Page 21 of The Emerald Oath

“And I won’t make you help with the cattle blessin’,” she adds.

I narrow my eyes. “That’s not yers to offer.”

“It is if I take yer place.”

I stare at her then. Róisín stares back, unblinking, the most stubborn creature living on Sinclair land.

I give in, because I always do with her, and because it’s safer to say it out loud in this kitchen than to have her continue trying to probe it out of me in public spaces.

“He implied my mouth could make his name sound sinful,” I say, once, quickly, like yanking a thorn free. “But I ken fine what he meant beneath it.”

Róisín’s face goes still for the space of a breath.

Then she breaks—laughter bursting out of her so hard she has to clap a hand over her mouth to keep it from echoing off the rafters.

“Sweet sufferin’ saints below,” she wheezes. “Ellen.”

“Please,” I moan, mortified. “This has gone on long enough.”

“Oh, he fully means to ruin you,” she says, fanning herself. “Maybe ya ought to let him turn those indecent remarks into action. Let the laird’s son show you a thing or two. He might put some colour in yer cheeks that isn’t from righteous fury.”

Mortification locks my limbs in place. It’s Róisín’s brazenness that undoes me, not his.

“Makes sense,” she adds, eyes bright with wicked delight. “He didn’t go all that way to Trinity to come back chaste.”

“Róisín!”

She laughs, utterly unrepentant. “It’s that sort of talk that ends with a woman needin’ weddin’ banns before autumn and looser stays by winter.” She gives a little sigh. “Have you seen those Sinclair men? Built like they were carved for sin and sent to test decent women.”

“Ye’re no better than a man,” I hiss.

She grins, unrepentant. “Aye, but I’m not pretendin’ otherwise. I’ve a right to be crass now and then. ‘Sides… ya love me for it.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” she says, sweet as sin. “It’s writ on your face.”

I roll my eyes hard enough to hurt. “If anyone overhears you talkin’ like that, they’ll go fetch Lady Sinclair—and then you’ll be standin’ there explainin’ to her face why you’ve been describin’ her son like a temptation from the Devil.”

Róisín’s grin falters a little.

“Aye,” she mutters, busying herself with the twine as if it’s urgent work. “That would be… an awkward conversation.”

“That’s one word for it.”

She clears her throat, still not looking at me. “We’ll keep it between us, then.”

“And the saints,” I say pointedly.

“Right,” Róisín drawls, then lifts her eyes, which are too bright, too amused to be properly chastened. Her mouth tugs, and I can see the mischief gathering in the green of her eyes again like smoke.

“So…” she says, voice turning sweet with it, “what did you say to him, while he was near beggin’ to tumble you into the grass?”

“He was not⁠—”

“Oh, he was,” Róisín says breezily. “So, what did you do? Scold him… agree to his offer at a later date?”

“I went back to my work!” I say firmly.