Page 28

The maid’s smile faltered slightly.

Sorcha’s voice came out low and shaking, but steady enough. “I was protecting myself and Destiny,” Sorcha said.

Elsie scoffed. “Protecting?”

Sorcha took one step forward. The room seemed to hold its breath. “I thought they were bandits,” Sorcha said, louder now. Her eyes stung, but she refused to look away. “I thought they meant to drag us into the dark. I thought they meant to hurt us.”

Elsie’s eyes flickered.

Sorcha’s throat tightened. “If you have never been pursued by men stronger than you, men who believe they can take what they want, then perhaps you cannot understand why a woman would raise a pistol.”

The cook stopped kneading dough.

The boy at the hearth stared.

Elsie’s mouth tightened.

Sorcha’s voice broke. “I did not aim to cripple him. I did not aim to ruin his life. But the shot struck, and now he lives with it, and so must I.”

The kitchen was silent now. Even Elsie seemed unsure, her cruelty momentarily stalled by the rawness of truth. Sorcha inhaled shakily. Then she turned back to the floor. She knelt again and scrubbed. The rag moved in harsh circles. Water darkened with filth. Her hands burned. Her cheeks felt hot as if her skin would split.

Elsie muttered something under her breath.

Sorcha did not listen. She scrubbed until the grease lifted near the hearth. Until the stone began to shine, wet and clean, until the ache in her shoulder became a deep, dull throb that made nausea rise.

The door opened behind her, and cold air rushed in. Sorcha did not need to look up to know who it was. The room changed instantly, like an animal sensing that its master had returned. Footsteps crossed the threshold. Measured. Controlled.

Gavan.

Sorcha’s spine stiffened as she kept scrubbing, the rag slapping wetly against stone. She heard him pause. He did not speak at first, but Sorcha felt the weight of his attention like heat on her skin.

“What’s this?” His voice came, calm but edged.

The cook cleared her throat. “M’laird . . .”

Gavan’s gaze swept the floor. “She is still on her knees. That is not what I asked.”

Sorcha’s breath caught. Not what he asked? He had told her to scrub the kitchen floor, had he not?

The cook stammered, “She’s doing the floor, m’laird.”

Gavan’s voice sharpened slightly. “She was to do other tasks as well, so that her hands might have a rest.”

Silence.

Elsie’s knife paused mid-slice.

Gavan moved farther into the room. Sorcha kept her gaze lowered, but she could see the hem of his coat at the edge of her vision. He stopped beside Elsie.

“Name,” he said.

“Elsie, m’laird.” The maid’s voice went thin.

Gavan paused. “Elsie,” he repeated thoughtfully. “What did you say to her?”

Elsie’s breath caught. “I—nothing, my lord.”

Gavan’s voice dropped. “You know I dislike lies.”