Chapter 30 The Thief
“COME, brOC. JUST a few yards more.” Fiona tugged at the rope, urging the goat down the pebbly path.
They’d traveled north of Ardnacross to where the River Dòbhran rushed down over green hills to meet the water.
And upon its southern bank sat a watermill.
Smoke wreathed from the mill’s thatched roof, for this morning was a cool one, while its great wooden water wheel slowly turned.
However, the wether goat decided to be stubborn again. With a grunt, he dug his hooves into the path and lowered his head, refusing to go any farther.
Muttering a curse, Fiona stopped pulling at the rope, for she could see it would only vex the animal, put her hands on her hips, and glared at him. “Really? Do ye expect me to pull the cart myself?”
The wether snorted. He’d been an arse all the way from Diarmaid’s. Broc was the carpenter’s faithful companion. He pulled a small cart that the carpenter used to transport materials. Today, his cart was piled high with neatly folded sacks.
Twenty-five of them, just as Fiona had promised.
The miller would be waiting for her, but Broc had other ideas. Lurching sideways, he pulled over to where a rambling growth of wild rose grew at the path’s edge. He then began to hungrily munch.
Fiona watched him, frustration boiling up now.
Diarmaid had warned her that Broc could be testy.
She only hoped that once he’d enjoyed his treat, he’d be happy to move on.
Nonetheless, it was fascinating to watch the goat eat the spiny bush, navigating the thorns with ease.
She hadn’t realized that goats loved roses.
“Having some trouble, eh?”
A familiar voice hailed her then, and she turned to see Ailean walking toward her.
He’d just left the millers and carried a sack of grain on one shoulder.
His battered face had healed well in the past month, she noted, although he’d bear a scar upon his temple for the rest of his days.
Approaching her, he flashed her a smile that made her pulse kick into a canter.
Curse her. Why did the mere sight of this man fluster her so? Apart from the morning when she’d removed the stitches from his brow, she’d barely seen him of late. They’d both been busy; she working hard on the miller’s sacks, and he on the tower.
Time was sliding by; winter approached with alarming swiftness. He’d needed help, to speed up progress, and as such, some of the cottars had downed their hoes and scythes to assist him.
Already, the weather had changed. Gone were the lazy days of summer. And what a glorious one it had been. The previous summer had been balmy, but this one had been even hotter. The locals were calling it the best harvest in years.
Ironic then, that this fine summer had nearly broken her.
Remembering this sobering fact, she lifted her chin and drew in a deep, steadying breath. Get a hold of yerself, woman.
“Broc is testing my patience, indeed,” she replied, nodding to where the goat still munched on roses. “And now he’s found a treat, I won’t be able to move him.”
“Aye, ye will.” He lowered the sack to the stony ground with a grunt and shrugged out his shoulder. “I’ll help ye.”
Before she could refuse his assistance, he moved close, took the rope from her, and stepped up to Broc’s side. He then took hold of the goat’s halter and tugged, pulling his head up. “Move on now, lad,” he said, his voice low and firm.
The goat eyed him, giving a vexed bleat. And then, to Fiona’s surprise, he went as meek as a lamb. The cart rumbled forward, and they were on their way once more.
Leaving the sack on the path’s edge, Ailean led the way down to the mill. Embarrassed by just how easy he made it look, Fiona followed. “Ye must have a masterful air about ye,” she muttered. “He doesn’t obey me like that.”
Ailean favored her with another smile, this one disarmingly boyish. “Goats have strong, willful characters,” he replied, “but they’re clever. They know when ye mean business.”
Fiona snorted at this.
They halted before the mill then, and Ailean helped himself to an armful of sacks.
“What are ye doing?” Her voice was higher than usual, warmth creeping up her neck. She’d appreciated his assistance with Broc, but this was going too far. “I can take it from here.”
“I’m sure ye can,” he answered. “But it’ll be quicker for ye, if I help.”
