She closed her eyes, took deep breaths, as Feargus continued with his task. Resentment simmered. Men! Oblivious to a woman's moods, a woman's needs. Fiona opened her eyes to the muted light of late afternoon. She crossed to the fire, to distance herself from the rhythmic rasp, and tried to swallow her ire toward a sound that soothed so many times in the past. Nothing soothed today. "Feargus," his head popped, his wary glance proved he knew of her temper. "It's almost time to light the torches, and Maggie's still in bed. She has been since we cleared up from the mid-day meal." "She's not well. She needs rest.” Eyes narrowed, he ran his thumb over the blade of his dirk. Fiona sighed. Feargus was a warrior. No nuances for a man of his sort. Guilt was cut and dry. He imagined the Bold's neck under that honed edge, and found satisfaction in the thought. A vengeful draw of blood to ease his own conscience. But it would never erase it. Guilt was a gray thing with a wide spread shadow. Fiona crossed her arms, her foot tapping a swift metrical beat.
