Chapter 34 Written All Over Yer Face
EITHNE PLACED THE tankard of ale in front of Fiona. “Drink up. Ye look like ye need it.”
Fiona eyed her. “Do I?” She huffed softly.
“Well, I do, at least.” Eithne settled into the chair opposite her with a sigh. “That’s better.” She lifted her own tankard and took a gulp.
It was a familiar scene, the two of them sitting by the glowing hearth.
The common room was empty now, for it was late, and apart from the crackle and pop of embers, all they could hear was Ewan—the clank of iron pots and the thud of wooden trenchers as he finished tidying up.
It was a routine Fiona had grown used to, one she’d come to look forward to.
A quiet moment between two friends every evening.
However, the probing look in Eithne’s eyes made her want to raise her shields.
“Saturday nights are always the busiest,” Fiona said lightly. “No one has to rise early tomorrow.”
Eithne snorted. “Only us. I swear, they’re gannets. They cleaned us out of two cauldrons of stew tonight. I was hoping to have some leftover pies tomorrow, but Ewan will have to make more from scratch.”
It was a usual conversation. Eithne would grumble sometimes, but Fiona knew how much she loved this life.
And she wasn’t surprised. She’d seen how happy the couple was.
Ewan was a quiet man—he said little but noticed much.
He wasn’t overly demonstrative, but Fiona had spied the soft looks that passed between husband and wife, the secret lingering touches when they thought she wasn’t looking.
Once, she’d hoped to find a man who would love her like that, who’d be her champion, her supporter, who’d stand by her side and allow her to shine while also being her strength. Eithne and Ewan had what she’d wanted. But these days, she had begun to realize that wouldn’t be her story.
“I saw ye and Maclean exchange a few glances tonight,” Eithne said then.
Fiona’s gut clenched. Her friend usually had the sense to avoid bringing Ailean up, but tonight, she’d thrown caution to the wind. “Ye don’t miss much, do ye?” she replied dryly.
Eithne flashed an impish smile. “Of course not … although I knew there was something between the two of ye from the first.”
Heated flushed through Fiona. By the Saints, she should have realized.
“Does this mean things are improving between ye?” Eithne asked, clearly unwilling to let the subject drop.
Fiona cut her gaze away and shook her head.
She lifted her tankard and took a long swallow.
The bitter ale hit the back of her throat and warmed her belly.
“I can’t ignore him forever,” she said finally.
“Not in a village this small. But just because we look at each other now and then … don’t go reading anything into it. ”
“I don’t need to,” Eithne said quietly. “It’s written all over yer face.”
Fiona jolted and glared at her. “Don’t, Eithne. Please don’t start.”
“Start what?” the innkeeper replied, feigning innocence. “All I’m doing is making an observation. Ye aren’t yerself these days, Fi. Ye drift around this tavern like a ghost. I worry about ye.”
Her friend’s gaze was shadowed now, and Fiona stiffened, realizing Eithne truly was concerned.
“There’s no need to fash yerself about me,” Fiona said quickly. “I’m tough.”
“And I’ve no doubt of that,” Eithne said gently. “But when are ye going to admit it to yerself?”
Fiona frowned. “Admit what?”
“That Ailean Maclean has yer heart.”
Fiona jolted, ale nearly spilling over the rim of her tankard. “He doesn’t,” she gasped.
“Liar.” Eithne leaned forward. “Ye can fool yerself, but ye can’t fool me. Ye—”
“Stop it,” Fiona said sharply, starting to rise.
Eithne’s hand shot out, fastening around her arm and drawing her back down. “Listen to me, Fi,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “There’s nothing wrong with admitting ye love him. It’s clear the man is sick with love for ye.”
A sick heaviness rose in Fiona’s chest. Was it? She hadn’t told Eithne about his admission that day—but it seemed she didn’t need to.
“It’s a terrible waste,” Eithne went on, fierce now, “to see two people who are clearly meant for each other making a right mess of things.”
“What makes ye think we’re meant for each other?” Fiona burst out, her eyes stinging, her throat aching. God, if Eithne kept pushing, she was going to crumble. She could feel it—her control fraying, like thread pulled too tight.
“Ye are the best thing that ever happened to that man,” Eithne said firmly. “And he knows it. Aye, he messed up. He nearly ruined ye both … and he bungled things when he tried to put them right. But his heart was in the right place. Surely, ye can see that?”
Fiona’s heart thundered in her ears. She could see it, even if she didn’t want to admit so.
“Ye wish to protect yerself,” Eithne continued. “And I understand … but take it too far, and ye’ll end up with regrets. I don’t want to see that. I want ye to be happy. If there’s anyone I’ve ever met who deserves it, it’s ye.”
Fiona stared at her for a long moment.
Then the walls crumbled.
