Chapter Twenty
It was a strange, hollow sensation, walking back into her little cottage alone.
The moment she stepped inside, the stillness wrapped around her.
The air was stale, almost heavy, as if it had been abandoned for much longer than she’d been gone.
She pushed the door wider, hoping the light and wind might stir it, but the room remained stubbornly unmoved.
She reached for the broom without thinking, her hands needing something to do. The floor was already clean, yet she swept it anyway. The rhythmic scrape of bristles the only sound. The silence pressed in from every corner, so complete it made her want to crumble to the ground.
Outside, the garden she had once tended with pride was a brittle graveyard of plants. Stems bent and leaves crumbled under her touch. Dry and lifeless. She pulled them up one by one, tossing the withered remains back into the soil. They would serve feeding the soil.
Teller padded after her with uncharacteristic quiet, his tail low, his usual bright energy dimmed. Even when a squirrel darted between two trees, he only lifted his head to watch before settling back at her heels. No bark, no chase.
She patted her loyal companion’s head. “Look Teller, did ye see it? A squirrel, there.” She pointed to the tree the little creature had scampered up.
It was getting colder, she fed the donkey and placed a blanket over it to keep it warm. Once inside she boiled a pot of beans with scraps of dried meat just as the daylight was fading. She sat before the hearth, staring into the flames without really seeing them.
Should I have stayed? Waited?
The questions circled endlessly, wearing grooves into her mind.
She’d let her impulsiveness and pride steer her decision, as she had too many times before.
And when Hendry, hurt in a way she could hear in the steel of his voice, accused her of leaving him again, she had done the most damning thing of all: she hadn’t run after him to explain.
Now, imagining his pain, her chest ached as though she’d been the one struck. Tears slid hot and unbidden down her cheeks. In his eyes, she had abandoned him. Again. And perhaps, in some way, she had.
Teller’s soft whimper pulled her from her thoughts. He lay curled before the fire, paws twitching in some dream. Was he chasing something in his sleep? Or simply longing for the warmth of the keep, for the company of the odd little pack they had left behind?
Outside, the wind picked up, slipping through the trees and coaxing the bare branches to scrape against the cottage walls. That sound had once been a comfort to her. A gentle reminder she was not truly alone. Tonight, it was only an echo of how truly alone she was there.
Morning came with a stark, biting reminder of her solitude.
The chill had seeped into her bones during the night, despite the weight of blankets piled high upon her.
At some point, shivering and restless, Ailith had abandoned her bedchamber for the front room.
She’d coaxed the fire back to life, then made herself a pallet on the floor beside it, the way she often had in winters past, when the small bedroom became icy cold.
But this night had been different.
Again and again, in the half-world of dreams, she’d reached for Hendry. Her hand would wander across the bedding in search of his warmth, his steady breathing, only to jolt awake at the aching emptiness beside her. Each time, she’d ached for him.
She rolled onto her back now, eyes fixed on the rafters above. How had she once lived years alone without feeling this hollow? And how had only a few days in Hendry’s arms unraveled her so completely?
The answer was mercilessly clear, she had been reclaimed. Not just by any man, but by him. Her truest mate. The only one who had ever known her heart and matched its beat so perfectly. The ache in her chest was almost physical, a pull that whispered his name with every breath.
A soft sound drew her gaze to the foot of the blankets, where Teller’s head lifted, his dark eyes fixed on her with quiet understanding.
“We are going back,” she told him, her voice firm despite the catch in her throat. “We dinnae belong here any longer.”
The dog released a long sigh, as though both relieved and weary, before lowering his head again. Soon, a gentle snore was the only reply.
With purpose swelling in her chest, Ailith rose and fed another log to the fire.
The crackle and flare of heat was like a promise.
She went to her bedchamber, the small space dim and cold, and began to dress.
Her hands moved quickly. Adding layers of wool and a heavy cloak before turning to the small chest at the foot of the bed.
She began to pack, each item chosen with care.
Her spare gowns folded neatly. The shawl her mother had made for her, soft and worn from years of use.
