Page 39 of Only By Grace
A faint sound reached his ears—a distant creak of wood, perhaps a door opening or closing. He held his breath, leaning forward, his eyes narrowing as he tried to discern its source. Was it them? Or had Flynn’s men discovered her?
“Come on, Grace,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Come back to me.”
The thought of losing her, of failing his sister, was a weight he could scarcely bear. Yet beneath the fear and the anguish was a flicker of hope, a belief that Grace’s strength and ingenuity would see her through this ordeal. All he could do was trust her—and be ready to act the moment she emerged.
CHAPTER 14
The door creaked open, and a servant with a stooping posture and wary eyes peered out, the faint glow of a wall sconce behind him casting flickering shadows across his lined face. Grace adjusted her cloak, feigning the hesitation of a weary traveller caught unprepared by the cold and dark.
“Please, sir,” she said, her voice soft and steady, “I have lost my way and seek shelter for the night. I would be most grateful if you might grant me a place to rest until morning.”
The servant squinted at Grace, his suspicion evident as he took her measure. “And what’s an English lass doing wandering the Irish countryside at this hour? This isn’t a place for the likes of you.”
Grace offered a weary smile, her cloak pulled tight around her. “I assure you, sir, I am no threat. My party was separated during our journey to Kenmare, and I have been trying to find my way back ever since. The storm last night left me disoriented, and I have not seen a soul for hours. Please, I only seek shelter until morning.”
The servant hesitated, his stern expression wavering at her explanation. “Kenmare, you say?” he muttered, scratching at his temple. “That’s quite the journey for someone on foot.”
“It is,” Grace agreed, letting a note of exhaustion creep into her voice. “And one I would not have undertaken had I had any other choice. Surely you would not turn away someone who has nowhere else to go?”
After a long pause, the man grumbled under his breath but stepped aside, his gaze sweeping over her before nodding curtly. “The master does not usually take to unexpected guests,” he muttered, stepping aside, “but I’ll not have it said we turned a lady into the night.”
“Thank you, sir.” Grace inclined her head and stepped over the threshold, her boots echoing against the stone floor. The entry was dimly lit with torch sconces, its high ceiling vaulted with wooden beams. Cold drafts of air carried the faint scent of damp stone and old wood. The walls were adorned with faded tapestries that told of ghosts in their former glory.
“This way,” the servant murmured, leading her up the stairs, then down a narrow corridor. The castle seemed to slumber, its occupants unaware of her presence—or so she hoped. She’d lost track of what hour it was.
They reached a small room near the end of the hall. The servant opened the door, revealing a sparse but serviceable space: a low bed with a woollen blanket, a single chair by the hearth, and a small table holding a half-burned candle.
“You may rest here,” the man said, setting the candle alight with his own. “I'll bring water if you need it.”
“That will not be necessary,” Grace replied with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
He nodded, retreating and closing the door behind him. Grace stood still for a moment, listening intently as his footsteps receded down the corridor. The flickering candle cast a warmglow, but it did little to dispel the oppressive atmosphere of the castle. She had entered the enemy’s lair, and every fibre of her being was alert to the danger that surrounded her.
Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird, and her palms were clammy with fear. Grace had never done anything like this before, and most of her wanted to turn back and flee the castle. But she was so close to finding Maeve, she could not let Carew down. She must find her courage!
There was no time to waste, so she considered her next move. If Maeve was here, she must be found before the household stirred and Grace’s presence was discovered.
She extinguished the candle, plunging the room into darkness. After allowing her eyes to adjust, she quietly opened the door and peered into the corridor.
The dim sconces lining the walls cast long, flickering shadows that made her jump, and her heart hammered louder with every step she took along the labyrinth of halls. Each creak of the floorboards felt deafening, and every faint rustle of fabric sent her spinning to check for someone ready to shout that she was an intruder.
She reached the central staircase, its stone steps spiralling upward into the gloom. If Maeve were being kept here, Grace reasoned, it was likely to be in one of the upper chambers, where the household’s guests—or prisoners—might be secured.
Ascending with deliberate care, she kept one hand on the wooden railing and the other near the pocket of her gown, where she had tucked a small dagger Carew had insisted she carry. Alongside the dagger was a small pistol that Ashley had forced upon her, its weight unfamiliar but oddly reassuring. She prayed she wouldn’t need either.
The upper floor was darker still, its windows covered with heavy curtains that stifled even the moonlight. Grace moved from door to door, holding her breath each time she pressed herear to the wood. Most of the rooms were silent, but she dared not linger long, fearful of being caught lingering.
Finally, she came to a door near the end of the corridor, where a faint sobbing reached her ears. Her heart clenched. It had to be Maeve. Summoning every ounce of courage, Grace turned the handle and slipped inside.
The room was more luxuriously furnished, but the air was thick with despair. The moonlight filtering through a gap in the curtains illuminated the figure on the bed. Maeve lay curled on her side, her hair tangled and her shoulders trembling with suppressed sobs.
“Maeve?” Grace whispered, crossing the room quickly. She knelt beside the bed, her hand gently brushing Maeve’s arm. “Maeve, wake up. I am Grace. I have come to help you.”
Maeve stirred, her tear-streaked face turning towards her. Her eyes, wide and filled with confusion, turned to Grace's. “Who…?” she began, her voice hoarse.
“Grace Whitford,” she said softly. “Your brother sent me. He is outside, waiting to take you home.”
Maeve’s expression shifted from confusion to disbelief. “Ronan sent you?” she whispered. “How?—?”
