Chapter 24
He found her in the sitting room the next morning, reading The Superstitions of Inis Morra.
Mr Lanyon or one of the other staff must have picked it up and returned it to the bookshelf.
She wouldn’t normally choose to read such nonsense, but she knew it would please Halverton, and what the author had to say on the subject intrigued her.
Aoife had arranged herself in an armchair with her feet tucked under her.
She wasn’t sure it was quite right for a lady, but this morning with the skies a pale blue and a low fire burning in the grate, she found herself tempted by the comfort of it.
Once or twice, she had wondered what it would be like to be born into this, to never know anything other than comfort and warmth and a full belly; wondered how much that cushioning, that lack of exposure to the outside world, had shaped Halverton.
The soft tread of boots across the carpet and the rustle of papers shifting reached her before she saw him. She didn’t look up too quickly. That, she had learned, suggested nerves. Instead, she lifted her gaze as though surprised but pleased to find him there.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said, voice composed.
Halverton paused in the doorway, eyes taking in the scene: her posture, the open book, the small cluster of fresh flowers she had chosen for her hair. Different flowers today. Her own choice.
A pleased warmth touched his expression.
“I wanted to make a good start,” she said, closing her book lightly, fingers resting on the cover. “There is much I still need to learn.”
“You improve every day,” he said, crossing the room toward her.
Aoife kept her smile modest. “I’m trying.”
“I see that.” He stopped beside her chair, fingers brushing her shoulder. “You are becoming exactly the woman I knew you could be.”
Her stomach tightened, but her face didn’t show it. “I’m glad to hear it.”
He touched one of the flowers in her hair, light and proprietary. “An alternative choice today?”
“Yes,” she said carefully. “I wasn’t sure if—”
“They suit you,” he said. “Better than the others.”
She let out a breath of relief.
Halverton stepped back with a pleased finality, as though the morning had arranged itself perfectly around him. He retrieved a pair of leather gloves from the desk and slid them on.
“I will be riding out,” he said. “I will not be long.”
Aoife inclined her head. “Enjoy your ride.”
He watched her a heartbeat longer than necessary, a small smile.
Satisfied, he left.
She waited until his footsteps faded before allowing her shoulders to sag the smallest bit. Her pulse beat too fast. Pretending to be the woman he wanted was one thing. Pretending to enjoy it was another.
She opened her book again.
‘The natives believe in leaving spilt milk upon the floor for the Little People. How, one wonders, are these creatures meant to enter the house? How do they know which houses have left milk out for them? Are they so primitive that they would drink milk from the ground? The more logical explanation is, of course, that the household cat has lapped it up. But the Morrans prefer fancy to facts. Even if, to the educated mind, there is a much simpler explanation.’
Aoife’s mouth twitched. Fanciful indeed.
The author’s tone was smug, patronising.
She couldn’t help herself; she read on. Many passages were oddly informed, suggesting the man had spent time in Inis Morra speaking to the natives.
Others were ridiculous myths she had never once heard, creatures she suspected someone had invented to mock him.
She lost track of time. The clock on the mantel ticked through the hour before heavy footsteps crossed the hall again. She was shocked to discover how much time had passed. She’d expected he’d return sooner.
When he appeared in the doorway, his face was thunder, his right hand streaked with blood.
Her chest constricted at the sight. His plans had been disrupted, but not in any way she could have anticipated. Her mind raced through all the possible origins of the blood before she forced herself to calm her thoughts. Guessing wouldn’t help anyone.
She rose from the chair; the book sliding from her lap, and rushed towards him, faking concern. “Is everything all right, my lord?”
“Come,” he said, voice like a whip crack, and turned on his heel.
She followed him, every nerve taut. He surprised her when he opened the door to the servants’ side of the house and led her down the stairs, past the servants’ hall.
The servants stepped back as they passed.
Clara stood among them, her eyes wide, knuckles white around the edge of her apron. Aoife’s chest constricted.
Halverton led her through the kitchens and out into the courtyard. The air outside was sharp and damp with the smell of rotting scraps.
Around the edges of the courtyard, half a dozen soldiers stood at attention, but Aoife only had eyes for the captain in the centre.
He had one knee driven into the back of a man forced down on the stones.
The prisoner was kneeling, right hand pressed flat to the cobbles, left arm twisted behind him at an angle that threatened to tear it from the socket.
The captain wrenched his fingers back to hold him there, a cruel lever against bone and tendon.
Aoife froze, schooling her expression into the mask she’d mastered over the last few days.
She didn’t need to see the man’s face. The shape of him, the dark hair matted with sweat and blood, was enough.
It was the fear that had gripped her heart the moment she saw blood on Lord Halverton’s hand.
She took a breath to steady herself. Any crack in her composure might make things worse for her, for Cormac. She could not misstep again.
Cormac bucked against the captain’s restraint, spitting curses into the dirt.
Halverton gave a slight signal. The captain shifted his grip, dragging Cormac’s head up by the hair, his neck stretched painfully tight.
Aoife’s breath hitched. His face was streaked with dirt and blood. He was still fighting, still trying to rise, until the motion wrenched his shoulder. She saw the moment pain seized him, the same shoulder she had cauterised days ago.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
Halverton’s voice cut through the air. “Who is he to you?”
She’d expected accusations of theft, not this. Aoife found she couldn’t speak in that moment, even if she’d wanted to.
“This is your friend Cormac, is it not?”
Aoife gave the slightest nod.
“Then I shall ask again. Who is he to you?”
She lifted her chin, careful not to let her voice shake. “Like you said, he’s a friend.” She said it gently, not confrontationally. She needed Halverton to see Cormac was not a threat.
