I allow him his privacy, and when I can feel the moment has passed, I ask, “How did you know who I was? During the presentation ceremony? I never thought Granny and I looked very much alike.”
“No, you really don’t.” Sabre turns back wearing the ghost of a smile. “But you have her spirit. As soon as Skadi saw you through the mirror, she wouldn’t stop barking. I wasn’t certain, but I had my suspicions. Information about the human realm can be bought in Farlock’s Edge—if you know who to ask and can afford their exorbitant prices. I knew who you were by the time Desmond showed up last month, begging me to take part in the Hunt with his intriguing offer.”
His eyes slide up the manor to that glowing window again. Mine follow. There’s the barest hint of a shadow at the edge of the curtain.
“She will never accept you, or forgive you, if you force her to marry you.”
“I know it,” he sighs, idly rubbing a hand along the bottom of his horn. He stares up at the guest room with a longing far too intense to be solely inspired by the dark-haired spitfire he won in a marriage bargain.
“But I’m tired of being lonely.”
Chapter
Forty-One
Aowen and I are breakfasting in the sun parlor a few weeks later when the banging starts.
“What is that?” I mutter, shoving half of my blackberry-jam-slathered crumpet into my mouth before following her out of the room.
In the near-empty halls, we pass only the barest hint of staff—who, we’ve been assured by the staff themselves, are all grossly overpaid and here out of a devotion to their solitary duke.
As we take the west stairs up to the second floor, the pounding grows louder and more frequent. Wood splinters and something crashes before we rush into a guest room where all the furniture has been pushed to one side and draped with drop-cloths.
Sabre turns at our entrance, stirring the dust floating through spears of sunlight and settling on his horns. He’s holding a sledgehammer, its head buried in a half-demolished wall. His chest is heaving and his shirt is sweat-soaked, thesleeves pushed up his forearms. A triangle of hard muscle covered in dark hair is plainly visible beneath his open collar, and dangling suspenders bracket a very well-formed backside.
Aowen’s hand is at her throat. She’s been struck speechless, breathing nearly as heavily as Sabre himself while they stare at each other.
Sabre breaks the spell first. “Yes? What do you want?”
Rude question for a man in the midst of destroying his own house.
Aowen squares her shoulders, readjusting her regal mask. “The terrible racket you’re making interrupted our breakfast.”
Sabre pulls the sledgehammer from the wall, then props it on his shoulder, his muscles bunching beneath translucent linen. Aowen swallows as he prowls toward us. “This is my home, Lady Macán. And if I want to do some light renovation, I’ll make as much racket as I damn well please. I had no idea you had such delicate sensibilities.”
“Delicate?” Aowen scoffs. “You’ll find I’m made of stronger stuff than most, Your Grace. If you’re lucky.”
Sabre’s lip twitches upward before he forces it into deep scowl.
“And what do you mean by ‘renovation’?” she asks.
Sabre swings the sledgehammer down, placing the head between his feet, then brushes his hands together. The resulting cloud of dust sends both Aowen and me into mild coughing fits.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I intend to turn Cernunnos Manor into transitional housing for those fleeing Campan’s Vale. This place is far too large and empty. Might as well use it to offer a safe haven for the displaced. I’ve wanted to do it ever since Torvil sent his forces to the Vale but lacked the conviction to start.” He looks to me. “Until now.”
Our talk about Granny Maggie last week must have been more powerful—or therapeutic—than I thought.
Aowen’s hand has risen to her throat again, where a splotchy red flush steals across her skin. Her mouth is moving, but nothing is coming out. And the way she’s looking at Sabre … I don’t think that physical wall is the only thing he’s just knocked down.
I come to her rescue. “Do you intend to do this work by yourself, Your Grace? Could your staff not help you?”
Sabre grunts, “They’ve enough to focus on with their regular responsibilities. They do not need the burden of additional tasks.”
Aowen snaps back to attention. “The Thompson boys over on Ackerley lane would be delighted to help. As would Mr. Shelbourne. He built his own house, you know. He’s got a fine eye for construction.”
Sabre’s expression darkens. “Making friends in my territory already, are you? How often have you visited the Thompson boys, then?”
I wince. Poor Sabre has no idea to whom he just revealed his hand.
