Page 5

Sorcha spun and backed away instinctively, her breath catching. Her fingers closed around the small knife tucked beneath her sleeve. It was barely a weapon, only a kitchen blade, dull at the edge, stolen because she could not bear to be helpless again.

A figure emerged from behind a tree. Then another. The two men blocked her way. They were dressed in rough clothes with caps low over their brows, and their faces half hidden by scarves. Their eyes glinted like wolves’.

Sorcha’s mouth went dry.

“Good morning, lass,” one said pleasantly, as though greeting her on a village road. “Out for a stroll?”

Sorcha did not answer. The forest seemed to shrink around her, pressing in.

“None of that now.” The second man tilted his head, gaze sliding over her like hands. “That cloak’s too fine for a beggar.”

“I have nothing of value,” Sorcha said, forcing the words out. “Let me pass.”

The first man laughed softly. “They always say that.”

Sorcha backed away again, but her heel struck a root. She stumbled, catching herself before she fell, and the men moved in.

Her blood went cold. “Please,” she whispered, hating how desperate she sounded. “I . . . my family . . .”

“Your family?” The second man stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Folk whisper about a certain pair of twins. Bad blood. Bad luck. A brother in chains.”

Sorcha’s lungs seized.

They knew.

Of course they knew. News travelled fast, carried on tongues hungry for scandal and ruin. Her brother’s crimes and her shame had become entertainment.

“Do not come any closer,” Sorcha said, lifting the knife. Her hand trembled, but she held it up anyway.

“Look at that.” The first man barked a laugh. “A wee kitten with claws.” He lunged.

Sorcha slashed blindly, the blade catching nothing but air. He grabbed her wrist, twisting hard until pain flashed through her arm. She gasped, the knife dropping into the wet leaves.

“Nay.” Sorcha struggled, wrenching backward, but his grip was iron.

The second man caught her cloak and yanked, pulling her close until she could smell stale ale on his breath.

“Not here for that,” he muttered, hands already searching, grasping. “What’ve you got on you, lass?”

Sorcha’s heart slammed against her ribs, terror rising like bile. She fought, kicking out, clawing, shoving. Her shoe connected with someone’s shin, and he cursed, striking her across the shoulder with the back of his hand. The blow drove her sideways, her cheek scraping bark. Stars burst behind her eyes. Her breath came in ragged sobs.

Then fingers hooked beneath her bodice, brushing the chain at her throat.

The second man’s hand closed around the emerald pendant.

Sorcha went still. “Nay,” she said, voice breaking. “Not that.”

The man’s eyes sharpened with greed. “Ah. There we are.”

Sorcha grabbed his wrist. “Please. You can take the cloak. Take my shoes. Anything, but not that.”

The first man snorted. “She’s begging for a stone.”

“It was my mother’s,” Sorcha whispered, choking on the words. “’Tis all I have left of her. Please.”

The second man gave her a look of bored contempt. “Then you shouldn’t be walking alone in the forest with it hanging round your neck.”

He yanked.