Page 24

“Oh, aye,” I say dryly. “Those look delightful as ever.”

She laughs under her breath, smoothing the front of her dress with unmistakable satisfaction. “Grand.”

Footsteps cross the threshold.

I straighten and add, sotto voce, “Try not to climb him until after breakfast.”

She grins, wicked and delighted, as the doorway darkens and Alex steps inside, bringing half the morning light with him.

CHAPTER SIX

ALEX

James had warned me—warned me plainly, and with the composed air of a man describing a natural law: that Róisín’s spirit ran hot, and that one ignored it only at one’s own cost.

So when the woman in the kitchen turns and regards me without a shred of apology, I know her at once.

She’s impossible to miss. Red hair like firelight, green eyes bright with it, and confidence worn easy as breathing.

She doesn’t make any show of modesty; she simply looks—openly, steadily—allowing her gaze to travel over me as though she means to take an honest measure.

And she likes what she finds.

It’s not the sort of admiration a woman offers out of politeness. It reveals itself in smaller treacheries: the slight easing at her shoulders, the faint brightening at her eyes, the instant her attention lingers rather than passes on. Even her mouth betrays her—a brief, reluctant lift at one corner, checked too late to pretend it never happened.

Behind her sits the woman I believe is Ellen, intent entirely on her work. She matches James’s description well enough.

You and she will get on famously, James had said, with the easy confidence of a man sending me into battle unarmed. The bastard was setting me up to lose.

He undersold her.

The introduction is brief and lively and exactly as promised. She smiles and shakes my hand like she means to crush bone. She laughs at my accent—frankly, not unkindly—and informs me she is prepared to tolerate me, provided I don’t prove myself to be boring.

“That sounds dangerously close to a challenge,” I answer.

“Oh, it is,” Róisín says sweetly. “Fail it and I’m likely to have forgotten yer name by supper.”

“Well,” I say, “I’ll do my best to spare you the inconvenience of disappointment.”

“I expect nothing less,” she says, already pleased with herself. “I’ve standards to uphold.”

Róisín glances at Ellen—and whatever passes between them is wordless, pointed, and clearly familiar. She swears softly under her breath, more amused than profane.

“Aye, aye,” she mutters, lifting both hands as though in surrender. “I promised I’d take her place with the rest of the morning’s work.”

Ellen’s stare sharpens at once.

“And,” Róisín adds, turning back to Ellen with a look of pure satisfaction, “ye’re to go and get yourself cleaned up. I’m not havin’ you standin’ there like ye’ve been forcefully dragged through the dew with all the suitors comin’ tonight.”

“Róisín,” Ellen says, low and warning.

“What?” Róisín asks innocently. “That was the bargain. You told me yer⁠—”

Ellen’s mouth goes thin. “Ye’re a woman with too much mouth.”

Róisín’s smile widens.

Ellen leans in enough to make the warning private. “Keep yer geggie shut,” she hisses.