Chapter 38
Thirty-Eight
Neal
We’d been out back for hours. And everyone’s patience was wearing thin. Sorcha was an abysmal shot, and belligerent too. She’d tried every conceivable variation of mechanism and caliber, complained the entire time, and failed to hit a target with any of them.
Ansel was amused.
I was fuming.
“I still don’t understand why I have to do this,” Sorcha muttered as she reloaded the revolver she hated least for what felt like the hundredth time. “I got one of Iksura’s damn inquisitors out of our house with a spider. I don’t need a firearm.”
“Sorcha, we’re not having this conversation again,” I said.
She pushed anyway.
“I have my magic,” Sorcha mumbled, “I have my knife. I don’t see why . . .”
“So prove it,” I snapped, grabbing her wrist hard enough that she dropped the gun. Sorcha yelped. Tried to pull away.
“What the hell?” she hissed.
“Prove it,” I repeated, voice dropping a register. “You said you can get out of a tight spot with your magic and your knife. So do it.”
I liked to consider myself a patient person. Decades working for demanding nobles had certainly encouraged the skill. But she wouldn’t listen to me, wouldn’t listen to Ansel. And maybe she needed an object lesson to get the point home.
So a split second later I had Sorcha on the ground, swept her feet clean out from under her, and caught her so she wouldn’t jolt when her back hit the dirt.
I was seated immovably on her hips with one hand pinning her right arm and the other braced beside her head.
She wasn’t even struggling. She just looked stunned.
“I said prove it,” I nearly growled.
“Let me up,” Sorcha snarled back.
I just shook my head.
“I said let me up.” She was starting to get shrill now—a tone I’d never heard from her.
“Prove it, love,” I repeated.
“Get the hell off me.”
“Make me.”
And she tried. I watched her eyes glaze like they did when she accessed her power. Then heard the defeated sigh as a pigeon and half a dozen rats came into view.
“That’s it?” I raised an eyebrow.
“It’s not my fault we’re in the city,” Sorcha snapped.
“Adapt,” I said. “Get your knife.”
She pulled against my grip—no technique, useless. I had almost a hundred pounds and as many years of fight training in my favor.
“I said get your knife.”
She tried to reach with her free hand, but she couldn’t get the angle right. I twisted her right wrist, not hard, just enough to hurt, enough to make a point. Sorcha yelped.
“Get your knife,” I said. “Summon something. Prove it, love.”
“Fine,” Sorcha said through gritted teeth. “My plan didn’t work. Now get off me and give me the damn gun.”
I couldn’t help but crack a smile as I let her up. She shrugged off my attempt to help her to her feet then snatched the pistol from Ansel’s hands.
“Better luck this time, lass,” Ansel said.
She took a deep breath, leveled the revolver at the target, and finally hit it.
“Happy?” she snarled then shoved the gun back in my direction and stalked out of the yard, slamming the gate behind her.
“So how long are you waiting before you start damage control?” Ansel asked.
I assumed, incorrectly, that Sorcha would come back for dinner. I also realized that physically chasing her down after what I’d just done was likely to perpetuate an argument rather than stop it.
But as dusk started to fall she still wasn’t home. So I grabbed a lantern and my coat and promised we’d both be back by ten.
“And she didn’t even take the damn gun,” I muttered as I slammed the shop-front door and started walking.
It took me more than an hour to find her. After growing desperate, I eventually realized my best approach was following stray cats. And finally I found Sorcha sitting across from the Capitol building, a half dozen cats and several dozen pigeons clustered at her feet.
“Why didn’t you come when I asked?” she said to one of the cats, holding it up under the front legs. It was big, tough, missing half an ear.
I broke into a run when I caught sight of her. My chest finally relaxed for the first time since she’d stormed out that afternoon.
“Sorcha!” I called. She stiffened, putting the cat down and turning to glare at me.
“You going to tackle me again?” Sorcha muttered as I shooed the animals away and sat down next to her.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “that was poorly handled.”
“That is an understatement,” Sorcha snapped, getting to her feet and starting to walk again.
“I was worried about you,” I insisted, following after. “And you were being unreasonable. You clearly weren’t putting any effort in.”
Sorcha stopped short, turned to face me. She grabbed my lapels, hard.
“And that justified what you did?” she snapped. “Look me in the eye and tell me that was okay.”
“I can’t.”
“I listen to you,” Sorcha said, “I always listen to you if you explain what you’re asking. But you and Ansel? You went behind my back. Forced this on me. And didn’t explain. Then when I wasn’t being compliant? You used wrestling to make your point. Neal, why? Help me understand.”
