Halverton dragged her backward toward the stairs. Her feet skidded, fighting for purchase on the stone. The villagers shouted, angry but afraid, hemmed in by the soldiers’ raised rifles. A few had already fled.
He pulled her up the steps, her breath coming short and hard.
At the top, he turned, eyes sweeping the courtyard below. The air had gone eerily still. The whip hadn’t cracked again.
“Do it!” he shouted. “Or you will be next!”
Aoife looked out over the crowd. Maire was crying into their father’s side. And then Eoin broke free, running towards the steps.
“No!” she screamed.
Halverton yanked her through the doorway. The soldiers by the entrance followed them in and slammed the heavy doors behind them.
Chapter 28
The slam of the oak doors echoed through the entry hall, a deep shuddering that vibrated through the marble beneath Aoife’s feet.
Halverton didn’t release her.
His grip tightened as he dragged her further inside, his pace unrelenting. She stumbled once, catching herself before she fell. Servants scattered at the edges of the room, shrinking back against the walls.
Aoife met Clara’s eyes. She gave the smallest of nods before slipping away, quick as a shadow.
Beyond the doors came the sharp crack of a whip, followed by a roar of voices. The noise made her flinch.
A soft pounding at the door came next. She turned instinctively. Eoin. Her breath caught as she silently prayed for him to run away, back to their father, back to the village. Somewhere he would be safe.
The soft pounding of his small fists on the door continued.
The soldiers who had entered with them flanked the doors: Wiren, Norin, and Kian. For a heartbeat, her dread eased. What had been a problem might yet become a lifeline.
“What,” Halverton said, each word tight with restraint, “do you think you were playing at?”
Aoife straightened slowly.
Her pulse was loud in her ears, drowning out the distant noise beyond the doors. She forced herself to meet his gaze.
“You set them against me,” he went on, his voice rising despite himself. “And now a soldier is dead.”
Another crack split the air outside.
Halverton didn’t even glance toward the door.
“His blood,” he said, fist clenching, “is on your hands.”
As he spoke, Halverton turned away from her.
The movement was abrupt, pent-up energy with nowhere to go. He crossed to the sideboard, yanked the stopper from the decanter with a sharp crack, and poured himself a glass. The wine sloshed against the sides.
He didn’t savour it, but drank it down in one swallow.
Halverton stood there, back to her, shoulders rising and falling, and filled the glass again.
She hadn’t taken a proper breath since they’d come inside.
She forced one in now. Slow and steady.
Her pulse still roared in her ears. How quickly she’d lost control of the situation. For a brief shining moment, she’d thought the tide was with her, but Halverton had regained the upper hand with ease, and now Lugh was dead, and she did not know what to do next.
