Page 27

Sorcha hesitated. If she said Sutherland, she would invite their spite. If she lied, nay, she could not afford lies here. “Sorcha Sutherland.”

The younger maid gave a short, sharp laugh.

The cook’s mouth tightened. “Aye,” she said coldly. “Thought so.”

Sorcha’s face burned.

The cook thrust a bucket and a rag towards her. “Get tae it, then.”

Sorcha took the bucket with stiff fingers. The handle bit into her raw palms. She lowered it to the floor carefully, kneeling with quiet control. She would not let them see her flinch. She wrung out the rag and began to scrub.

The kitchen floor was stone, worn smooth by years of footsteps. Old grease clung near the hearth. Ash lay in a grey halo where the fire was tended. Sorcha scraped at it with the rag until the stone darkened with water and the grime began to lift. The work was ordinary. It was what women did every day in every household across Scotland. But the way their eyes watched her made it something else. As if it were both a punishment and a spectacle.

The younger maid returned to slicing roots. Her knife thudded against the board with unnecessary force. “She’s delicate,” the maid said loudly, not looking up. “All soft hands and fine bones. She’ll last a day.”

Sorcha kept scrubbing.

The cook snorted. “She’ll last as long as Laird Gavan says she’ll last.”

The maid laughed again. “If she’s as wild with a brush as she is with a pistol, we’ll all be in danger.”

Sorcha’s fingers curled around the rag until her knuckles whitened, but she kept scrubbing.

The middle-aged woman with the linens watched Sorcha with something like discomfort, as if she did not approve of cruelty but was not willing to risk herself by stopping it.

“Does it trouble ye, Sorcha Sutherland?” the maid continued, voice sharpened like vinegar. “Tae have tae scrub like the rest of us?”

Sorcha’s jaw tightened. She did not answer.

The maid’s smile turned mean. “Or is it the first honest work you’ve ever done with yer hands?”

Sorcha’s throat burned. She kept her head lowered. Do not answer. Do not feed it. Do not give them your anger. Her anger was her last pride. She could not spend it on servants’ cruelty.

The maid leaned closer. “They say yer twin is bound for the rope.”

Sorcha forced herself to keep moving the rag.

The maid’s eyes glittered. “Is it true? Did he really write letters calling Munro men rebels? Did he really think he could smear their name and walk away clean?”

Sorcha’s hands paused.

The cook’s voice snapped. “Enough, Elsie.”

Elsie gave a falsely innocent look. “I’m only curious.”

“Ye’re only cruel,” the cook muttered, but her eyes flicked away quickly.

She was not going to protect Sorcha. Not truly.

Sorcha scrubbed harder, as if she could scrub the words off the floor too. The ache in her shoulder deepened. The bruises along her ribs pulsed with each breath. Her fingers began to sting where the rag rubbed against raw skin. The kitchen felt too bright; the fire too loud. Her eyes blurred, and she blinked hard. Do not cry. Not here.

Elsie continued as if she could smell weakness. “Tell us,” the maid said. “Did ye aim for Laird Gavan’s shoulder or did ye mean tae shoot him in the heart?”

Sorcha froze, and the rag stilled in her hand.

Elsie’s smile widened. “Did ye want him dead? Is that it? Did ye want the Munros ruined so yer brother could keep his lands?”

Sorcha’s chest heaved once, then she rose, not quickly, not wildly. She simply stood. Her legs trembled beneath her skirts, but she lifted her chin and faced Elsie.