Page 112 of Ironling
Hakon vowed that should the situation grow as dire as Fearghas portended, he wouldn’t hesitate to steal her in the old way. He’d risk his life and more—ever having her heart—if it kept her alive.
That was all that mattered to him. She was all that mattered.
She was everything.
26
Aclear, cold day dawned over Dundúran, and Aislinn was stuck inside. Despite the chill, she’d propped open the east window to catch a little fresh air as she pored over the most recent correspondence. Still nothing from Connor nor her father, and the silence was eating her alive.
This morning was a little better, though, and not just because of the sunshine. Sorcha had managed another meeting for Aislinn and Hakon, and she’d spent an hour in his arms the night before. It wasn’t much, and she was more than a little embarrassed that once again she’d quickly dozed off in his lap, but it kept her going.
She was considering asking him how he’d feel about loaning her his coat, just so she could sleep wrapped in something of his, when Brenna entered with a tray of breakfast.
“It’s frigid in here,” Brenna exclaimed, hurrying to deposit the tray so she could bustle about the study closing windows. “You’ll catch your death.”
Aislinn filled her mouth with toast, not needing an argument this morning.
She ate with one hand and prepared to take notes with the other. With the windows closed, Brenna stood alongside the desk and withdrew her list.
They ran through the daily tasks, as well as any outstanding issues that still needed Aislinn’s attention. Those were beginning to accumulate, so many other things needing her attention that anything that wasn’t urgent got put in the growing pile on the corner of the desk. She hated the sight of it and tried to attend to at least one thing from it a day.
It wasn’t enough. That was becoming starkly apparent.
Aislinn preferred to do the work herself, but even she had to admit that this was far too much for one person.I’m running myself ragged, as Hakon would say.She saw the concern in not just him, but Sorcha and Fia, Captain Aodhan, and even the youngest pages, who watched her as if they expected her to keel over in exhaustion.
Some days, that felt likely.
The issue that faced her was that, despite all the authorities granted her, one that hadn’t was the power to dispense her authority to others. An heiress acting as regent had vast remit, but she couldn’t further divide her father’s authority and therefore would have to wait until his return to appoint anyone.
For now, she was on her own.
Just a little longer. He has to return soon. Any day now.
Brenna finished with her list, and Aislinn sighed with relief to find that nothing new or incredibly urgent awaited her that day. She would’ve turned back to her morning correspondence when Brenna delicately cleared her throat.
“There was one last thing, my lady.”
Aislinn’s brows rose to see the pinched, anxious way Brenna regarded her. “Yes?”
“You said to bring anything suspicious or out of the ordinary to you.”
“Indeed. Have the maids heard something?”
Brenna shook her head. “It isn’t that. I…” She replaced the list in her pocket and smoothed her stiff skirts. “You won’t like me saying this, but I feel I must. Several have come to me after hearing the blacksmith speaking orcish with Miss Sorcha’s husband.”
Aislinn folded her hands on the desk. “Orcish is their native tongue.”
“But it’s not spoken here. They both speak Eirean. Why talk in a language no one else understands?” Brenna frowned. “What do they have to hide?”
“They likely know that everyone is feeling the strain and want to keep their conversation private. They’re allowed to speak their native language, Brenna.”
“Yes, butwhydo they? That’s the question. What are they saying, truly?”
Aislinn bit back all the sharper things she wanted to say. Slumping back in the seat, if only to annoy Brenna with her bad posture, she finally settled on saying, “The only reason Jerrod is alive today is because Orek was talked out of popping his head off his neck like a chicken. He’d never conspire with the very man who sold Sorcha.”
Brenna’s lips thinned, her expression growing disgruntled, as if she hadn’t thought of that.
“That may be,” she said, “but the blacksmith must be carefully watched. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has his own designs.”