“Do not lie to me. You were wearing the bracelet he gave you. And now we find him sneaking in to see you.”
Aoife forced herself to meet his eyes. “We were friends as children. Our families are friends. I haven’t thought about him in weeks.”
Halverton laughed, low and humourless. “Foolish girl. Men and women can’t be friends. Men always want more. He’s been lusting after you for years, no doubt.”
He stepped toward Cormac, and Aoife moved before she could think, planting a hand against his chest.
“What does it matter?” Her voice was steady only by force of will. “I chose you.” The words tasted like ash in her mouth, but the perfect fiancée would say them. The woman he wanted, the woman she was trying to become, would say them without hesitation.
He stilled.
She turned slightly, gesturing toward Cormac. “Look at him. Does he look like competition to you?” She had to think quickly to come up with favourable comparisons she could make in Lord Halverton’s direction. It was difficult until she remembered what he valued.
She forced the next words out through gritted teeth.
“He can’t provide for me. He can’t throw a feast, or buy fine dresses.
He barely has two coins to rub together.
” She forced herself to speak the way he liked to hear her speak, grateful and dependent.
Each word was a blade turned inward, but this was the role now. She had to play it well.
Halverton’s posture eased, pride soothed by the comparison. Behind him, Cormac’s eyes met hers, hurt, furious, but understanding.
She kept her hand on Halverton’s chest. The heavy rhythm of his heart thudded under his waistcoat. She prayed he would turn away.
Instead, he pushed her aside. The movement was sharp enough to stagger her. He crossed the remaining distance to Cormac in three strides. The captain tightened his grip on Cormac’s hair, wrenching his head back again until his neck strained.
“Is it true?” Halverton asked. “You are just friends?”
Cormac spat blood onto the stones before answering. “Yes.” His voice was raw; the single word thick with hatred.
Halverton’s expression didn’t change. He placed his boot on Cormac’s hand and pressed down.
Cormac roared, his body arching in pain, trying to pull free. The soldier’s weight pinned him in place.
“You do not look at her like a friend,” Halverton said evenly, grinding his heel into the fingers beneath it.
Cormac glared up at him, teeth clenched. He didn’t cry out again.
“Tell. Me. The truth.” Each word came with another twist of his foot, another crunch of bone.
When Cormac spoke, his voice broke with the effort. “I love her. Is that what you want to hear, you Eldrossi bastard?”
The world stopped.
A weight dropped inside her, as if her chest had hollowed out.
Cormac squeezed his eyes shut, teeth gritted against the next twist of Halverton’s heel.
“I’ve loved her since the day she danced barefoot in the firelight at the harvest festival.”
He looked at her then, eyes bloodshot, desperate and unguarded. It hit her harder than the blow to her cheek had.
She wanted to reach for him, but she was frozen by the fear of what might happen if she did.
“Aoife…” His voice frayed. He sounded… apologetic, like he was sorry for telling her. She wasn’t sorry he’d said it. “But I’m nothing to her. I never was.”
Her breath caught painfully.
She hadn’t known.
Of all the things he could have thrown into the open, she had never expected this.
Halverton’s mouth curved into a slow, triumphant smile. He turned to Aoife, waiting.
“Well?” he asked.
She couldn’t speak. Her throat had closed up. She managed a nod, small and mechanical. She hadn’t known Cormac loved her, and she knew he didn’t believe those last words, but hearing them still hollowed her out.
“Very well,” Halverton said, straightening. “Then you shall decide his fate.”
“What?”
“He was found trespassing on my grounds,” Halverton said lightly, as though discussing the weather. “If you do not care for him, you will have no problem delivering an appropriate punishment.”
“Don’t play his game!” Cormac shouted, lunging forward, but the captain wrenched his arm up again, forcing a cry from his throat.
Aoife didn’t look at him. She kept her gaze fixed on Halverton, fists clenched tight enough that her nails bit her palms. Her whole body was shaking, but she would not let him see it.
She saw what he was doing. If she chose mercy, he’d call her weak and overrule her.
If she chose harshness, he’d call it justice.
If she argued, he might hit her again, or worse, let his temper fall on Cormac.
The choice wasn’t a choice at all. He wanted to see his own cruelty reflected back at him and call it fairness.
She needed to be calm. Logical. The model of noble judgement.
What would Florence have said?
Whatever it was, it wouldn’t have been a plea.
A man from their village was hanged for trespassing when Aoife was only a small child, but he’d been a known poacher.
“Is this his first offence?” she asked.
Halverton’s brows rose, amused. “Excellent question. Yes. As far as we know.”
Cormac’s voice was hoarse now. “Aoife,” he said, pleading, but not for himself. She could hear it in his tone.
Her chest tightened. Her vision blurred. She swallowed hard. “The usual punishment would be twenty lashes.”
Halverton tilted his head. “You will not beg for leniency?”
She met his eyes. “No.”
He smiled. “A hanging would have been excessive for a first offence, I agree. You have chosen well. Twenty lashes is a fair punishment.”
His approval landed like ice in her lungs.
She hadn’t chosen it because it was fair or just, but because it was the least he would accept.
Aoife didn’t move. She couldn’t.
Halverton turned to his soldiers. “Bring the villagers together. The punishment will be carried out tomorrow morning at the post. Everyone will see what happens to trespassers.”
He approached Cormac, reached down, and stroked his cheek with the back of his hand.
Cormac jerked his head away, disgusted.
“I will enjoy watching them beat the fire out of you,” Halverton murmured.