The groundskeeper's cottage sits at the edge of the estate, hidden behind a wall of overgrown hedges that haven't been trimmed in years. Nobody comes here anymore—the current groundskeeper lives in the main house, and this place has been left to gather dust and ivy.
Which makes it perfect.
I arrive first, heart hammering against my ribs. The door creaks when I push it open. Inside: a single room with a narrow bed, a table, two chairs, a cold fireplace. Dust motes dance in the afternoon light slanting through grimy windows.
Footsteps crunch on gravel outside. Domnall appears in the doorway, and for a moment we just stare at each other—both of us breathing too fast, both of us knowing this is dangerous and doing it anyway.
"You came." His voice is rough.
"I said I would."
He closes the door. The sound of the latch clicking feels final, weighted. We're alone, truly alone for the first time since the library.
He doesn't touch me, not yet. Instead, he sits in one of the chairs and gestures to the other. "Talk to me. I want to know you. Really know you, not just the tutor who's good with my daughter."
The request catches me off guard. I was braced for his hands, his mouth, the continuation of what started in the library. Instead: questions.
I sit across from him, uncertain. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything. What you love about teaching. What you read when no one's watching. What makes you laugh." His eyes are intent on my face. "The pieces of you I haven't seen yet."
His request makes me smile—so carelessly, the type of a smile I forgot I had. So I tell him everything: about discovering books for the first time when I was young, how reading felt like finding a door to somewhere bigger.
About the moment I realized teaching wasn't just work but purpose—watching a child's face light up when they finally understand something they've been struggling with.
"And your children?" he asks carefully. "What do you want for them?"
"The whole world." The confession comes with a shy smile. "I want them to walk into rooms believing they belong there, want them to have choices. I want them to be seen for who they are, not judged before they've even spoken."
Domnall’s watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "You're a good mother."
"I'm trying to be."
"You are." He reaches across the table, and his fingers brush mine. Just that—the smallest contact, but it ignites something between us that talking can't satisfy.
The second meeting, three days later, starts the same way—questions, stories, the careful dance of revealing without exposing. But the air is different this time, charged with electricity.
Suddenly he reaches across the table to touch my hand, just like the last time we’ve been here. "Thank you. For telling me all these stories."
The touch ignites something. I turn my hand over, palm up, and his fingers lace through mine. The simple contact sends heat up my arm.
"Mairead." He stands, pulling me up with him. We're close now, his other hand coming up to cup my face. "I can't stop thinking about you."
"I know." My voice is barely a whisper. "I can't either."
He stands slowly, pulling me up with him. We're close now, close enough that I can see his chest rising and falling too fast, see the tension in his jaw, the dark heat in his eyes.
His free hand lifts to my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. Then he kisses me, slower than the library, more deliberate. Taking his time to taste, to explore, to savor.
His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me against him. I can feel every line of his body through our clothes—hard muscle, racing heartbeat, the evidence of his want pressed against my hip.
My hands find their way under his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. He shrugs out of it without breaking the kiss, then his fingers find the laces of my dress. Not undoing them, just touching, testing. Asking permission without words.
I reach back and loosen them myself. His breath hitches.
"Are you sure?" His voice is strained, rough with wanting.
"I'm sure."
My dress loosens and I hear the gasp that escapes Domnall’s throat at the sight of soft skin. God, how would he react to my bareness if just a small patch of my skin elicits such a reaction in him?
“You make me lose my mind”.” His hands slide inside, palms warm against my skin. I gasp against his mouth, and he swallows the sound, kissing me deeper while his hands map territory we've both been dreaming about.
We don't go further than that, but we explore—his mouth on my throat, my hands in his hair, bodies pressed together in ways that promise everything while giving just enough to leave us both shaking and desperate for more.
The third meeting, I arrive to find him already there, pacing. The tension in his shoulders tells me he's been thinking about this, about us, about how far we're going to let this go.
"Mairead." He crosses to me the moment I close the door. No preamble, no gentle buildup. His mouth claims mine with desperate hunger, hands already working at my dress laces, pulling me toward the narrow bed.
We fall onto it in a tangle of limbs and loosening clothes. His shirt comes off, my dress pools at my waist. Skin against skin, finally, and the contact is overwhelming—electric and perfect and not nearly enough.
His mouth moves down my throat to my collarbone, lower still. I arch into him, fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. He groans against my skin, the vibration of it sending heat straight through me.
"God, Mairead," His voice is wrecked. "I want—"
"I know." My hands slide down his back, feeling muscles flex under my palms. "I want it too."
We're on the cottage floor now, having rolled off the narrow bed. His weight settles over me, and I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him closer. The friction makes us both gasp.
His hand slides up my thigh, under my chemise, mapping skin no one else has touched in seven years. When his fingers find the heat between my legs, I cry out against his shoulder.
He works me with deliberate precision, watching my face as I come apart beneath him. His thumb circles while his fingers move inside me, and the dual sensation makes my vision blur.
The pleasure builds and builds until I'm shaking, gasping his name, nails raking down his back. When I shatter, he swallows my moans with his mouth, kissing me through the aftershocks.
Then it's my turn. My hands work the fastenings of his trousers, freeing him. He groans when I wrap my hand around him, his hips jerking into my grip.
I stroke him with the same deliberate attention he showed me, learning what makes him gasp, what makes his breath catch, what makes his eyes go dark with need. His hand covers mine, guiding the rhythm faster, harder, until he's trembling above me.
When he finishes with a seductive moan, his face buried in the curve of my neck, his whole body shuddering against mine.
We lie there afterward on the dusty cottage floor, both trembling with the aftershocks. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing together. Our breathing gradually slows.
Eventually, Domnall speaks. "I should get back. Mother's expecting me for dinner planning with Elspeth."
The mention of his fiancée is like cold water. I nod, not trusting my voice.
We dress in silence. He helps me with the laces at my back, his fingers lingering on my shoulders when he finishes.
Then he takes my hand, walking backward toward the door like he's physically pulling himself away. His eyes don't leave mine. At the threshold, he lifts my hand to his lips, kisses my knuckles once, then finally lets go.
He leaves first, as always. I wait ten minutes, then slip out into the fading afternoon light. Walking back I tell myself we can think about the future later. Right now, all I want is to feel, to exist in these stolen moments without the weight of impossible choices crushing me.
But the gnawing unease in my chest won't quiet.
Yes, we're together now, hidden away from the world. Yes, the adrenaline is invigorating, the wanting and being wanted back intoxicating. But how long can this last?
Ten weeks until the wedding. Catriona's investigation is getting closer every day—Bridei said they're questioning people in Carvenmoor now, asking about a pregnant woman seven years ago.
And underneath all of it: the question that terrifies me most.
When the time comes to make a decision—when he has to choose between me and everything his mother has planned—will Domnall actually be able to pull it off?