Page 125 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“Harold would never hurt anyone.”

“I know that. But it doesnae matter. If Cailleach starts searching for people using magic outside their design, she will kill him without a thought. He needs to burn it.” I pull out the book. “This, and anything else he has that could link him to magic. Will you tell him?”

“Aye. But he said he found something else. He wants to talk to you.”

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Bea told me. But I can't go to him now, not with the guards watching.”

He stops pacing. “He comes in every evening. I'll tell him you'll come in the night.”

I appraise Theo for a moment, his eagerness to help. To do the right thing. It’s admirable, and I find that I trust him more than I’d have thought possible. “Have him leave the door unlocked. I'll find him when it's safe.”

Theo walks to the corner where a stack of supplies sits, as if he'd been preparing for this for days. Dried meats and fruit. Bread and nuts. He hands it to me.

“I think you’re right about the guardians. The Cutter is having them watch you. They've been asking after you. About Bea, as well.”

I hold his stare. “You need to be careful then, because after meeting with me, I'm certain they're watching you now, too.”

54

BRENNEN

Theo's warning plagues me as I ride back to the river, Sable’s saddlebags full.

They're asking after Bea and me. Except, something won’t settle in my mind. The pieces won’t click into place, but I dinnae ken why.

The Cutter is prideful, yes, but would she really not want to stop someone from using magic outside of her and her sisters' will? They've killed for far less. Is it possible that she wants a war? Wants the rebels, or anyone even considering joining their cause, to be flushed out and executed? Because if that's the case, what I'd said to Theo wasn't wrong.

The loss of life would be staggering.

The sound of Bea humming floats through the glen as I approach, a happier tune than the magical song of mourning she usually sings. I hop off Sable, giving her an apple from the bag, and remove one of the satchels to carry to the river.

My grip slips when I see her, the bag nearly falling to the ground as the air is stolen from my lungs.

Bea is standing in the middle of the river, the water hitting just above her knees, and her face is tipped toward the falling snow. Fat flakes stick in her fiery red hair, only lasting a moment before melting into nothing, her dàn of warmth heating her to even the tips of her curls. But it's not the serenity on her face that makes me pause. That makes me clench my hands, and my mouth goes dry.

It's that she's bathing, and she’s not wearing her dress.

My chest tightens, my cock growing hard as my eyes skate across her pale, bare legs. Her arms and torso, and I suddenly wish I’d had a dram at the tavern. Maybe it would have dulled my senses enough to douse the fire the sight of her ignites in my blood.

The dàn on my hand burns, my vow reminding me of how wrong what I’m doing is, watching her like this, but I cannae look away. Even worse, I dinnae want to. Her skin is the color of buttermilk, and my fingers crave to touch it. To feel her warmth. Her softness.

She rubs a bar of soap lazily up and down her arms, between her breasts over her dàn of immortality, then takes a few steps toward the deeper water, diving in and fully submerging her head. When she reappears, drops of water trail down her freckled face. She rubs the bar of soap between her hands, lathering it, and begins to wash her hair.

My body begs me to take it from her. To wash her myself. To thread my fingers through her curls so I will finally know if her hair is as soft as it looks.

It doesnae feel like a fleeting, careless want, but a desperate need. Like my heart will stop beating if I dinnae take care of her. And in more ways than just washing her hair.

I imagine my mouth on her. My fingers inside her.

My breaths go ragged as I think of what it would be like to watch her come undone. To give her respite from her endless torment. My cock aches at the thought, and the dàn on my palm flares so hot, I nearly drop to my knees. Shame settles in my stomach, trying to burn my desire away from the inside out.

I shouldn’t feel like this. Not about anyone, but especially for the woman who killed Marsaili. Even if she hadn’t done it on purpose. Even if the curse had driven her to madness. And still, her body calls to me, like she is her own type of magic that has burrowed inside my bones and corrupted my heart and mind.

It takes every bit of my self-control to remain still for one heartbeat. Then two. I should turn away, but I'm certain if I move, I will go to her instead. Run my hands along the small swells of her breasts, take the soap from her and rub it across her belly. Between her legs.

There's a rustling from the other side of the river, and Bea looks toward it, a wide smile spreading across her face as a fox appears through the heather.

“Well, hello there. I don't think I've met you before,” she coos.