Present
The silence goes on too long. My throat has closed around air that won't move. Domnall's hand is still half-extended in greeting, frozen mid-gesture like someone paused him.
Bridei clears her throat. The sound is delicate, pointed—a reminder that we're standing in a formal sitting room, not a tavern room with my dress on the floor.
Domnall drops his hand, his jaw works before words come out.
"Please, sit." He gestures toward chairs arranged near the fireplace, his movements stiff, rehearsed.
We sit. I fold my hands in my lap and grip hard enough that my knuckles go white beneath the fabric of my gloves. Bridei settles beside me, spine straight, every inch the duchess vouching for her protégé.
Domnall takes the chair opposite, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He looks at me for three seconds too long before speaking.
"How have you been?" The question is simple, but his voice isn't. There's weight in it I can't interpret—concern, maybe, or guilt, or something else entirely.
My mouth has gone dry. "Well enough. Managing."
"Managing." He repeats it like he's testing the word for truth. "That's... good."
The silence stretches again. Bridei shifts beside me, a small movement that screams discomfort.
I force more words out. "I'm grateful for the opportunity. The interview."
He nods slowly, his gaze traveling over my face like he's memorizing it. "Of course. Yes. The position." He straightens, pulling himself into something more formal. "My mother sends her apologies. She's indisposed today."
Bridei speaks for the first time since we sat down. "Nothing serious, I hope."
"A headache. She gets them occasionally." He's answering Bridei but his eyes haven't left me. "She asked me to conduct the interview in her place."
The awkwardness is thick enough to choke on. But underneath it, there's something else. When he looks at me, his expression softens at the edges. Not pity, but something warmer. Like seeing me here, alive, employed, not scrubbing floors—it matters to him.
He clears his throat and shifts in his chair. "Tell me about your experience with children."
The question is standard, professional. I can answer this. "I have three of my own. Six years old."
His eyebrows lift. "Triplets?"
"Yes." The word comes out steady. "Tavish, Lachlan, and Fenella."
"That must be... demanding." There's something careful in his tone, like he's trying not to step on ground that might collapse.
"It is. But it taught me patience. How to manage chaos. How to explain things in ways children actually understand."
He nods, leaning back slightly. "What about formal education? Reading, writing, arithmetic?"
"I taught myself to read from borrowed books. Bridei—the duchess," I correct myself quickly, "educated me when I was a companion to her eldest daughter. Nine to fifteen. I can read, write, handle accounts."
Bridei interjects smoothly. "Mairead was part of my household for years. I can vouch personally for her education and character."
Domnall glances at Bridei for half a second before his gaze returns to me. "And your late husband?"
The lie sits ready on my tongue, practiced. "Thomas Farren. A blacksmith from the duchess's estate. Good man. He died two years ago."
"I'm sorry." He says it quietly, sincerely, and I have to look away because if I don't, I'll say something that destroys this entire careful construction.
"Thank you." My hands are trembling in my lap. I grip them tighter.
He shifts forward again. "My daughter, Isla—she's six. Bright, but stubborn. She's been through three tutors in eighteen months."
"Why?" The question comes out before I can stop it.
He doesn't seem bothered by my directness. "She's particular. Refuses to be lectured at. Won't sit still for lessons she finds boring. The last tutor called her insolent."
"Was she?"
"Probably." The corner of his mouth lifts. "But she was also bored, and grief doesn't make children easier to manage."
My chest tightens. "Her mother."
"Died in childbirth six years ago." His voice has gone flat, careful. "Isla doesn't remember her, but I think she feels the absence."
I know what absence feels like. What it does to children who grow up with a parent-shaped hole they can't name. "What does she like? Your daughter."
He blinks, surprised by the question. "Stories. Animals. Climbing trees her grandmother insists are too dangerous. She likes knowing why things work the way they do."
"Tavish is the same—asks questions until I run out of answers." The words slip out before I can stop them. "He threw a geography primer across the room last month because the author didn't explain why rivers bend."
Domnall laughs. The sound is sudden, unguarded. It reaches his eyes and transforms his whole face into something younger, lighter.
I laugh too. I can't help it. The absurdity of this moment—sitting across from the father of my children, lying about their dead father, bonding over rebellious six-year-olds.
"What did you tell him?" He's still smiling.
"That rivers are lazy. They take the easiest path. Straight lines take more work than curves." I'm smiling too, and my chest feels strange, like something is loosening inside it.
"Did that satisfy him?"
"For about three days. Then he started asking about mountains."
He shakes his head, grin widening. "Isla would like him."
The statement hangs in the air. My pulse picks up. I should deflect, change the subject, but I don't.
For a moment, it feels like the Carvenmoor tavern. Two people talking without armor, without scripts, just genuine conversation that flows too easily.
He clears his throat, the formality returning by degrees. "You're hired. If you want the position."
My breath catches. "Just like that?"
"Just like that." He stands, and I stand with him, Bridei rising beside me. "You can start as soon as you're ready. Tomorrow, if that suits. The head maid will show you the room, the schoolroom, everything you'll need."
"Thank you." The words feel inadequate. "I won't disappoint you."
"I know." He says it with certainty, like it's a fact he's already verified.
Bridei extends her hand. "Thank you for your time, Lord Morvaine."
He takes it briefly, murmurs something polite. Then Bridei moves toward the door, assuming I'll follow.
But Domnall doesn't move. He just stands there, three feet away, looking at me. His gaze travels over my face—my eyes, my mouth, the freckles scattered across my nose. Like he's trying to memorize something he thought he'd lost.
The silence stretches, my skin prickles under the attention. I shift my weight, my hands twisting in front of me.
"Is there something else?" The question comes out quieter than I intended. "You seem like you're waiting for something."
The spell breaks. His expression shutters. "No. Nothing. I apologize." The words come too quickly, tripping over each other. "I'll have Mrs. Kerr, the head maid, meet you in the morning."
He moves toward the other door, the one that leads deeper into the house. His hand is on the handle when he stops, glancing back.
His mouth opens, then closes. Whatever he was going to say, he swallows it.
He leaves.
I stand there, staring at the empty space where he was, my heart hammering against my ribs hard enough to hurt.
Bridei touches my elbow. "We should go."
I follow her out, through the portrait-lined corridor, past the servant who led us in. The carriage is waiting.
We climb inside. The door closes, the wheels start turning.
Bridei watches me with an expression I can't read. "That was… interesting."
"It was an interview." My voice sounds wrong, too high.
"That was not just an interview." She leans back against the cushions. "He barely looked at me. Hired you in ten minutes. And that staring—Mairead, what was that?"
My hands are shaking in my lap. "I don't know."
"You know him." It's not a question.
My throat closes. I can't answer, can't confirm, can't lie to the woman who's risked her reputation to save mine.
"Mairead." Her voice has gone sharp. "Please tell me he's not—"
"He doesn't know." The words burst out. "About the children. He doesn't know they're his."
She goes completely still, the color drains from her face. "That was him?! The man from Carvenmoor?"
I nod once, my vision is blurring.
"Mother of God..." She presses her fingers to her temples. "You just agreed to raise his children under his roof while he doesn't know they exist."
"I didn't know he'd be there." My voice cracks. "I thought it was his mother conducting the interview."
"Does he recognize you?"
"Yes."
"But he doesn't know about…"
"No."
She exhales slowly, the sound shaking. "This is worse than I thought. So much worse."