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CHAPTER TWELVE

ALEX

Wednesday, 25 July 1798

Keiss, Scotland

The Sinclair Family Home, White Hart Mill

The water was running colder than it had any right to in July, and that should have warned me. The first bite of air rolled off the water, into my bones, and I should have taken it as a sign from the Gods, fate, or plain common sense to turn my ass around.

That, in hindsight, was my first mistake.

I should have gone to find Robert. He owes me at least three favours and knows it, so I could have made him pay up at last.

Or I could have found James, built like an ox and twice as steady, an honourable man to a fault. One mention of his mother needing help, and he’d have pretended reluctance maybe, but he would have done it all the same.

My second mistake was trusting that fucking alder branch.

I stripped because the mill’s intake jammed again, and because I’m not fond of walking around wet. No one lurked nearby, so modesty was of no concern. I set my clothes on a branch that looked sturdy enough to hold the weight of my dignity. Then I waded in, water biting hard at my knees, my thighs, my sack, and my damn resolve.

With my cock and balls braced in one hand, and my other pushing against the blockage, it finally gave way with a reluctant groan, but with it came a sound that most definitely did not belong to the mill.

I turn in horror.

The branch folds like a sinner at confession. My clothes slide in one slow, steady motion, as though time itself is slowing to ensure I understand what’s happening. Shirt first. Trousers next. Then my small-clothes, which hesitate, catch, and then surrender to the current. Then the branch finally decides it’s past its prime, so it dips too.

“No,” I say, uselessly.

They drift off together, a neat little flotilla of shame, bobbing downstream like they have urgent business elsewhere.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Today’s the day I lose my cock and balls. We’ve had a mighty fine ride together. No serious complaints, but there’s no version of this life where I walk bare-assed to the castle.

The mill wheel creaks faintly behind me, satisfied with itself, turning even more smoothly.

“Of course you’re working well now,” I mutter. “I hope you are proud of what you have done here.”

“Alex?”

I close my eyes.

I know that voice. I know the lift of it; the music tucked into the syllables, the way my name sounds different in her mouth. A huff out a breath before turning to the shore.

“Do not,” I say carefully, “come any closer.”

There’s a pause.

“Why?” Róisín asks.

Another step. Then she stops.

“Why are you in the water,” she continues, “with no shirt?”

I realise, belatedly, that I’m crossing my arms too deliberately, my posture too stiff.

Her silence stretches. I feel it like pressure.

“Oh, no…,” she says, realisation in her tone.