Page 93 of When the Sky Breaks

“It stormed the night my mom died,” she finally whispered.

The words hit me like a physical blow. Of course she hated shooting a gun. The sound, the flash, the memory of a dead parent. Of course she didn’t want anything to do with it. I cursed myself for not asking in more depth sooner.

“I’m sorry, my love,” I murmured. She shrugged, didn’t look up.

“How did you find me?” Sorcha asked after a while.

“The cats.”

“Figures.”

“Forgive me?” I asked. “Please?”

“Of course I forgive you, just . . .” She trailed off, took a deep breath, and said, “Don’t treat me like a belligerent child. Alright? I’m your wife. Act like it.”

“And what does that entail?” I asked, reaching for her hand. She let me, cracked a smile. We’d be alright.

“You tell me,” Sorcha said. “You’re the Steward. You’ve watched how many aristocratic couples navigate complicated marriages? My mom died when I was little. What couples do I have to go off?”

“I could tell you”—my voice dropped and I bent to whisper into her ear—“or we could hurry back and I could show you before bed?”

“I think I’d like that,” Sorcha murmured.

“Just pretend we’re still fighting,” I said as we walked up to the printshop.

“Right, so we’re going to pretend we’re still fighting so that they leave us alone and we can . . .” She trailed off.

“Do other emotionally impassioned things.”

“I’m in favor of other emotionally impassioned things.”

I pushed the door open and Sorcha stalked past me, shooting a glare at Ansel before picking up one of the basset hounds and heading for the stairs.

“Trouble in paradise, lad?” Ansel asked.

“She’s not entirely forgiven me,” I muttered. Then called up the stairs after her, “Sorcha, talk to me!”

The door slammed.

“You gonna follow her this time?” Ansel asked, vaguely amused. I just nodded and trudged upstairs. I reached our room, banged on the door, and pleaded a few times for good measure, then slipped inside.

“They bought it?” Sorcha asked.

“I genuinely do not care,” I replied, taking the dog from her arms and pulling her close.

“Oh, really?” Sorcha challenged.

“Really,” I replied, bending to kiss her. “But they are downstairs. So, love?”

“Yes, Neal?”

“You’ll have to be very quiet,” I breathed against her neck, clamping my hand over her mouth to stifle the half moan, half giggle that slipped out. I trailed kisses down to her sternum as I unbuttoned her dress and slipped it off her, pausing only to unfasten her corset.

“Neal,” Sorcha murmured into my chest.

“Love?”

“Now would be an appropriate time to use wrestling to prove your point,” she said, big green eyes gazing up at me as she bit down on her bottom lip. I dropped her corset and tugged at the waistband of her petticoats.