“But why—?” she pressed.
Halverton didn’t answer. He simply talked over her, voice smooth and unbroken despite the screams behind them.
“Lords Montbrass and Severcombe will arrive in two days. This inspection matters more than you can understand.”
Aoife barely heard him. Each crack of the whip sliced through her like a blade. When it finally stopped, she risked a glance. The man sagged in his bonds, trembling. Two soldiers cut him down. At her count it was only half a dozen lashes, but enough to cause lasting damage, enough to kill him if not treated properly.
“He’s lucky,” Halverton said lightly.
Aoife swallowed hard. “Lucky?”
Halverton continued walking, still holding her arm. He carried on as if there had been no interruption. “If this visit goes well, I might finally escape this place. I am wasted here. Everyone knows it. And you are going to help me prove it.”
“How am I going to do that, my lord?”
“Perception is often more important than truth. A bachelor past a certain age suggests instability. Impulse. A lack of… roots. A wife demonstrates permanence. Discipline. Good judgement.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“And since there are no suitable ladies in this godforsaken posting, I must be… resourceful.”
They reached the house.
“You have made impressive improvements,” he said, placing a hand on her lower back and guiding her towards the diningroom. “Your posture, your table manners, your deportment have all significantly improved since the day you arrived. But there are still areas that need work.”
Inside the dining room, he gestured for her to sit. She did.
“I should have addressed this sooner,” he said as he laid out pieces of cutlery before her. “This is the order. Outer to inner. Soup spoon there. Fish knife here. And for the love of the Emperor, stop thanking the footmen.”
He stepped behind her, correcting the way she held a fork. His presence loomed over her shoulder, his voice warm against her ear.
“No, not like that,” he murmured, reaching down to guide her hand. His fingers closed around hers, adjusting her grip. “Gently.”
Aoife’s breath caught. She wanted to pull away, but she forced herself still. Think of something else, she commanded herself. Think of anything else.
It was Cormac who came to her mind.
Cormac’s fingers closing around hers to help her steady a snared rabbit.
Cormac’s hand reaching to steady her as they climbed.
But Cormac’s touch was warm, assured, nothing like this.
The thought made her chest ache.
“Aoife? Are you listening?” Halverton asked sharply.
“Yes. Sorry.”
He stepped away, satisfied that he’d corrected her. Aoife slid her hands beneath the table, rubbing them hard, trying to erase the ghost of his touch. Her skin prickled.
She shook out her fingers under the tablecloth, breath unsteady.
Halverton leaned in again, close enough that the heat of the candle touched one side of his face and threw the other into shadow. Aoife tried to focus on the fork in her hand, but the lightcaught the ruined skin along his cheek and temple, revealing every ridge and puckered seam.
She stared a heartbeat too long.
Halverton’s eyes flicked to hers. “Is something wrong?”