Fiona scowled, yet he paid her no mind, disappearing inside the mill with the sacks. Watching him go, she huffed a sigh of resignation. He was only being helpful; there was no need for her to be churlish. With that, she gathered an armload of sacks and followed him in.
A short while later, Fiona left the mill, the coin purse at her belt much heavier. It clinked as she walked, a pleasing sound indeed, and one that filled her with a warm sense of satisfaction. It felt good to earn well, and these days she was no longer tempted to send silver back to Craignure.
She’d left that guilt behind.
Ailean was waiting for her.
“I hope he paid ye well?” he greeted her, raising a dark-auburn brow.
“Aye.” She patted her fat coin purse. “And he’s ordered another fifty sacks by spring.”
He grinned. “A regular customer, eh?”
She nodded, moving over to where Broc waited with the cart. Untying him, she started back up the path.
Ailean fell in next to her.
Irritation fluttered up. The man was more difficult to shake this morning than a barnacle.
Things had shifted between them following the attack though. A thawing of sorts. She didn’t want it to be true, yet she’d felt it.
She wanted to cling to her anger, but she could feel it draining away like water through her fingers.
Weak woman, she chided herself, clenching her jaw as she walked. This is what got ye into trouble in the first place. And it had been. When it came to Ailean Maclean, she was soft clay in his hands. And when he was this charming, this helpful, he was near impossible to resist.
But resist him, she would, for he’d proven that he’d bring her nothing but trouble.
She was happy here in Ardnacross. It wasn’t the fragile happiness she’d found at Dounarwyse, which had been more about escaping her old life and throwing herself into a new one. No, the contentment she’d found here was real, and she didn’t want anything sullying it.
Halfway up the path, they reached the sack Ailean had abandoned. He heaved it up on his shoulder and continued at her side.
They walked in silence for a while.
“I hope ye aren’t too busy at the moment,” he said finally.
She glanced his way, frowning. “Why not?”
“I have a job for ye … if ye wish?”
She observed him warily, noting the way the light breeze ruffled his hair. The hot summer had tanned his face and brought up freckles on his skin. They made his fern-green eyes even more penetrating. “Aye?”
“I need sacking for the tower windows.” He paused then, gaze glinting. “I plan to be sleeping in a bed chamber on the first floor by the time Yule arrives.”
She relaxed slightly, relieved he didn’t seem to be flirting with her. “How many?”
“Ten for the moment … I’ll pay ye five silver pennies for the lot.”
Fiona frowned. “That’s too much.”
He met her eye, his expression serious now. “It’s a fair price. Yer skill is worth it.”
Flustered now, she looked away and cleared her throat. “Very well … I accept.”
“Good … will ye come up and take measurements when ye have time?”
She glanced his way once more to find him studying her. His eyes were warm.
“We’ll pass yer tower on the way back to the village,” she replied, deliberately adding a brisk edge to her voice. “I might as well make a stop and do the measurements then.”
He nodded, although the smile he favored her with made her treacherous belly somersault. And somewhere, deep inside, more of the ice that encased her heart melted.
“There she is … the thief!”
Fiona, who’d been putting the cheese she’d just bought for Eithne into her basket, glanced up.
Her gaze alighted on a tall, thin woman with high-colored cheeks, who was striding toward her through the busy market.
Beth’s sleeves were rolled up, her stained hands balled into fists.
Fiona’s heart jolted against her breastbone. Hades. The weaver looked as if she wished to strike her.
Around them, the other women shopping and the vendors hawking their wares all halted their conversation and trade to turn and stare.
Mortification prickled Fiona’s skin. She’d dreaded crossing paths with Beth. Diarmaid had assured her he’d ‘sweeten the widow up’, but she’d had her doubts. And judging from the vexed expression on the weaver’s face, he hadn’t managed to appease her at all.
“Ye arrive here like an unwanted cuckoo.” Beth’s shrill voice echoed through the crisp morning air. “And make yerself at home … stealing my trade.”
