Page 37 of A Virgin for the Icy Laird
“Time?” Adair drawled, smirking. Tomorrow, he would find out what time stood for. “Where is she?”
Callum dropped his gaze to his boots. “Elize is in her chambers.”
“And Emily? I asked about her. Did she say anything about where she was headed?”
His eyes widened just enough to reveal the subject of tomorrow’s interrogation. “The work room.”
The small room was lit by a single lantern on a side stool. Emily was seated in an armchair, her arms laboring over her knitting. Adair had a clear view of her from where he stood, but then he realized that anyone passing by had too. So he strolled into the room and closed the door behind him.
Not only did she not exercise caution, but she also lacked the sense of self-preservation.
The room was too drafty not to feel the cold. Did she intend to freeze to death?
He moved to close the window until he realized the room didn’t have one. He also noticed the absence of a hearth. That was when he understood why she’d left the door open.
The state of the room was glaringly subpar. How had the last knitter withstood it with no complaints? He prided himself on ensuring that his servants were well provided for. He would have to speak with Mrs. Donnelly tomorrow.
“What are ye doin’ here?” Emily’s voice was small and hollow. Then she did something that worried him—she pulled down her sleeve.
That is strange. Is she hurt?
“Why did ye cover yer arm?” he asked. “Are ye hurt? And why are ye in such a cold room?”
She stared at him mutely, but the cogs in her head turned loudly. Suddenly, her eyes flickered, and she pulled up her sleeve, revealing a small burn mark.
“Why would ye hide this from me?” Adair rushed to her, intending to take her into his arms, but then stopped. He could not trust himself. “Did someone hurt ye?”
Worry filled him as well as anger.
Who would dare hurt her?
“No one hurt me, me Laird,” she answered, shaking her head. “I burned me hand tending to the fire in me chambers. And I daenae mind the cold. I’m used to it.”
Her answer quelled his anger, but his worry did not ebb.
“I will go retrieve some ointment.”
“Daenae bother.” She jerked her sleeve around her wrist, her voice dripping with irritation. “I applied some. I ken how to treat a burn.”
The words hit him harder than they should have. He felt a pang in his chest, dull and aching. He took a half-step forward and stopped again.
“Why?” The question came out low. He didn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation.
“I was raised in an orphanage,” she answered, as if it were the most normal thing. As though it perfectly explained everything.
By her logic, all orphans burned themselves frequently enough to know how to tend to their wounds.
He had been frequently injured as a boy. He had snapped a shoulder back in place once or twice on his own, but only because he was the future laird of a clan. What excuse did she have?
He couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t offer comfort. So he did the only thing he could.
He crouched in front of her chair, putting himself at her eye level.
“That doesnae explain a thing,” he said quietly.
Because it didn’t. Not the burn mark. Not the way she hid it. Not the way she’d learned to survive alone.
“Children with empty bellies experience different lives.” Her voice was steady, but it had that edge again, like she was daring him to argue. “Ye learn fast what needs coverin’. Bruises. Burns. Shame. The fact that no one’s comin’ to help.”
