For one terrible instant, silence opened.
Then Donal said, smoothly enough, “I have been away from Rathmore long enough that I speak of many things there as if they belong to the past.”
The trader laughed uncertainly and looked back to Aingeal. “Forgive me. Road weariness makes poor conversation.”
“Sell your goods to Tomas,” Aingeal said. Her voice came even because she forced it so. “If your wool is sound, the castle may have use for it.”
The man bowed again and followed Tomas out of the brewhouse.
Only when he had gone did Aingeal look at Donal.
“You did not know whether Orla lived,” she said.
His gaze met hers. “No.”
He did not explain and she did not ask. Not there, not with the brewhouse workers listening.
For one instant, she saw the man who had braced a ladder in the rain and solved a problem at her side. Then she saw the other one. The man who carried a locked door inside himself.
She still couldn’t trust him fully.
Chapter eighteen
Reginald walked through the corridors after the evening meal. The chapel door stood half open; a thin seam of candlelight lay across the corridor floor. He pushed the door wider and stepped inside, wondering why he kept seeking the chapel. What did he expect to find there? Comfort had no business waiting for him in a place like this.
Étaín stood near the little side altar with her back half turned, one hand resting lightly on the worn rail as though she had come to pray and been distracted from it. Candlelight gentled her beauty into something quieter than it looked by day. What remained was intelligence.
For one heartbeat, he considered leaving. Before he could, she turned.
“Sir Donal,” she said, and smiled.
Reginald did not return it. “My lady.”
“You look surprised.”
“I’ve learned surprise is seldom useful.”
“Have you?” She tipped her head, studying him. “That sounds like a lesson won dearly.”
The candles crackled faintly in their sconces.
Étaín traced one finger along the altar rail. “I hope I am not intruding on devotion.”
“I was not here for devotion.”
“No.” Her gaze slid back to him. “I did not think you were.”
Reginald remained near the door. He had no wish to be trapped deeper inside the chapel than he already was. The room seemed too small tonight, the air too close. He had stood in greater halls under greater danger, but there was something in Étaín’s composure that unsettled him more than accusation would have.
“That was an interesting meal the other night,” she said.
“Was it?”
“Oh yes. Priests, politics, old ghosts. Excellent company for digestion.”
His jaw shifted. “Churchmen are fond of turning old blood into table talk.”
“Yes.” Her voice remained light. “Though some hear old stories more keenly than others.”
