“Once he had returned home, he began his studies for the priesthood while he healed, and he carved the splinter into the pin. He was never without it. When I was a boy he often recounted his night on the battlefield—likened it to the garden of Gethsemane, he said, only God had seen fit to pass the cup from him. His faith was so great—it’s why I became a priest myself. I never dreamed after surviving such horrors that he would be shot down in the middle of a road in his own land.”
“Shot?” Padraig repeated.
Kettering nodded. “He and Blake each received a bolt in the chest, to that I can personally attest. When news reached me of his and his companion’s death…I was devastated. I came to Darlyrede and I buried my own father. That is how I know so intimately how he died. I buried Cordelia Hargrave as well—Thomas Annesley’s betrothed. Lord Hargrave saw to it afterward that my mother and siblings were cared for, and he offered me charge of the chapel. And here I have remained.”
The chamber was silent, filled with Kettering’s grief, Padraig’s confusion, and the enigmatic thoughts of Lucan Montague. Padraig could not think of anything to say—Kettering had been his enemy before, Lucan his friend. Had their roles reversed?
The priest sighed and stood up. “I’ll change the water now.” He went around the far side of the other cot and wiped Lucan’s foot with the towel at his waist before picking up the basin. He carried it out of the door leading to the bailey.
“I know you’re angry, Padraig,” Lucan said quickly in a low voice. “But if I had explained all the connections between the accusations against your father, you wouldn’t have trusted me to help you.”
“You’re right, I wouldna’ve.”
“And I can’t blame you. I made a pledge to bring Thomas Annesley to justice, aye. For the crimes he committed. And especially for the murder of my parents.”
Lucan glanced toward the doorway through where Kettering was returning and finished in a rushed whisper. “But perhaps now you understand why I no longer think he is guilty of any of it. In fact I know he’s not.”
“The difference between us, Lucan,” Padraig murmured, “is that I’ve always known it.”
* * * *
Iris shuffled the pages back into her portfolio just as she heard the scratching on her window. She admitted Satin, somehow mustering the energy for a smile.
“I don’t have anything for you yet,” she warned when he went straight for the hidden niche in the wall. She gently scooped the cat out of the way and then placed her portfolio inside before reattaching the panel, and then set about at last changing the gown stained with Padraig Boyd’s blood.
She held the material in her hands and stared at the dark splotches, brown against the crimson fabric. Stroking her thumbs against the stiff stains at once returned her to the sober mood that Satin’s arrival had briefly dispelled. All the secrets, all the lies, all the years of darkness within these walls—what would be the outcome? The final verdict? Had Padraig Boyd come all this way, risked his life and his freedom for naught?
And what would their future be, in the aftermath?
Iris placed the gown on the back of the chair, then bent down to scratch Satin’s chin and scoop him up. “Back out you go,” she said, rising and walking to the window. “I’m going to go check on Lucan. I’ll bring you un petit gouter later.”
“Meow.”
“Well, you can’t go with me, I’m sorry.” She unlatched the window and placed the cat on the deep stone ledge, encouraging him through the opening when he balked.
She banked the fire that was just finally starting to warm the chamber in earnest and slipped into the corridor.
Padraig Boyd was waiting for her in the shadows, leaning his tall, wide frame against the stone wall. He straightened as she pulled the door closed behind her.
Iris glanced up and down the corridor. “Padraig, what are you doing here?”
He walked toward her at once and took Iris into his arms, lowering his mouth to hers and kissing her. She stood dumbly in his arms for a moment, but with her next inhalation, smelling his scent, feeling the roughness of his upper lip against her own skin, his strong arms about her, she relented. Her arms skimmed up his shoulders, mindful of the bulky bandage beneath his shirt, until her fingers were sliding through his hair, holding his head to hers.
His kiss, his embrace, was like shelter to her after so long—decades, it seemed—being on her own, with no one to care for her but herself. Here, now, was this strong man, this good man, who wanted her.
He wanted her, yes, but perhaps that was only because he didn’t truly know who she was.
The thought caused Iris to pull away. “Padraig,” she whispered. “I’m sorry about last night. But we can’t carry on like this.”
“Tell me you’re nae in love with Lucan.”
“I’m not at all in love with Lucan.”
He lowered his head again, as if to continue the kiss, but Iris turned her head and pulled out of his embrace, feeling as though she was dragging the weight of a boulder with her.
“What?” he said. “What is it?”
“I mean it. We can’t do this,” Iris said. “There’s too much at stake for both of us.”
“I say we must do this, for the verra same reason.” Padraig stepped toward her again, but this time he only took her hand. “Beryl, either of us could have died today. It’s clear there are people who will go to whatever lengths they must to see me gone from Darlyrede, dead or alive.”
“I know,” Iris said, her conscience twisting every time he called her by that name—the name of the maid who was dead. The name of the girl who no longer existed, who had never existed in the role