Fiona’s spine stiffened, her own temper rising now.
She didn’t appreciate such accusations. “I stole nothing,” she shot back.
“The miller approached me.” She wanted to add that perhaps he wasn’t happy with the quality of Beth’s work, yet checked herself.
She had no proof of such and didn’t want to start flinging mud.
“Aye.” Beth stopped a few yards away. She then cast a glance around, as if making sure she had an audience. “But we all know why, don’t we?”
Fiona frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Och, that innocent face fools no one,” Beth countered. “I’ve heard it from Diarmaid’s own lips. The only reason ye have use of his weaving shed is because Ailean Maclean paid him handsomely.”
Fiona froze.
Seeing her shock, Beth flashed her a vicious smile. “Aye, ye are a fine mummer, indeed. Next, ye shall deny that our handsome young steward paid the miller off as well.” She halted then, nodding at the gawking crowd. “Aye, that’s right … Maclean paid them both.”
Silence settled.
Fiona didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She was still reeling. Ailean had bribed Diarmaid and the miller? All this time, he’d been pulling the strings as if she were his puppet.
Her pulse started to thunder in her ears.
“And that’s not all,” Beth crowed, placing her dye-stained hands on her hips. “My sister visited me last week. She’s a cook’s assistant at Dounarwyse … and brought some very interesting news with her.”
Bile stung the back of Fiona’s throat, dizziness assailing her.
Here it was. Of course, she’d braced herself for word of the scandal she and Ailean had created to reach Ardnacross.
She’d been ready too—but delivered now, along with her other revelations, made Fiona feel as if the ground were giving way beneath her.
Drawing herself up, her face flushed bright red, Beth knew she held the crowd in the palm of her hand. They waited, breathless, for her to deliver more delicious gossip. And she would.
“It seems that Fiona got herself a prestigious position at Dounarwyse. Lady Maclean commissioned her to weave a great tapestry … but after it was discovered she’d been spreading her legs for the laird’s firstborn son, they turfed her out.
The shameful strumpet then brought her sin here …
and she’s continued to consort with him for” —Beth’s smile turned thin— “favors.”
“No.” The word came out in a panicked croak.
“Ye deny all of this then?” Beth demanded. “Ye are a liar” —her voice rose to a screech— “as well as a quean!”
“I’ll not deny that Maclean and I had relations at Dounarwyse … and I left because of it.” She wished to add that Lady Kylie wished her to return, yet no one would believe her, or care. “But whatever there was between us … is over.”
Beth snorted. “Did ye all know that Ailean Maclean has been disinherited?” Murmurs of shock rippled through the crowd.
“That’s right … this woman seduced him …
and in a fit of temper, the laird cast his son out.
He will remain Steward of Ardnacross for the rest of his days …
while his younger brother will take their father’s place one day.
” She pointed at Fiona now, her gaze narrowing. “All because of this wicked woman.”
Anger splintered in Fiona’s chest then. How typical.
If a scandal erupted, the woman was branded a shameless harlot and the man a victim of her lust. Beth spoke as if Ailean had been the innocent party, as if he hadn’t pursued her.
As if he hadn’t set fire to his own future and ruined his relationship with his father by his own hand.
She wanted to rage at Beth, to shove her nasty accusations back down her throat.
Yet, as the murmuring grew louder and locals whispered to each other while eyeing Fiona, she checked the impulse.
No. That was what Beth wanted. She was desperate for Fiona to leave, for her to behave in a way that would damn her before these people.
But she wouldn’t let this bitter woman drive her out of Ardnacross. Discovering Ailean’s deceit made stubbornness harden like steel inside her. She was done with running.
So, instead, as the silence drew out, she leashed her rage—saving it for Ailean. “I’m no seductress, Beth,” she said finally. “But believe what ye will.”
The two women stared each other down, and as the moments slid by, she could have sworn that disappointment flared in Beth’s eyes.