Beryl and Lucan. Already.
Padraig recalled their meeting in the foyer, the way Lucan had reached out and grabbed Beryl’s arm. And then, later, the way she’d spoken to him in this very chamber, demanding his attention; the casual way he’d regarded her. Casual because they were no longer strangers?
It was fine, he told himself. Fine.
He didn’t know Beryl. She was a beautiful woman, that was all. A woman with manners of the sort that Padraig was not yet used to. A woman with manners of the sort that Lucan Montague appreciated. After his life on Caedmaray, Padraig was only taken with Beryl because she was a novelty. And because she was helping him.
It didn’t matter that no other woman he’d seen before or since had caused such a visceral reaction within him.
It was fine. Good for Lucan, finding a woman with a bit of experience with whom to pass his evenings while held here at Darlyrede. Lucan obviously didn’t think too much of her, for he’d forsaken the place at her table at dinner. In a few days, Padraig was certain, he himself wouldn’t even be able to stand the sight of Beryl, with her lessons and her little sounds of disapproval. Her shiny hair and sweet smell and soft hands and—
Padraig’s teeth ground together. Maybe Searrach was wrong.
Her chamber is just down the corridor…
He sat up in the chair once more and pulled his boots toward him but then paused, one boot dangling between his knees.
“Idiot,” he muttered aloud.
He began to pull on his boot anyway; then kicked it off again, leaning his temple on his fist with a sigh. He looked down at the limp, thin leather of his shoe—evidence of his rough, meager livelihood. Nay, his subsistence on Caedmaray. The only home he’d ever known. Now he was sitting in a chamber as big as his island cottage, on a grand English estate, considering venturing out in the unfamiliar dark to spy on a maid.
Padraig got up, kicking at the boot for good measure. “I’m tired,” he muttered at it accusingly as he crossed to the tall bed. He took off his pants and crawled beneath the cold coverlet and stared at the ceiling with his head pounding. Searrach could be lying. And he found he was curious as to why a lone Scottish lass should be at a place such as Darlyrede when she obviously longed for their shared Scottish homeland. What had she said?
I want to go home…
If Searrach wasn’t lying about the knight and the maid, how had Lucan convinced Beryl to cooperate? Had he threatened her? Had he promised her something?
Had he slept with her?
Stop, he told himself. He closed his eyes.
Maybe they’re together even now, while you’re tucked abed like a wee laddie. All that shiny hair of hers falling down…
It was a long time before Padraig was able to sleep.
Chapter 8
Padraig had assured Lucan Montague that he could find his way to the barracks on his own the next morning, but now he was relatively certain he had just passed a particular tapestry for the third time.
He paused in the mouth of the corridor, looking in both directions again, trying to get his bearings. He scrubbed at his face with a growl of frustration. He could navigate the featureless sea between Caedmaray and Thurso in a gale, and yet he couldn’t escape one bloody wing of Darlyrede. He turned around and headed in the direction in which he thought the entry hall lay, hoping to reset his internal map.
Servants crisscrossed the marble paving like ghosts, going about their errands and chores in solemn silence beneath the watchful eyes of the portraits. Padraig stopped in the center of the patterned floor and looked up, studying the figures and their features while the household staff flowed around him without acknowledgment.
Who were all these people? he wondered. There were several portraits of what appeared to be the same girl, as well as much older portraits of people wearing the dress of another age. None of them were Tommy Boyd, though, which was not surprising since the current occupiers of the home had accused Padraig’s father of murder, among other heinous crimes. Padraig didn’t really expect to see a portrait of his father hanging in a place of honor.
“Lost your way, have you?”
He was both relieved and dismayed to see Searrach. “Nae at all,” Padraig lied, looking back up at the portraits. “Only wondering who all these people are. Do you know?”
The Scotswoman came to a stop at his side, mimicking his upward-looking posture, although unlike Padraig, her arms were burdened with evidence of employment—more of the dreaded bolts of cloth for Marta and Rynn.
“Nae bloody idea,” she replied at once. “Nor do I care to.” After a moment, she commanded, “Look at me.” And when Padraig turned his gaze toward her, she seemed to examine his face.
“Huh,” she huffed. “Must be the English of you.”
“What?”
“Your eyes,” Searrach said. “The color of them.”
Padraig frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Good morning,” another woman’s voice called out, and Padraig didn’t have to turn to know at once that it was Beryl.
Searrach tossed a bitter glare over her shoulder before giving Padraig a warm, slow smile. “Until tonight, Master Boyd,” she said in a raised voice. “This time, wait for me to help you undress.” And then she turned and left the entry as Beryl came to stand before Padraig.
His mouth went dry, so he cleared his throat before speaking solemnly. “Good morning, Beryl.”
“Master Boyd,” she replied. “Have you forgotten your lesson with Sir Lucan this morning?”
“I’ve nae,” he said. “I was…ah…just asking Searrach about the people in the portraits. Do you know who they are? Besides the Hargraves, obviously.”
“I’m sorry, I can only point out the portraits of Lady Euphemia,” she said stiffly. “Lord and Lady Hargrave’s niece. I never met her, though, of course.”
“Lots of her,” Padraig said, looking back up and
