She let out a breath of relief.
Halverton stepped back with a pleased finality, as though the morning had arranged itself perfectly around him. He retrieved a pair of leather gloves from the desk and slid them on.
“I will be riding out,” he said. “I will not be long.”
Aoife inclined her head. “Enjoy your ride.”
He watched her a heartbeat longer than necessary, a small smile.
Satisfied, he left.
She waited until his footsteps faded before allowing her shoulders to sag the smallest bit. Her pulse beat too fast. Pretending to be the woman he wanted was one thing. Pretending to enjoy it was another.
She opened her book again.
‘The natives believe in leaving spilt milk upon the floor for the Little People. How, one wonders, are these creatures meant to enter the house? How do they know which houses have left milk out for them? Are they so primitive that they woulddrink milk from the ground? The more logical explanation is, of course, that the household cat has lapped it up. But the Morrans prefer fancy to facts. Even if, to the educated mind, there is a much simpler explanation.’
Aoife’s mouth twitched. Fanciful indeed.
The author’s tone was smug, patronising. She couldn’t help herself; she read on. Many passages were oddly informed, suggesting the man had spent time in Inis Morra speaking to the natives. Others were ridiculous myths she had never once heard, creatures she suspected someone had invented to mock him.
She lost track of time. The clock on the mantel ticked through the hour before heavy footsteps crossed the hall again. She was shocked to discover how much time had passed. She’d expected he’d return sooner.
When he appeared in the doorway, his face was thunder, his right hand streaked with blood.
Her chest constricted at the sight. His plans had been disrupted, but not in any way she could have anticipated. Her mind raced through all the possible origins of the blood before she forced herself to calm her thoughts. Guessing wouldn’t help anyone.
She rose from the chair; the book sliding from her lap, and rushed towards him, faking concern. “Is everything all right, my lord?”
“Come,” he said, voice like a whip crack, and turned on his heel.
She followed him, every nerve taut. He surprised her when he opened the door to the servants’ side of the house and led her down the stairs, past the servants’ hall. The servants stepped back as they passed. Clara stood among them, her eyes wide, knuckles white around the edge of her apron. Aoife’s chest constricted.
Halverton led her through the kitchens and out into the courtyard. The air outside was sharp and damp with the smell of rotting scraps.
Around the edges of the courtyard, half a dozen soldiers stood at attention, but Aoife only had eyes for the captain in the centre. He had one knee driven into the back of a man forced down on the stones. The prisoner was kneeling, right hand pressed flat to the cobbles, left arm twisted behind him at an angle that threatened to tear it from the socket. The captain wrenched his fingers back to hold him there, a cruel lever against bone and tendon.
Aoife froze, schooling her expression into the mask she’d mastered over the last few days. She didn’t need to see the man’s face. The shape of him, the dark hair matted with sweat and blood, was enough. It was the fear that had gripped her heart the moment she saw blood on Lord Halverton’s hand. She took a breath to steady herself. Any crack in her composure might make things worse for her, for Cormac. She could not misstep again.
Cormac bucked against the captain’s restraint, spitting curses into the dirt.
Halverton gave a slight signal. The captain shifted his grip, dragging Cormac’s head up by the hair, his neck stretched painfully tight.
Aoife’s breath hitched. His face was streaked with dirt and blood. He was still fighting, still trying to rise, until the motion wrenched his shoulder. She saw the moment pain seized him, the same shoulder she had cauterised days ago.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
Halverton’s voice cut through the air. “Who is he to you?”
She’d expected accusations of theft, not this. Aoife found she couldn’t speak in that moment, even if she’d wanted to.
“This is your friend Cormac, is it not?”
Aoife gave the slightest nod.
“Then I shall ask again. Who is he to you?”
She lifted her chin, careful not to let her voice shake. “Like you said, he’s a friend.” She said it gently, not confrontationally. She needed Halverton to see Cormac was not a threat.
