“Yesterday, you said you killed a man,” Laila went on, turning square to face him. She could smell his sweat in the garments she held, and for some strange reason, it excited her. “Who did you kill?”
“Erm,” he fumbled with his words, casting his eyes downwards for a moment. “An outlaw, he attacked us,” and he brought his eyes up as he answered. Gone was the calm lapping of waves, and instead, she saw the beginnings of a storm brewing in his sockets, and she felt another shiver of excitement run through her.
“Very well,” she said, turning again in a hurry. “I shall see to the washing,” and she rushed down the corridor until she was out of sight. Once more, she leaned against the stone wall, trying to compose herself while she clutched his clothes, drinking in the feeling that his eyes had imparted.
“There ye bloody are!” Mary barked, coming round the corner. “Good, ye got his clothes, come let’s get tae washing.”
“Of course,” Laila said, standing up off the wall.
“Can’t be dawdlin’ all day,” Mary grumbled, leading her into a side passage reserved for servants. “Can’t be out in the corridor neither! Bloody useless. Come on, now!”
Laila followed. She was a servant. That was all, for she could be nothing more any longer. The moment she was Laila of Willby, Lord Hamilton would come for her, and she shuddered at the thought.
