Mairead's POV
I’ve been sitting in the library God knows how long. I’ve stopped counting after coming here past midnight, when sleep didn’t come no matter how hard I’ve tried.
All I could see was Elspeth's fury, Catriona's cold judgment and Fenella's tears. The children are safe at Bridei's house now, but the memory of their fear sits like stones in my chest.
The fire has burned low but still casts enough light to read by. I’m into a chair with a book I don't actually intend to open, just needing to be somewhere that isn't my room with its four walls pressing in.
"I thought I might find you here." Domnall's voice comes from the doorway.
I startle, the book nearly sliding from my lap. He's still dressed, shirt slightly untucked, hair disheveled like he's been running his hands through it. He looks exhausted and something else—raw, unguarded in a way I've never seen him.
"I couldn't sleep either." He closes the door behind him. Not locking it, but shutting out the rest of the house. Creating a space that's just us.
"You should rest. You have wedding preparations tomorrow."
"I came to apologize." He crosses to the chair opposite mine, but doesn't sit. Stands there, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. "For Elspeth, for my mother, for what they said to your children."
"It wasn't your fault. They were right, children shouldn't have been in that room."
"They're just children." His voice carries an edge. "Elspeth screamed at them like they'd committed murder. It was too cruel, too wrong."
The defense in his voice makes my throat tight. "You postponed your wedding for them."
"I did."
"Why?"
The question comes out quieter than I intended.
"Elspeth was hysterical, your mother was furious. The logical thing would have been to discipline the children, apologize to your bride, and move forward. But instead you postponed your own wedding without hesitation. Why?"
He's quiet for a long moment. The firelight catches on his face, shadows pooling in the hollows beneath his eyes. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough.
"Because it was easy."
"Easy?" I don't understand.
"Postponing." He takes a step closer. "Finding a reason to delay marrying Elspeth for another twelve weeks. It should have been difficult—disappointing my bride, angering my mother, throwing all the preparations into chaos... But it was the easiest decision I've made in months."
His words leave me speechless. I open my mouth to speak—I feel as though I have to—but in the end, I helplessly close it again
"Mairead." He moves closer still, until he's standing right in front of my chair, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "I need to tell you something. About Carvenmoor, about why I left that morning."
My breath catches. "You don't have to…"
"I do." His hands are trembling slightly. "Because you think I abandoned you. That I woke up, decided you weren't worth the trouble, and disappeared. And I can't… I can't let you keep believing that."
He sinks into the chair across from mine, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, close enough now that I can see the exhaustion etched into every line of his face.
"I woke before dawn. You were still sleeping and I wanted to do something for you—get breakfast, leave you something so when you woke you'd know I hadn't just used you and left."
His voice is barely above a whisper.
"I went to the baker two streets over, bought honey cakes, fresh bread, strawberries. I was walking back, already imagining your face when you woke."
He stops. His jaw works.
"My mother's men were waiting in the street. They'd been hunting me for two weeks. Catriona's orders: bring me home by any means necessary."
My heart stops. "Domnall…"
"I tried to go back. I fought them—actually fought, broke someone's nose, took a beating trying to get away. Because returning meant remarrying, producing heirs, surrendering to my mother's plans. But more than that—it meant leaving you. Leaving the first real thing I'd felt since Sorcha died."
His hands are fists now, knuckles white. "I begged them to let me go back inside—just five minutes to leave a note, to explain, to say goodbye. They refused, tied my hands and dragged me onto a horse and rode north while I was still shouting your name."
The confession breaks something open in my chest. Seven years of believing he'd abandoned me, that I was nothing more than a convenient distraction—and he'd been fighting to come back.
"I searched for you." His voice cracks. "When they finally let me return to Carvenmoor weeks later, I sent men everywhere. Every tavern, every lodging house, every parish within fifty miles. You'd vanished. I thought—"
He stops, swallows hard. "I thought you'd moved on. Found someone better. Someone who wouldn't disappear on you."
"I thought about you." The words slip out before I can stop them. "More than I should have, more than you know."
His eyes snap to mine. The intensity in his gaze makes my skin burn.
"I've carried you for seven years." I'm trembling now, all my careful walls crumbling. "Every man I met, I measured against a ghost. Against one night with a stranger who made me feel like I mattered. Like I was worth choosing."
"You were." He stands abruptly, closes the distance between us in two steps. "You are."
I'm on my feet without deciding to stand, and suddenly we're inches apart. Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him, see his chest rising and falling too fast, watch his eyes go dark as they trace over my face.
"Mairead." My name in his mouth sounds like a prayer and a question. "Why did I postpone the wedding?"
"I don't—"
"Because it gives me more time with you."
His hand lifts slowly, giving me time to move away. His fingers brush my cheek, and the touch sends electricity straight down my spine.
"I'm getting married in twelve weeks to a woman I don't love because my mother demands it. But right now, in this room, I don't care about any of that. All I care about is this."
His thumb traces along my jaw. My breath hitches. I should step back, should remember all the reasons this is dangerous, but my body won't obey.
His other hand comes up to frame my face, both palms warm against my skin. His eyes search mine, looking for permission, for confirmation, for anything that says I want this as much as he does.
I lean into his touch. Just slightly, barely a movement. But it's enough.
He kisses me. Not tentatively, not carefully, but desperate and hungry and seven years of wanting compressed into one moment.
His mouth claims mine like he's been starving for it, like I'm air and he's been drowning. I make a sound—half gasp, half moan—and he swallows it, one hand sliding into my hair while the other grips my waist, pulling me flush against him.
The kiss is nothing like Carvenmoor. That night was gentle, exploratory, sweet. This is fire, desperation.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth and I taste frustration and need and everything we've been denying ourselves for months. My hands find his shirt, fisting in the fabric, pulling him closer even though there's no space left between us.
He groans against my mouth, the sound vibrating through my chest. His hand in my hair tightens, tilting my head back so he can deepen the kiss further, take more, claim more.
His other hand slides down from my waist to my hip, fingers digging in like he's afraid I'll disappear if he doesn't hold tight enough.
I'm shaking, my whole body is trembling with want and fear and the overwhelming sensation of being wanted back. His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, trailing heat down to the sensitive spot below my ear.
I gasp, my hands sliding up to grip his shoulders, needing something to anchor me before I collapse.
"Mairead." He breathes my name against my throat, and the sound of it, rough and broken and desperate, nearly undoes me. "God, Mairead."
He kisses me again, slower this time but no less intense. Taking his time, savoring, like he's trying to memorize the taste of me.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard, both shaking, both wanting more but not rushing.
His forehead rests against mine. Our breath mingles in the space between us. His hands are still on me—one cupping my face, the other at my waist—and I don't want him to let go.
"I need to see you again." His voice is raw. "Somewhere private, where we can be alone without servants and wedding preparations and my mother's watchful eyes."
"Domnall—"
"The groundskeeper's cottage. It's empty, out of sight. We could meet there. Just to talk, to be together without pretending." His thumb strokes across my cheekbone. "Please."
I know I should refuse, know this is the path to ruin. Bridei's warnings echo in my mind: Be careful. He may care about you, but that doesn't mean he won't destroy you.
But his eyes are searching mine with such desperate hope, and I'm so tired of protecting myself from the one person who makes me feel alive.
"Yes." The word comes out barely above a whisper. "Yes."