Page 87 of The Shape of Silence

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, tugging to have her hand freed.

“I do,” he growled. “We must.”

She shook her head. “No, there’s nothing to talk about. I told you what I know—or what I now believe—and you...” she stopped, her voice catching on whatever she would not say. “Let me go, Morggán.”

“I canna,” he confessed, meaning more than only her hand.

She glared up at him, her blue eyes hard and unblinking. “I needed you to—” Again, she forced herself to stop and applied her free hand to his, the one holding her wrist, trying to loosen his firm hold. “Stop it. Let go.”

“Avery, just listen to—”

“I needed you to believe me!” She yelled at him, still yanking at her hand. When she realized she could not free herself that way, she smacked at his chest. “You were supposed to help me! I wanted you to help me—you said you could fix anything.”

The blow scarcely registered, and the next one landed no more forcefully. And then another.

She looked up at him through tear-filled eyes, her face crumpling. “I thought you would help me figure it out.”

He released her hand finally and tried to pull her close. “Avery—”

“No!” she sobbed, pushing hard against his chest now with both hands, tears spilling from her bright eyes. “You didn’t even try.” She pushed at him once more, though there was almost no strength left in it. It was less an attempt to move him than an expression of utter helplessness, and he thought she simply didn’t know what to do with the hurt that consumed her.

Without a word, he gathered her finally into his arms. She resisted weakly, collapsing against his chest after only a moment. Her shoulders, rigid through the whole of it, dropped as he folded her in, the last of her resistance visible only in the brief, convulsive tremor that moved through her before she went still.

“I trusted you.”

The whispered words struck him harder than any blow. He understood now: she hadn’t needed his belief so much as she needed him. This was a new kind of failure, not of pride or temper, but something that hollowed him out from the inside. He had abandoned her when she needed him most. His arms tightened, an involuntary reflex to pull her closer, to somehow fill the space his absence had created.

He kissed the top of her head, his strong hand against her hair, holding her close. “Shh. Easy, lass.”

He’d told himself they’d been at odds because of her improbable admission, but he understood now that was not all—Avery was mourning something he’d broken, and it gutted him.

She wept against him a little longer, but then abruptly stiffened, pushing again at his chest. “Just... leave me alone.”

“I canna do that, lass.”

But he did, allowing her to slip free of his arms.

Her red-rimmed eyes searched his face with more skepticism than hope. “Do you believe me then? Do you believe what I said—where I come from?”

Something moved across his face before he could stop it, a flinch, the beginning of a denial, and though he shuttered it quickly, she had seen it.

“Then leave me alone.” This, furiously, and she turned and stomped away from him.

***

Morggán kept near the forward portion of the column alongside Lucas while the riders threaded carefully through narrow deer paths and broken ridges known well to local men, and now familiar to his own after days of hard travel. Hooves struck the soft forest floor in a muffled rhythm beneath them while damp mist gathered low through the forest hollows. Tonight’s ride was intended as another fast strike against the outer supply lines, conducted purposely after midnight—their first nighttime foray—hoping to catch the enemy off-guard again. They would hit hard and vanish before the English had time to organize a defense.

Ahead of them, two mounted scouts ghosted in and out of visibility between the trees before disappearing farther north again. The riders behind maintained discipline as they moved, and for a time nothing disturbed the march beyond the ordinary sounds of men and horses moving stealthily through darkness.

Then somewhere ahead, a horse gave a sharp, aborted scream. Morggán scowled, displeased by any noise that might give them away.

But then a scrambling was heard, and louder sounds, riders coming hard. Morggán and every man within earshot immediately straightened. His hand dropped toward his sword as the noise grew closer. Lucas turned sharply in the saddle, just as movement burst suddenly through the trees ahead.

One of the forward scouts emerged at a hard gallop between the pines, old dead leaves flying beneath the pounding hooves. Another rider followed close behind him, blood streaking black from one side of his face in the moonlight.

“They’re moving!” the lead scout shouted before he had fully reached them. “Forward riders behind us—”

Arrows tore suddenly through the branches from somewhere unseen ahead and right. One horse shrieked and crashed sideways into the undergrowth while riders shouted sharply in the dark. The Scottish lines fractured, the mac Ruaidhri and the Thains attempting to wheel about while in tight formation.