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“I believe ye did.” Effie reached across the table, covering Anne’s hand. “But what ye saw may not be what ye think.”
Anne blinked, uncertainty flickering.
Effie continued, voice measured now. “Freckles claims I sent him. I didnae. Moyra was there alone, leaving as ye arrived. And Camden was in a state that suggests confusion, not comfort.”
She let that settle.
“Moyra has chased Camden’s attention long enough for half the village to notice,” Effie added softly. “And she does not take rejection kindly.”
Anne’s fingers tightened around the cup.
“Ye think she…” the words faltered.
“I think,” Effie said carefully, “too many pieces here smell wrong.”
Anne lowered her gaze, torn between the aching hurt and the fragile thread of hope Effie offered. “I feel a fool for wanting that to be true.”
Effie squeezed her hand. “There is no shame in wanting truth instead of pain.” She rose, already moving with purpose, protective energy gathering in her posture. “We will not leap to conclusions today. Ye will stay here, warm and fed, until yer heart steadies. And when ye are ready, we will find out what truly happened.”
Anne’s eyes filled again, not with the sharp anguish from before, but with something quieter. Relief. Gratitude. The comfort of not facing it alone.
Effie brushed Anne’s hair gently from her face.
“No one toys with my dearest friend and walks away unchallenged,” she said firmly.
Chapter Twenty
Camden had never known panic to taste so bitter. By the time he reached the village, sweat clung cold to his skin despite the brisk air. His head still throbbed where he’d been struck, each pulse reminding him of the hours lost, of Moyra’s manipulation, of Anne walking into something she should never have seen.
He had gone first to her cottage, had knocked until his knuckles were raw, then opened the door to find it empty. The hearth was warm but unattended, her shawl missing, no sign she meant to return soon. He stood there a moment, heart pounding in his ears, imagining her hurt, confused, and believing the worst. Not that he could blame her after what she’d seen.
It was not far to her brother’s blacksmith shop, so he decided that perhaps Anne had gone there. It was best to tell Gowan everything regardless of Anne being there or not.
The clang of hammer on iron rang sharp as he approached, sparks bursting against the dim interior. The scent of hot metal and coal smoke filled his lungs as he stepped inside.
Gowan looked up from his work, brows drawing together immediately.
“Camden,” he greeted, wiping sweat from his brow. “What brings ye?” He stopped eyebrows rising. Camden must have looked half-ruined. Hair in disarray, face pale beneath grime, eyes shadowed with strain.
“I must speak with ye…about Anne,” Camden said, voice tight.
Gowan set down his hammer slowly. “Is something wrong with Anne?”
The question twisted through Camden’s chest. “No…I dinnae ken.”
That was enough to stiffen the blacksmith’s posture. He stepped closer, arms folding across his broad chest. “Explain.”
Camden told him. He didn’t pretty it. Didn’t soften it. The boy’s message. The trap. Waking to find Moyra with him. Her threats. Her admission that Anne had been lured to the shack. The realization that Anne had come. That she might have seen him in that state. That she had fled before he could reach her.
When he finished, silence hung thick as forge smoke.
Gowan’s jaw tightened.
“So,” he said slowly, “ye expect me to believe ye were stripped naked, placed in a bed beside Moyra, and are innocent of all wrongdoing?”
The skepticism cut clean and sharp. Camden met his gaze, too exhausted to argue with pride. “I expect nothing,” he said hoarsely. “Only that ye ken I love yer sister. I was to speak with ye this morning of courting her properly. I would never betray her trust.”
Gowan’s expression remained guarded.
