Sharper.
Uncomfortable in a way even Wulfric’s silence couldn’t eclipse.
Chapter 12
Euphemia
My heart was full to the brim as I cradled wee Moire against my chest. Her soft weight, her milky warmth, her tiny fingers tangled in my sleeve—aye, this was the kind of comfort no grand manor could match.
My brother Ronald was a little stiff with me—his jaw tight, his eyes avoiding mine—but he’d forgive me soon enough. He always did. Food in our bellies mattered more than wounded pride or my sudden departure.
“At least wi’the Sassunnach Laird we can celebrate Christmas alongside Hogmanay this year,” my aunt whispered, slipping an arm around my shoulders.
Ronald only grunted, crossing his arms tight across his chest like a gate shutting.
Uncle Callum was settling Angus and Hamish into bed, the pair chattering louder than a flock of geese. Their laughter drifted faintly down the hall—warm, familiar—filling the croft in a way it hadn’t in weeks.
Moire stirred in my arms, tiny face scrunching before she settled again. My heart swelled so suddenly I had to blink hard.
“Ye dinnae need tae fret,” Auntie murmured.“Yer brother’ll come roon’. He kens fine ye did what ye had tae.”
“Aye,” I whispered, though guilt curled like smoke through my ribs.“I just wish he smiled at me the way he used tae.”
She squeezed my shoulder.“Time, lass. Time heals maist wounds.”
Perhaps this year would be different.
Every year before this, we’d celebrated Christmas in secret—quiet hymns, a candle lit low, a bit o’bannock if we had the flour. Not because anyone here would stop us now, but because old habits lingered. The Kirk had near stamped Christmas out generations ago, and folk never fully brought the day back the way the English had.
But this year… this year we had wages. Food. A warm roof. Safety enough to share a meal without fear of the next day stealing it away.
For once, Christmas didn’t feel like a guilty whisper.
It felt like hope.
? ? ?
I took a steadying breath and knocked on the dining room door. I didn’t know why the man insisted on daily updates, but it was his money and his right. Still, it felt unnecessary—a task anyone else could’ve handled.
When his voice called for me to enter, I pushed the door open.
His presence always managed to pull the air from the room, as though he displaced something essential simply by existing.
He nudged the chair beside him with his boot until it slid out.
“Euphemia,” he murmured.“How is your family?”
I blinked—because good Lord, his attire was more formal than usual: light tan breeches that fit indecently well, a darker waistcoat, and a rich navy tailcoat that did nothing to soften theseverity of his frame. The white cravat wound neatly at his throat only made his dark curls look darker, almost black.
“Aye, they are fine. Thank ye for huvin’them over,” I said, forcing myself closer to the table.
“It is my pleasure,” he replied, pouring a cup of tea with a smoothness that made me suspicious.
I swallowed as I sat.
What was he up to now?
“And your brother?” he asked mildly.
