Nothing had warmed her quite like violence had. And it is a trait each of her children inherited.
Only, he hadn’t realized what Moira was capable of. Not until reports came back to him of a red-haired beauty who shot an arrow through Reynold’s heart.
The man named Julio found him and warned him, in exchange for the life of his friend Sol, that Moira had gone and fallen in love with the enemy.
He made an agreement not to kill the Spaniard, and Julio walked away, not realizing that deals with Thomas were never to be trusted in.
Thomas admired Moira’s desire to live and her ability to manipulate. It is through these very clear lenses that he looks upon her now, unaffected by the sight and stench of her.
“Do ye wish to bathe, sister?” He kicks at her leg. “Ye certainly need to.”
She doesn’t answer, only turning her head from him.
Thomas, bored with her, leaves the room, locking the door behind him.
“Sir,” one of his men says as he heads toward him, “we’ve received word that your family’s attorney requires a meeting with ye and your sister.”
Thomas does not understand why. Moira has signed for it all and their parents have been buried in their children’s absence.
“Sometime next week,” Thomas snaps as they ascend the steps together.
“Yes, but…I fear your sister does not appear in the best of health.”
Thomas glares at the man beside him, shutting the door to the cellar. “Do ye think me a monster? Am I not generous enough, kind enough, empathetic enough to that mad sister of mine?”
It is a dialogue Thomas had continued to use, one that would support his cause upon his eighteenth birthday. Her wild screams more help than he could’ve wished for.
“Yes, but will he see it this way, sir? Or will he have her taken away?”
The man makes a point, and it infuriates Thomas.
He, who thought everything through more than a few times.
“Do whatever needs to be done,” Thomas tells the man before storming away.
28
Moira’s neck aches from sleeping against the stone wall. But the truth of it all is she rarely rests, terrified of seeing Sol in her dreams.
Terrified of bearing the weight of his death. Of seeing his beautiful dark eyes look at her with fear in them, lost and floating away from her.
She longs to find hope, to deny it, to claim it untrue.
For Moira has never found an end as earth-shattering as this one.
The door to her dungeon opens and she cannot be bothered to entertain her brother’s rejoicing at his job well done. Not while she is chained, her hands no longer her own. They mock her in their inability to claw his eyes out.
But it isn’t his voice that greets her.
“Moira.”
She must be dreaming. She must.
She cannot fathom the sight of Ella in front of her, a plate of food in her hands.
The woman smiles a tearful smile, her eyes drawing with concern.
“What are you doing here?” Moira asks, her own eyes filling with tears.
“I never got to thank ye for saving me,” Ella whispers, setting her plate down. “These men watch me. I cannot tell ye everything, but I will, lass.” Ella reaches out and places her hand on Moira’s cheek.
Moira had forgotten what a gentle touch could do, how it could inflict hope and warmth inside of her.
In her little room inside of her mind, she’s with Sol.
But here with Ella, she knows she must survive, if only to leave this place.
At the sound of the door opening, Ella stands. “Eat, please,” she whispers to her. “All of it.”
Moira nods and tears fall as she watches her pass through the door.
Is Sol alive?
What is Ella doing here?
And what should I do now?
Eat, she tells herself. Those are her first instructions.
Moira shoves the food into her mouth, barely chewing as she tries to finish. There must be something here, a reason.
But when Moira gets to the last bite, there is nothing.
Nothing but the darkness of sleep that swallows her.
In her dreams, Moira is free. There is no prison that could keep her, no chains that could hold her. And in those dreams, there is Sol, beside her, his eyes so full of fire, it consumes her as well.
Together, they spill the blood of their enemies and rejoice in the madness of it all.
Moira once wondered if a life with him would only mean death. And she cries out within her slumber, wanting for that life, for the death and the blood and the anger.
She, the woman who worried over it, now misses it.
“She will wake soon,” Moira hears someone—a man—say.
“Get that damn maid,” someone else says.
She recognizes Thomas’s voice, recognizes the heaviness gone from her wrists, her shackles removed while she wasn’t conscious.
Still, Moira keeps her eyes closed, even as hurried steps approach.
“Sir,” Ella starts.
“Bathe her, dress her, prepare her for this meeting,” Thomas tells her. “One of you, guard the door. Everyone else, leave us.”
Moira hears shuffling and a door closing.
“I will watch,” Thomas announces. “So that no more mysterious illnesses befall her.”
“Aye, sir,” Ella answers, and Moira tries not to react at the feeling of hands on her, praying that those hands belong to the other woman in the room.
Beneath her, there is softness, as if she’s no longer on the cold hard ground of her dungeon. Ella’s hands slide under her arms and lift her up, sitting her up against a pillow.
Moira cracks her eyes open, enough to witness the light of day. And beside her, Ella tugs at the zipper against her spine. Her hand slides between her back and the mattress, and once the dress is loosened, Ella’s hands fall away.
When they return, they tug at the sleeve of Moira’s dress. Her arm is pulled free and as Ella settles her hand back against her body, she presses something sharp into Moira’s palm.
Can she feel Moira squeeze her hand in return?
Moira stills as Ella completely removes her dress, leaving Moira in just her undergarments.
“Sir,” Ella says, her voice sounding uncertain, “I am going to remove her—”
“Continue,” he interrupts, “as if I am not here.”
And Ella does, until Moira is naked. When she feels Ella begin to drape something over her, Thomas speaks again.
“As if I am not here,” he reminds her through gritted teeth.
Moira remains silent and still and Ella runs a damp cloth over her skin, rubbing the dirt from her body. All the while, the young woman hums and Moira is tempted to smile over the tune.
The memory of singing it before Sol floods her and a single tear falls from her eye.
“Stop that humming,” Thomas commands. “Even as she sleeps, she cries at the sound of it.”
In Moira’s right hand, the blade rests.
Thomas sits on her left side. The room is silent as Ella finishes and begins to put clothes on her once more. But something causes her to stop and on her left side, a new shadow is cast over her.
“Sir—”
“Have ye ever wondered why women are so soft?” he asks.
Moira reminds herself to breathe as evenly as possible when his fingers touch her chin.