Chapter 33 A Cold Bedfellow
BALANCING FOUR DISHES of pie, two on each arm, Fiona stepped through the kitchen doorway into the common room—and froze.
Every man in the place was climbing to his feet.
Tankards lifted.
For a heartbeat, she thought a fight had broken out, or that they were cheering some jest she’d missed. The air rang with the scrape of benches and boots, the roar of voices cut short mid-laugh. Wood smoke curled thick beneath the rafters, the fire gilding a forest of raised cups.
And every eye was on her.
Her arms trembled. One pie slid dangerously. She caught it just in time.
“What—?” The word died in her throat.
The men glanced at one another, a ripple of shared nerves passing between them. They’d planned this. She saw it now in the quick nods, the bracing breaths. Maccum, red to the tips of his ears, cleared his throat loud enough to carry.
“Mistress Fiona,” the shepherd said gruffly. The room held still. “Maclean spoke to us … told us plain he was to blame for the talk that followed ye. Said ye’d done no wrong. That the fault was all his.”
A murmur rolled through the crowd. Tankards didn’t lower.
Heat climbed Fiona’s neck. The pies burned her forearms, but she didn’t feel it.
She could only stare. Things hadn’t been easy these past days.
Ever since Beth’s outburst at market, the women who usually chatted to her kept their distance, and the men refused to meet her eye when she served them in the evenings.
It had hurt, for she’d found such contentment here, yet she’d had no choice but to brace herself and wait for the storm to pass.
But she hadn’t expected this.
“Ye deserved better than how we’ve treated ye, lass,” Maccum added, his voice roughening. “And I’m sorry for my part in it.”
Silence followed—heavy, expectant.
Then another voice rose. “My wife knows the truth.”
“And mine,” a crabber called.
“We’ll not have ye shunned in this village,” said a third. “Not for a lie.”
A rumble of agreement shook the room. Tankards lifted higher. Someone thumped a fist against the table.
“Ye’re one of us,” Maccum finished. “If ye’ll still have us?”
The words struck her square in the chest.
Fiona let out a sharp exhale. The common room blurred. These men—mud on their boots, smoke in their beards, hands cracked from work—stood waiting for her forgiveness.
Her throat closed painfully. She didn’t know what to say.
Slowly, carefully, she set the pies on the nearest table. Her hands shook. When she turned back, the tankards were still raised. Waiting.
“I …” Her voice caught. She swallowed hard and tried again. “Of course, I will.”
The tension snapped. A cheer erupted so loud the rafters trembled. Tankards crashed together. Ale sloshed onto the floor. Someone laughed, and another man whooped.
Fiona pressed a hand to her mouth, overwhelmed. Joy bloomed then, fierce and bright, under her ribs.
For the first time since Beth’s poison had spread, the knot inside her chest loosened.
She belonged here.
And the men of Ardnacross had just sworn it before the fire.
Fiona watched as the men unloaded the wagon. Her precious loom had been wrapped in sacking, and they carried it carefully through the garden—which, thanks to her efforts and the approach of winter, was much tidier now.
“The doors to the shed are open,” she called. “Just leave it at the center of the floor. I hope it fits!”
Diarmaid helped himself to two heavy clay pots from the wagon while Fiona picked up two large baskets filled with undyed thread.
“This is an important day indeed, lass,” Diarmaid said, flashing her a rare grin. It transformed his face, shedding years from him. Grief had hollowed him out, aged him beyond his years. It was good to see him smile.
“It is, isn’t it?” she replied, wishing she felt more excited.
She had no reason for a low mood. Indeed, that warming scene in The Shepherd’s Crook stayed with her.
She was welcome here once more. And just as well too, for Ardnacross had her heart.
The morning sun on the hills, the cadence of men’s voices as they worked in the fields, and the rumble of the waves against shingle—she loved it all.
She was financially secure too now, with work for at least a year.
She should have been content.
But she wasn’t.
Something wasn’t right. As the days had passed, a dullness had settled over her.
Pride is a cold bedfellow.
Kylie’s words haunted her.
She tried not to think about Ailean, although she’d caught glimpses of him once or twice. He’d dropped into The Shepherd’s Crook, though she’d let Eithne serve him. She’d kept her distance. Still, she’d felt his gaze on her now and then—never lingering. He understood. A line had been crossed.
Heaviness dragged at her as the last supplies were unloaded. Kylie had ordered extra thread, more than she’d expected. After the men departed, Fiona returned to the shed and carefully unwrapped the tapestry.
It was untouched.
Her gaze lingered on the blue of the water, the grey of the walls, the clinker-built pirate cog she’d just begun.
Excitement flickered, piercing the heaviness.
Tracing her fingers along the tightly packed weft, memories rose unbidden—of a sunny chamber at Dounarwyse, of stolen hours, of peace she’d once dared to hope might last.
