Her breath caught. She pulled back at once, pressing her spine against the wall, hidden from view. Her heart was pounding so hard that she feared Daisy might hear it. How could a simple look from him suddenly make her heart jump?
“For the love of God,” she breathed.
She remained there until Daisy entered again, a sheen of perspiration on her brow. “Yer bath is ready, me Lady.”
Lily nodded quickly. “Thank ye,” she forced out in a steady voice.
But her thoughts were not steady at all, the image of Alasdair looking up at her burned into her mind.
The study was quiet except for the crackle of the fire. Alasdair leaned back in his chair, his thoughts racing. He was trying once again to piece together the attack in the woods.
He had relived the moment in his head over and over: the way the arrow had cut through the air, the way Lily’s scream had shaken him to his very core, and the way his rage had driven him to end the archer’s life. No matter how many times he went over it, he still found no sense in it.
Nathan had been clear that morning when he said that he had some leads. Apparently, he had heard whispers from the villageabout a few men who had left the tavern at strange hours, and about one who had not been seen for days.
“I will take some men and look into it,” Nathan had promised that morning and had left with purpose in his steps.
Alasdair trusted him, yet the sense of dread refused to leave his chest. He rose and walked to the tall window of his study. The garden below stretched wide and green, the last drops of rain still clinging to the grass. His eyes searched the far end, where Sorcha walked with Lily.
They moved slowly, bending to gather flowers from the edge of the beds. Sorcha said something that made Lily laugh, and the sound reached him even from a distance. Her laughter was soft but full, and it struck him harder than he had expected. He folded his arms across his chest and breathed deeply.
A knock sounded at the door. His eyes darted away from the window, and he turned. “Enter.”
The door opened, and Finn stepped inside. He closed the door behind him with a small nod. “How are ye? Coping well enough?”
Alasdair’s lips pressed together. “What do ye think, Finn?”
Finn gave a small shrug. “Fair enough. It was a stupid question.”
Alasdair left the window and returned to his chair. He lowered himself into it with a faint groan, the wound in his shoulder pulling when he moved too fast.
Finn lingered near the desk, his expression unreadable.
“I came for two things,” he began. “First, to apologize for the other night.”
Alasdair lifted a hand. “Nay. What ye do in yer own time is yer business. I willnae bother ye for it.”
Finn inclined his head. “Then I thank ye. The other thing is more pressing. I was in the village this morning, and I heard talk.”
Alasdair narrowed his eyes. “Talk of what?”
Finn leaned forward on the desk. “Of her. Yer wife.”
Alasdair’s lips parted. “Of Lily?”
“Aye,” Finn said. “They are saying she is a witch.”
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Alasdair gripped the arms of his chair. “A witch?” he repeated slowly.
Finn nodded. “The tale of the man she brought back to life apparently spread fast. But the story was twisted. Many still respect her, but some people believe she cast a spell. Others say she drew the soul of an animal and placed it in him.”
Alasdair pursed his lips. “What?”
Finn shrugged. “Oh, ye ken. Men with too much time on their hands never go well with too much ale.”
Alasdair dragged a hand down his face. “And they believe this? That she… what, drained life from an animal? Truly?”