“I can’t,” I repeated. “There’s nothing to understand. I should have just talked to you. Sorcha, I’m sorry.”
“You better be.”
“You’re supposed to be resting,” I said. She was softening, just a bit. I could feel it.
“And you’re supposed to be protecting me,” Sorcha countered. “So what? Apparently wandering a strange city for hours alone was okay?”
I sighed. “I should have come sooner.”
A long moment stretched in uncomfortable silence, the pigeons dispersing as Sorcha dropped her grip on my coat and stared at the cobblestones between her feet.
“I learned how to shoot when I was ten or twelve,” Sorcha said, not looking at me. “Glen taught me. I just don’t like it.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and fell silent.
“Sorcha, why not?” I asked. “Why in particular?”
“The noise,” she said softly. “Same as why I don’t like storms.”
“It just . . . startles you?” I pressed.
She shook her head.
“Sorcha, tell me,” I said. “Please.”
“It stormed the night my mom died,” she finally whispered.
The words hit me like a physical blow. Of course she hated shooting a gun. The sound, the flash, the memory of a dead parent. Of course she didn’t want anything to do with it. I cursed myself for not asking in more depth sooner.
“I’m sorry, my love,” I murmured. She shrugged, didn’t look up.
“How did you find me?” Sorcha asked after a while.
“The cats.”
“Figures.”
“Forgive me?” I asked. “Please?”
“Of course I forgive you, just . . .” She trailed off, took a deep breath, and said, “Don’t treat me like a belligerent child. Alright? I’m your wife. Act like it.”
“And what does that entail?” I asked, reaching for her hand. She let me, cracked a smile. We’d be alright.
“You tell me,” Sorcha said. “You’re the Steward. You’ve watched how many aristocratic couples navigate complicated marriages? My mom died when I was little. What couples do I have to go off?”
“I could tell you”—my voice dropped and I bent to whisper into her ear—“or we could hurry back and I could show you before bed?”
“I think I’d like that,” Sorcha murmured.
“Just pretend we’re still fighting,” I said as we walked up to the printshop.
“Right, so we’re going to pretend we’re still fighting so that they leave us alone and we can . . .” She trailed off.
“Do other emotionally impassioned things.”
“I’m in favor of other emotionally impassioned things.”
I pushed the door open and Sorcha stalked past me, shooting a glare at Ansel before picking up one of the basset hounds and heading for the stairs.
“Trouble in paradise, lad?” Ansel asked.
“She’s not entirely forgiven me,” I muttered. Then called up the stairs after her, “Sorcha, talk to me!”
The door slammed.
“You gonna follow her this time?” Ansel asked, vaguely amused. I just nodded and trudged upstairs. I reached our room, banged on the door, and pleaded a few times for good measure, then slipped inside.
“They bought it?” Sorcha asked.
“I genuinely do not care,” I replied, taking the dog from her arms and pulling her close.
“Oh, really?” Sorcha challenged.
“Really,” I replied, bending to kiss her. “But they are downstairs. So, love?”
“Yes, Neal?”
“You’ll have to be very quiet,” I breathed against her neck, clamping my hand over her mouth to stifle the half moan, half giggle that slipped out. I trailed kisses down to her sternum as I unbuttoned her dress and slipped it off her, pausing only to unfasten her corset.
“Neal,” Sorcha murmured into my chest.
“Love?”
“Now would be an appropriate time to use wrestling to prove your point,” she said, big green eyes gazing up at me as she bit down on her bottom lip. I dropped her corset and tugged at the waistband of her petticoats.
“Oh, love, you really should not have said that,” I whispered, lips brushing against her ear.
I felt her breath hitch, her body warm and flush against me. I slipped both arms under her hips, lifting her against me and pressing her back into the wall.
“I meant it,” Sorcha replied, kissing me again, harder this time.
I left her flushed and sated, curled up in bed.
“You two alright?” Ansel asked when I made it down to the kitchen. “She sick again?”
“Something like that,” I mumbled in response. “Can I have dinner to take up for her?”
Etienne hurried to oblige.
“But you two . . . resolved your differences?” Ansel pressed.
I glanced up. I could see a trace of a smirk playing at Ansel’s features. “You heard something.”
“I’m old,” Ansel replied. “Better hearing. Ancient powers. You know the drill.”
“You do not let her find out.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, lad,” Ansel said. “Just glad you two are on speaking terms again or not speaking I guess, but . . .”
“Shut up,” I snapped as I took the tray from Etienne and made my way back upstairs.