Chapter 7
Violet reached the nursery the next morning before the first servants even began to stir.
The passageway outside was dim, with only a low lamp burning near the bend, and she kept one hand curled in the side of her skirt so the hem would not trail over the floor.
She had dressed herself as quietly as she could manage, though dressing for a lesson with Connor had proven more difficult than she cared to admit.
Her gown was plain enough for morning, dark enough not to show every speck of dirt, and entirely unsuited for being thrown about a training yard by a man built like a castle gate. She had considered changing twice. Then she remembered Henry’s hand closing around John.
John.
It had been Jane’s favorite name, and she had mentioned one time that if she ever had a boy, she would name him that. It was the least Violet could do.
The definitive least.
Inside the nursery, the room held the gentle warmth left by the low-burning fire.
A cradle stood near Moira’s chair, with a folded brown cushion resting on the seat and a basket of clean linens tucked beneath.
John slept under a small wool blanket, one tiny fist curled near his cheek, his mouth soft and open in a way that made Violet’s chest ache.
Relief came first, crashing into her like a waterfall. He was here, safe and warm. Henry had not taken him beyond the castle. He had not carried him away to whatever cold future men like him invented for children they found inconvenient.
Violet stepped closer and set two fingers lightly on the edge of John’s blanket. She did not pick him up, even though she wanted to. Every part of her wanted to gather him against her and count each breath until her own settled, but he slept so deeply that waking him would only serve her fear.
“There ye are, little one,” she whispered. “Sleeping as if ye didnae frighten ten years from me life yesterday.”
John made a small sound in his sleep and shifted his fist closer to his mouth.
Violet smiled despite the tightness in her throat. “Aye, I ken. Very rude of me to mention it.”
She was still staring at the baby when footsteps sounded somewhere behind her.
Nay.
Her body moved before her mind caught up.
She spun and snatched the nearest object from the chair.
The brown cushion came up in both hands, clutched tight against her chest for half a second before she raised it as if it were a proper weapon.
Her breath stuttered, and her pulse kicked once, sharp and fast.
Moira stopped in the doorway with both hands lifted. “Me Lady.”
Violet froze. “Moira.”
“Aye,” Moira said, her gaze dropping to the cushion. “Please, daenae murder me.”
For one moment, Violet could only stare at her. Then heat rose to her face, and she lowered the cushion by half an inch.
“What are ye doing, creeping about like that?” Violet hissed, keeping her voice low for John’s sake. “I almost killed ye.”
Moira looked at the cushion again. “With a brown pillow, me Lady?”
Violet followed her gaze. The cushion sagged between her hands, soft, square, and entirely useless. A small tassel hung from one corner, which did nothing for its dignity—or even hers.
“It was the only thing I could find,” she muttered.
Moira came in and gently shut the door behind her. “Then perhaps next time grab something a bit more solid.”
Violet glanced around the nursery. “Such as?”
Moira pointed to the fire poker resting near the fireplace. Violet looked at the poker, then down at the cushion. It was a poor comparison.
“In me defense,” she said, “the pillow looked less judgmental.”
Moira’s mouth twitched. “Aye, but the poker will do more damage.”
A laugh pressed against Violet’s ribs, small and shaky. She did not quite let it out. The sound would have woken John, and she was not certain it would have stayed a laugh once it escaped.
She set the cushion back on the chair more carefully than it deserved anyway and watched as Moira crossed to the cradle and leaned over John. She touched the blanket, checked the baby’s cheek, and adjusted the wool around him as gently as she could. Violet watched every movement. John did not stir.
“He slept well?” she asked.
“Aye,” Moira said. “Once he settled.”
Violet’s fingers tightened against her gown. “Was he frightened long?”
Moira looked at her then, and the humor left her face without making her cold. “Long enough to be angry, but nae long enough to remember.”
Violet swallowed. The answer was kinder than a lie would have been.
“I will remember for him,” she said.
“Aye.” Moira’s voice softened. “I think ye will.”
Violet looked down at John. His lashes lay dark against his round cheeks, and one tiny breath moved the blanket near his chest. The thought of Henry almost taking him left her still in the warm nursery, steadier than she had been when she entered.
She could not meet the next threat with a cushion.
Moira’s gaze moved over her gown. “Ye’re going to the training yard?”
“I am.”