Her hairbrush and comb polished smooth from countless mornings.
A handful of ribbons in faded colors, tokens from her sister, which she could never bring herself to discard.
She tucked in her sewing kit, a small bundle of linens, and the little carved box that held her most private keepsakes.
The cart would be loaded before midday. And then… to the home where she truly belonged.
Not this life of half-empty rooms and silence.
Home was wherever Hendry was.
This time, she would face him and speak until he understood, until he believed how deeply she loved him. The gossip would still bother her, but whatever discomfort it brought was small in comparison to being away from Hendry.
Her heart belonged with him, and she would not walk away again.
By late morning, the little cart stood ready out in front of the cottage, the donkey stamping its hooves impatiently as if sensing they had somewhere important to be. The air was still sharp with winter’s bite, her breath puffing in small clouds as she moved back and forth from cottage to cart.
Teller leapt into the cart without being told, circling once before settling on a folded blanket. His eyes followed her every movement, tail thumping softly against the boards. It was as though he, too, knew this was no simple errand.
Ailith took one last walk through the cottage. Her fingers trailed along the edges of the table, the back of the chair she’d mended herself, the shelf where her few treasured books stood. The fire she’d built that morning had burned down to embers, sending faint curls of smoke up the chimney.
How many nights had she sat here convincing herself she was content?
How many mornings had she woken in the cold bedchamber telling herself she didn’t need anyone?
She had believed it once. But now she knew better.
Her heart was no longer in the small cottage that had served as her refuge for so long.
By the door, she paused. Her hand rested on the worn wood, the latch smooth from years of use.
For a moment, she almost faltered. Her throat tightening at the thought of leaving it behind.
Yet the vision of Hendry’s face, of the way he’d looked at her when they’d been together, swept away any lingering doubt.
She stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind her until it latched with a final click. She would not be coming back.
The donkey brayed softly as she climbed onto the seat. She gathered the reins, her heart quickening, not from fear but from the fierce determination thrumming in her veins. Teller shifted, alert now, ears pricked toward the road ahead.
“Let’s go. To Hendry. To our new home,” she murmured, and the words felt right, true in her mouth.
The cart jolted forward, wheels creaking, and the cottage began to shrink behind her. Ahead lay a winding track through the trees.
The sun was high as the keep came into view. Ailith pulled the donkey to a stop and climbed down. Teller jumped from the back and raced in circles sniffing the ground in search of new smells.
She stretched while studying the view of the large stone structure. The high walls that surrounded it, and the bridge one had to cross to get passage through its well-guarded gates.
What was Hendry doing at this moment? Sword practice was usually held midday for those not out on patrol duty. He would be standing on the sides, helping with stances and stepping in to show proper defense. In the short time she’d been there, she’d walked out on occasion to watch him work.
Although stern with his men, he was fair when correcting them and often stepped in to ensure they would be well-prepared when having to fight.
A shiver went down her spine, and her stomach tightened just thinking about coming face-to-face with him. There was little doubt in her mind that he remained angry with her.
Standing still and not moving forward was not an option at this point.
“Teller, come!” she called out as she climbed back onto the bench.
By the time Hendry finally called an end to sword practice, the sun had already dipped low enough to cast long shadows. He’d barely registered half of what the men had done that day; his mind had been firmly fixed on leaving the keep and finding Ailith.
As much as he’d wanted to go and seek Ailith, with so many warriors injured, handing off his duties wasn’t an option. The men needed steady guidance, and this wasn’t the time for their leader to go sulking off like some lovestruck boy.
Two young warriors, sweat dripping down their temples, trotted up and planted themselves in front of him.
They dropped into a stance, clearly expecting pointers.
He obliged, correcting their footing, adjusting the angle of the blade.
Every minute spent here meant one less chance they’d end up skewered in the next battle, or lopping off their own foot.
Finally, he trudged up the slight incline toward the barrel by the kitchen doors, the promise of cold water calling to him. Dunking a cup into the clear depths, he drank deeply. The relief was short-lived.