, but I muddle through. I can feed myself.”
“Maybe,” she said firmly, “but ye’ve been kind to me, and I want to show ye my thanks.”
He averted his gaze, embarrassed. “Very well, lass. If ye insist.”
Fiona hummed to herself as she chopped onions and added them to the iron pot that sat over the hearth inside Diarmaid’s messy bothy. The onions started to sizzle in the hot lard, and soon their savory aroma filled the musty-smelling space.
She cast a critical look around. This place needed a woman’s touch. Dirty clothes were strewn everywhere. The rushes underfoot crawled with vermin and were in desperate need of being replaced. But she wouldn’t tell him so though; she didn’t want to appear pushy.
She’d spent the afternoon weeding his garden, and it barely looked any different from before she started. But when she had some free time, she’d continue her work.
Because she’d meant her words to him earlier. His offer had touched her. The people of Ardnacross were indeed welcoming her these days.
Ye had friends at Dounarwyse too, she reminded herself.
That was right, she had. She wondered then how Tay was faring. He was of a similar age to Diarmaid and almost as prickly. Her lips curved as she recalled seeing him at work with wee Midge. She would have liked to see him again, and Stu too. She hoped the lad wasn’t getting into too much mischief.
“Ye look as if ye’re enjoying yerself,” Diarmaid observed as he ducked under the low lintel, firewood in his arms.
“I am,” she replied. “It’s been a while since I cooked a meal for anyone. And I must admit, as much as I enjoy working at The Shepherd’s Crook, it’s good to have an evening off.”
Her mood shadowed. She did enjoy working at the tavern, but the incident a few nights earlier had left a sour taste in her mouth.
And although she appreciated Ailean coming to her rescue—because it had been clear from the moment Jock’s huge arm had locked around her waist that she wasn’t getting free without help—things could have turned very nasty.
Ailean could have been hurt.
Those men had a dangerous edge to them. And even though they’d retreated from the tavern, neither had looked beaten.
In the days since, worry had gnawed at her. It felt like unfinished business.
“Ye’re thinking about that fight, aren’t ye?” Diarmaid asked.
Fiona jerked out of her reverie, embarrassed he’d read her so easily. “Aye,” she admitted. “I don’t want to be the cause of trouble here.”
“It wasn’t ye that was the trouble,” he replied, scowling.
Fiona nodded. Once again, that nagging sense of unease tugged at her.
Stop yer fashing, lass, she told herself. Everything is finally going well for ye … just enjoy it … and don’t sabotage things this time.
She left Diarmaid’s bothy later than she’d planned. The pottage and oatcakes she’d made had turned out well, and the carpenter had been grateful. Afterward, he’d brought out a bottle of homemade bramble wine, and they’d shared a cup each by the fire.
As he’d loosened up, Diarmaid told her about his life. He’d lived in Ardnacross since birth, and Moira had been the only woman he’d ever been with. He’d fallen in love with her at fourteen and finally made her his wife just after his eighteenth birthday.
His eyes had glistened as he spoke of her. Once again, Fiona was touched.
At last, she bid him good night and stepped out into the evening.
The sun had long since set, and the evenings were drawing in now, but it was still mild and still. The moon was rising like a great silver onion, reflected in the glistening waters of the Sound.
She could have walked straight back to the tavern—her bed beckoned—but instead, she took the longer path that circled the village and hugged the pebbly shore for a time.
As she walked, her shawl about her shoulders, her boots scuffing on the stones, she reflected on her life here. It was good, and despite the ugly incident at the tavern, things were improving.
She could see light now. Hope. Her future in this village was taking shape.
Her gaze lifted to the black silhouette of Ardnacross Tower, perched like a sentinel north of the village. She imagined Ailean up there, seated by the hearth, or already asleep in bed.
A traitorous longing clutched at her; a desire for what she could never have. For what she knew had nearly ruined her.
Damn him. Even now, after everything, she still wanted him. She couldn’t help it.
But common sense prevailed. She’d made it clear he was to stay away from her.
Their exchanges these days were polite and distant.
And even after he’d trounced the MacDonalds, he hadn’t approached her.
He’d only looked her way across the crowded common room, concern shadowing his eyes.
And she’d nodded back, letting him know that although Jock’s grip had bruised her, she’d escaped unscathed.
Aye. She knew she must keep her distance. Must maintain this wall of reserve.
And yet, a small, traitorous part of her cried out for the closeness they’d once shared.
And it hadn’t just been lust. His looks had melted her.
His touch had scattered her wits. But it had been more than that.
There’d been an ease between them. A sense that, had they spent more time together, they’d have been well matched.
But all of that was in the past.
She was about to turn away from the tower and take the fork in the path that would lead her back into the village when something on the hillside caught her eye.
Silhouettes.
Men. Four, no, five of them. They were stumbling down the hill, gilded by moonlight.
Fiona stopped short, her breath catching. She narrowed her eyes. The moon was bright, but at this distance, she couldn’t make out who they were. But she saw that two of them leaned heavily on the others. They were injured. And their descent was rushed—almost panicked.
Clutching her shawl about her, she moved off the path and onto the grass so her boots wouldn’t make a sound.
She crept closer and then stopped again.
At the foot of the hill, a cluster of horses awaited their riders.
She slipped into the shadow of a twisted oak and watched.
They reached their mounts. The two injured men had to be helped into their saddles. Even from here, she could hear curses. Oaths. Low, angry growls.
And then they were gone—thundering north into the darkness.
Heart pounding, she watched them vanish. Then her gaze lifted slowly to the tower above her. It loomed dark and menacing now.
“Ailean,” she breathed. And then she gathered her skirts and began the climb up the hill.