Ailean. Suddenly, she recalled the brush of his arm against hers as they sat side by side at her loom, the way he’d teased her, and the sense of belonging that had wrapped itself around her for a brief time.
Her vision blurred.
“Ye will get over this,” she told herself firmly. “Over him.”
But, even to her own ears, the words rang hollow.
Fiona was pouring ale into a patron’s tankard when the door opened, and Ailean walked into The Shepherd’s Crook.
Curse her heart—it jolted in her chest.
He looked windswept, bringing with him a cold draft that he shut out quickly as he closed the door and shrugged off his heavy fur-lined cloak.
“The wind’s cold enough to freeze yer balls off,” one of the shepherds called out. “Isn’t it, Maclean?”
“Aye,” Ailean replied with a lopsided smile. “Thought I needed some of Ewan’s cooking to warm me through.”
The fire roared. The air was thick with wood smoke and too many bodies pressed close, but it was far more pleasant than being outside. There were more couples than usual tonight, huddled over steaming bowls of boar stew with platters of coarse oaten bread and cheese.
Eithne greeted him with a smile. “Find yerself a seat, Maclean, and I’ll bring ye a meal.”
He nodded, smiling back, and then his gaze shifted to Fiona. Of course, he’d seen her the moment he stepped inside. She knew it, even as she pretended that he hadn’t.
When their gazes met across the smoky common room, they acknowledged each other. Properly—for the first time since she’d fled the tower. Ailean’s smile faded. Slowly, almost tentatively, he nodded.
Fiona nodded back and turned away, finishing pouring the ale. Her hands were shaking.
“All well, lass?” a shepherd asked, frowning. “Ye’re all flushed.”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, retreating into the kitchen.
“So, she hasn’t forgiven ye yet, lad?”
Ailean gave a humorless half-laugh and mopped up the last of his stew with a hunk of bread.
It was one of the most delicious things he’d ever eaten, and after a day laying stones while a vicious wind whipped in off the Sound, the meal was welcome indeed.
“No,” he said with a shrug. “And ye can’t be surprised. ”
“Well, she’s forgiven me.”
“Aye, but ye don’t have to sound so pleased about it.” He pulled a face then. “Yer crime wasn’t as great as mine.”
“No,” Diarmaid said, a sly look creeping across his face. “But then, the lass doesn’t pine for me.”
Ailean choked on the mouthful of ale he’d just taken. When he’d finished coughing, he shot Diarmaid a sharp look. “Ye do talk rot.”
The carpenter shrugged. “Do I? I spend some time with the lass, ye know?”
He did, and Ailean couldn’t help the spike of jealousy that followed. He had to content himself with the occasional glimpse of the woman he wanted. Always from a distance. Always fleeting.
But Diarmaid here—the smug prick—spent every day working next door to her. They likely took meals together, and when Ailean had accompanied Lady Kylie down to speak to Fiona, he’d noted how much tidier the garden was looking.
Fiona had become an entrenched part of Diarmaid’s life.
Not his.
“Good for ye,” Ailean said tersely, wishing he’d taken a seat elsewhere tonight. He liked Diarmaid well enough, but this evening, the man chafed at him.
He’d been busy ever since his father’s visit, and he’d also found a strange peace after making things right with his family.
He didn’t like being at odds with them. It pleased him to know he would still be serving his father—and in an important way too.
It came as a relief too that his brother respected his decision to remain here and allow him to take the title.
They both knew Lyle would make an excellent laird.
But underneath it all, Ailean suffered.
He kept busy—too busy sometimes. He fell into his bed exhausted each night. It was easier that way, because when he had time to think, his thoughts always drifted to Fiona.
But it was hopeless, for the lass reviled him.
And now, Diarmaid was blethering on about her, unwittingly twisting the knife.
Ailean just wanted to change the subject.
“Fiona’s usually a sunny lass,” Diarmaid went on, choosing to ignore his companion’s glower.
“But over the past weeks, her light’s dimmed.
She doesn’t smile often. I catch her with a faraway look in her eye.
I thought when the loom arrived a week ago, she’d perk up. But if anything, she’s grown sadder.”
Ailean’s belly clenched. “That doesn’t mean she’s pining, ye fool,” he growled. “It just means I hurt her badly.”
“Take the wool out of yer ears, man. I was wed for over five-and-twenty years, and I can tell ye … I understand women better than ye ever will.”
Ailean snorted and was about to tell Diarmaid that letting lust muddle his wits was what had led him to spill secrets to Beth—but he didn’t get the chance. Diarmaid had the bit between his teeth now. “The lass is pining,” he insisted. “For ye.”
Ailean’s heart began to pound, a sensation close to panic clawing its way up his chest.
“Ye have no proof,” he muttered.
“I don’t need it,” Diarmaid countered. “My gut tells me so.”