She bowed her head, a hiccup escaping her, and then the tears came. She bent forward, burying her face in her hands as sobs shook her shoulders.
“Fiona?”
She looked up to see Ewan standing in the kitchen doorway, a drying cloth in his hands, alarm flaring in his eyes.
“She’s fine, love,” Eithne said quickly, waving him away. “Just give her a moment.”
Fiona was grateful for that. The tears flowed freely now, scalding. Eithne laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, saying nothing, just letting her know she was there.
Eventually, the tears slowed. Her throat was raw, her head aching.
Fiona lifted her chin. Eithne’s eyes were bright with tears too, but she smiled softly. “I think we both know what ye must do now,” she said, squeezing her shoulder. “Go to him.”
The sound of knocking ripped Ailean from his sleep.
Disoriented, he sat up, squinting into the darkness. The tower creaked around him, wind worrying at the stones like restless fingers. The fire in the pit had burned low, casting a faint red glow across the pavers. Another knock sounded, heavy and urgent.
He frowned.
It was late. No one should be climbing this hill at such an hour.
Wordlessly, he rolled out of bed, pushed aside the curtain that surrounded his sleeping area, and padded across the ice-cold pavers toward the door. Along the way, he hauled on his braies and seized the iron poker from beside the fire. After the MacDonalds’ attack, he wasn’t taking chances.
He halted before the doorway, body coiled. “Who is it?”
“Ailean,” a woman’s voice traveled through the wood. “God’s teeth. It’s freezing out here. Let me in.”
His breath caught.
Fiona?
He slid the heavy iron bar free and dragged the door open. And there she stood—a cloaked figure against the wild, wind-torn darkness. In one hand, she carried a lantern, the flame inside guttering violently.
“What the devil are ye doing out here on such a night?” he demanded.
“Can I come in?” she gasped.
Her voice was strained, and alarm thudded into his chest.
He stepped aside at once. She slipped inside, pushing her hood back, her gaze flicking to the poker in his hand. Her eyes widened.
He grimaced and offered a sheepish smile. “A knock at this hour makes a man twitchy.”
He shut the door and turned back to her.
She wasn’t looking at him. She set the lantern on the table and moved toward the fire pit, holding her fingers over the faint warmth. Silence stretched between them. He became painfully aware of his bare chest, the cold biting his feet, the way she stood rigid as a drawn bowstring.
Something tightened in his gut.
Four moons. It had been four moons since the dye-house.
His pulse lurched.
“Are ye with bairn?” he asked quietly.
Her gaze snapped to him. Surprise flashed across her face, followed by a faint blush. “No. My menses came a couple of weeks afterward.”
Relief struck first, sharp and immediate. Then disappointment, small and treacherous. He swallowed it down. He’d no right to feel either.
“Then why are ye here?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”
Her throat worked. She glanced away, staring into the embers as if the answer lay there.
“I wanted to make a new start in Ardnacross,” she said at last, voice unsteady. “I swore I’d put ye behind me. But I realize now … I … I can never do that.”
His heart stuttered. He didn’t move. He barely breathed.
Her chin lifted, and she looked at him once more. Anguish shone in her eyes. “I want to hate ye, Ailean. Why don’t I hate ye?”
Pain tightened his chest.
He crossed to the fire and laid the poker down, needing the excuse to move.
When he faced her again, his voice was low.
“Because life is rarely that simple. I earned yer hate. The fact ye don’t feel it …
that’s mercy I don’t deserve.” His throat tightened.
“I treated ye callously. And longing for ye the way I do … that’s fitting punishment. ”
He wasn’t posturing. The truth of it sat like lead in his bones.
“Before I met ye, I danced through life,” he said hoarsely.
“Nothing stayed with me. Not even the battles.” His fingers brushed a scar on his arm.
“But ye … ye stayed. Ye have changed me.” Their eyes locked, and the air seemed to thin. “And I’m glad.”
He broke off then. The admission left him raw.
“I don’t want a life without ye,” she whispered.
For a heartbeat, the world stopped.
The wind outside vanished. The fire fell silent. There was only her voice echoing in his skull.
“Fiona …” He breathed her name. “Are my feelings returned?”
She swallowed. “They are.”
The force of it hit him square in the chest. He stepped forward slowly, giving her time to pull away. She didn’t. Her fingers were ice-cold in his hands.
“Are ye certain?” he whispered. “Tell me true.”
“I am.”
His pulse roared in his ears. Fear and wonder collided inside him. If he spoke the wrong words, if he fumbled this moment, he might lose her forever. This was the edge of everything. If he did not step forward now, he never would.
Still holding her hand, he sank to one knee before her.
“Fiona Mackinnon,” he said, voice catching, “would ye do me the honor of becoming my wife?”