“At this hour?”
“Apparently, men who order women into marriages also enjoy robbing them of sleep,” Violet drawled.
Moira gave a small sound that might have been sympathy. “Of course he does.” Then she fixed Violet with a longer look, assessing the set of her shoulders and perhaps the anger she had not managed to hide. “He willnae soften the lesson because ye are to be his wife.”
“Good,” Violet said, meaning it. “I didnae ask for softness.”
Moira studied her for another breath. “Nay. Ye asked for a weapon.”
The words landed plainly.
Violet looked at the fire poker again. It stood close enough to reach this time. She could imagine Connor’s face if she walked into the training yard carrying it. The image almost made her smile.
John shifted in his cradle, drawing her attention back where it belonged.
She moved closer and touched the side of the cradle, just once.
“I will come back soon,” she whispered. “And I will learn something useful this time.”
John slept through the promise. Perhaps that was better. Babies should not have to carry vows made over them. Violet had enough room in her heart for this one.
She stepped toward the door, then paused. Her fingers brushed the cushion on the chair as she passed it, and she looked once more at the fire poker.
Moira was right. Next time, she would choose better.
Violet opened the nursery door and slipped into the passageway. The castle was still half asleep around her, but her fear had grown clearer now.
She would learn to react faster. She would learn to strike harder. She would not stand empty-handed while someone stronger reached for John.
She gathered her gown and walked toward the training yard before dawn could catch her changing her mind.
Connor heard her before he saw her.
The training yard lay empty beneath the first dull stretch of dawn, the dirt dark with night dew and the racks of practice weapons still untouched.
He had expected to find no one there. Violet had complained before dawn as if he had demanded she wrestle a wolf barehanded, which meant he had expected her to be late, tired, and prepared to blame him for the sun’s timing.
Instead, she stood near the center of the yard in a borrowed gown with yellow trim, her feet planted too wide and her fists raised in a poor imitation of a fighting stance.
Connor stopped beneath the archway and watched as she punched the air. Badly.
She swung too high, grunted in a rough little sound that seemed meant to mimic one of his men, then winced at herself, though she thought no one was there to witness it.
She tried again, this time lowering her chin and throwing her whole shoulder into the blow. The motion nearly turned her sideways. She looked incredibly absurd and determined, and he found that annoyingly pleasing.
“I daenae sound like that, do I?” he asked, announcing his presence.
Violet jerked around so sharply that her loose hair slipped over one shoulder.
“Can people start announcing their presence around here?” she snapped, pressing one hand to her chest.
“Ye were training.”
“I was preparing.”
Connor walked toward her, taking in her stance, her lifted chin, the way embarrassment had brought color to her face without driving her from the yard. He caught her wrist before she could decide whether to step back.
Violet stiffened. “Are ye going to begin every lesson by grabbing me?”
“The first rule ye need to ken,” Connor said, pulling her just close enough that she had to plant her feet. “Stop thinking and react to what yer senses tell ye.”
“I am thinking because ye keep grabbing me.”
“Good. Then think faster.”
He released her and stepped around behind her. She turned too quickly, her eyes going to his hands first and then his feet. At least she was watching more than his face now.
“A stronger man wants ye pulling away,” he said. “That gives him yer weight.”
“So I should walk into him?” she asked, suspicion plain in her voice.
He cocked his head, almost like he was considering the answer for quite a long minute. “Into the angle he doesnae expect.”
She looked down at her feet and then back at him. “That sounds like madness.”
“Aye. Effective madness.”
He reached for her wrist again, slower this time. She tensed before contact, and he tightened his grip.
“Look at me shoulder,” he said, “nae me hand. The hand lies late, but the shoulder… it tells ye sooner.”
Violet’s gaze lifted, focused and sharp, and Connor moved again. This time, she pulled straight back, but he easily held her still.
Her mouth flattened. “I dislike this lesson.”
“A lot of people dislike being wrong.”
“Do ye ken any other teaching style?”
“Aye,” Connor said, his tone casual. “Pain.”
She glared at him. “Charming.”
“Twist toward the thumb,” he said, turning her wrist just enough to show the weakness in his hold. “Daenae fight the whole hand. Find the gap.”
Violet tried again. This time, she twisted in the right direction, though she was too late. He corrected her elbow with two fingers and shifted her shoulder with his palm.