Page 120 of The Washwoman at the River’s End

“You should go to sleep. I need to write Garrick,” he says, oblivious to the heat coursing in my blood. The place my mind has gone.

“Who?” I ask, fighting to turn my thoughts away from the words slipping from his lips.

He meets my eyes and freezes. His jaw ticks, and something dark flits across his face. Can he tell what his words have done to me? “Go to sleep,” he growls, sitting down at his writing desk. I shuffle from foot to foot, unsure where he wants me, and he sighs.

He squeezes the sides of the desk, refusing to look at me. “Lie down, Bea.”

“Where?” I ask. My voice comes out shaky. Breathy.

“Where do you think? In the bed.”

In the bed.

In his bed.

I take a single step back, and he tilts his head, misunderstanding the movement. “You dinnae need to be afraid. Even if I were that kind of man,” he says quietly, “I cannae touch you.”

My cheeks flush, and my skin flashes with heat, pricking as if it wishes that weren't the case. I don’t want him to touch me, I remind myself.

My dàn for detecting lies flares.

I cannot even lie to myself. “That's not— I wasn't saying⁠—”

“Sleep,” he orders. I lay down, my chain softly clinking, and pull up the soft wool blanket as if it might shield me from him. Still, his gaze presses against my back even through the fabric, hot and persistent, and my pulse leaps. I slow my breathing, willing it to steady. Pretending, and after some time, the sound of a quill gliding against parchment meets my ears.

I do not move when, after what feels like an eternity, Brennen’s chair scrapes backwards. His heavy footfalls approach, and he lowers himself to the bedroll, pausing. The moment stretches on and on, agonizingly endless, before he slides in behind me, his movements cautious. Measured.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter.

My heart pounds as I picture his broad shoulders taking over the space, his strong chest and thick thigh only inches away, and my body goes rigid. The space between us crackles, thrumming with something dangerous and alive.

I hold my breath as Brennen reaches over me, and when his arm brushes against my shoulder, I wonder if it was intentional. He’s moving slowly enough he could avoid me, if he wanted, and yet my sleeve scrapes against my skin from the pressure of his graze.

He sucks in a breath, almost imperceptibly. But I hear it. I feel it.

He sets something down in front of me, hesitating long enough that I almost turn to him, but he pulls back just before I do. I feel the loss of his contact all the way to my toes.

I finally open my eyes.

In the flickering light, I see a dagger resting on the ground in front of me, the blade wrapped in cloth.

“What's this for?” I ask, reaching out to touch it.

“You'll need it to save the next woman, when another vision comes," he says. “You were lucky today, but you cannae always count on there being a weapon within arm’s reach.” I nod, feeling foolish for not thinking of it myself as I wrap my fingers around it.

“You're not afraid I'll use it on you?” I ask, surprised by the show of trust. “It takes a brave man to hand a murderess their dagger and then fall asleep beside her.”

There’s a long beat of silence. Long enough, I wonder if he’s going to answer me at all. He lies still beside me, his breaths even and slow, but I know he isn’t sleeping. I can feel the rapid beat of his heart. His mind churning. “No, little lark,” he finally says, a gruff whisper, and I suddenly can’t breathe. “There’s something else I’m far more afraid of.”

He blows out his candle before I can answer. Before he can see what the name did to me. Not Bea. Not Washwoman. Lark. A songbird, free enough to fly high into the sky. Is that how he sees me now?

Heat pools in my belly, and my heart races, pounding so hard, I wonder if he can hear it. He shifts, and even without my sight, I know he’s rolled to his back. The inches between us feel less with every passing second, but I do not know if the space has actually grown smaller, or if my heart just wishes it would.

52

BRENNEN

My heart pounds as I lie beside the Washwoman, my entire body buzzing, taut as a bow string. It feels as if I'm balancing on the edge of a cliff on a windy day, the loch below rough and deadly. The proximity is too much, and my palm burns with an intensity I cannae ignore.