But the burning ache in her chest told a different story than the one she tried to tell herself. It bespoke of a man who had opened his heart even as she closed hers off, one who was inclined to get to know her despite her determination to remain aloof.
And through the silent battle she’d waged against him, he’d somehow begun to find cracks in the wall she hid behind.
She crossed the connecting doors into her own chamber as a soft knock sounded. Gavina entered with a new kirtle in her arms, this one a sumptuous crimson red with a gold circlet and veil. Faye tried to maintain a friendly demeanor as the maid dressed her, but the smile continued to slide from her face, and the painful clutch of emotion remained locked around her chest.
When Gavina was done, and Faye had thanked her for her talents with a needle, Faye made her way down to the kitchen to first speak with the cook to prepare the midday and evening meals. Then she went to the chatelaine to ensure the essential household duties had been properly carried out.
She had dreaded becoming the mistress of the keep when she’d first learned of the task. After all, it had taken her mother and sisters to ensure the manor remained clean and their stores well-stocked. But now that she was heading a well-trained staff, it was entirely manageable. More than that, it was enjoyable. At least she never had to wrestle wet laundry onto a line again or pluck a chicken. The latter of which was the most deplorable task in the entire world.
And the work required of the mistress of the castle was a glorious distraction from the heavy ache in her soul.
Faye had only just finished scheduling the laundry pressing with the chatelaine when Moiré approached. She wore a fine yellow kirtle with her long chestnut hair plaited back in a braid. Whatever glimmers of lust that had lingered on her face the night before had been scrubbed away to reveal her usual sweet, pleasant expression.
What Faye had seen the night before had skittered about in her mind in the brief moments she wasn’t fretting about Ewan. She still hadn’t recovered from her shock at seeing gentle Moiré leaving a man’s room. And not just any man’s. After all, discovering the chamber’s occupant was a simple task for a mistress traversing the castle with her chatelaine earlier that morning.
Finn Gordon. The very man who had rejected Moiré as a wife.
“Good morrow,” Faye said to Ewan’s cousin.
Moiré smiled. “Good morrow. I trust all has gone accordingly this morn?”
“Quite well, thank ye.” Faye studied the other woman. There was still an innocence about her wide brown eyes that was entirely opposite what Faye had seen in the sexually confident grin the night before. Had it truly been Moiré?
And yet, Faye trusted no one better than herself. Indeed, it had been her.
“I’m grateful for yer instruction,” Faye said. “’Tis been most helpful.”
Moiré beamed. “I’m so pleased to hear it.”
There was such a genuine benevolence to Moiré that it tugged at a tender spot in Faye’s chest. If Finn had used Ewan’s cousin, Faye had to know, to plan out how to make reparations. Or, at the very least, to prevent Moiré from getting hurt again.
But how did one go about bringing up such a topic?
“I wonder…” Faye began, then thought better of her approach, and the words died on her tongue.
“What is it?” Moiré leaned closer. “Is it about Lara? I shouldna have ever mentioned it at the feast.” Her large eyes filled with regret. “It was no’ my place to do so.”
“Please put it from yer thoughts.” Faye meant to reach for Moiré’s hand but stopped short. Black ink stained her forefinger as though she had been writing recently. “I confess,” Faye said. “’Tis ye who most occupies my concern.”
“Me?” Moiré chuckled. “Dear Faye, ye need no’ worry after me.”
Faye bit the inside of her cheek to keep from outwardly wincing at Moiré’s words. What Faye had witnessed was indeed cause for concern. She took Moiré’s slender arm in her hand and gently drew her toward an alcove. A quick scan of the hall confirmed they were alone.
“I saw ye last night,” Faye whispered.
Moiré said nothing. Her expression remained blank, as though Faye had not spoken at all.
“In the hall,” Faye pressed. “After ye left the feast.”
Moiré swallowed. “Mayhap, we can speak in yer chamber?”
It was a reasonable enough request, especially regarding the topic of their discussion. They were already near Faye’s rooms, and the two quickly hurried there together. Faye secured the door behind her. Moiré perched herself on the edge of the seat by the dressing table, her expression pinched.
“Was it Finn Gordon?” Faye asked.
Moiré folded her arms around herself and gave a sullen nod.
“Did ye…” Faye glanced around the room, terribly uncomfortable with the question she knew she needed to ask the other woman. “Did he have ye?”
Moiré’s cheeks blossomed with a brilliant red, and her eyes lowered to where her leather shoes peeked out from beneath the sunny yellow hem of her kirtle.
“Has he promised himself to ye then?” Faye’s heart clenched with hope. A hope that was met with silence.
Jesu.
“Moiré, does he plan to wed ye?” Faye asked.
The other woman shook her head, tears bright in her eyes.
“Moiré.” Faye approached her and smoothed her hand over the other woman’s hair. “Why?”
Moiré looked up; her lashes spiked with moisture. “Do ye ever get tired of all the rules we have as women?” she asked abruptly. “We’re to flirt, but no’ too much. We should be bonny at bed and at board, but only after we’re wed. We should marry, but only to whom men agree we can.” Her brows lifted with emphasis. “No matter how it happens.”
An ember
