Irish Moon by Amber Scott Page A

furniture?”
    “I can’t say I would notice any different. It
was my first time inside the man’s home, you see.” She felt better
speaking as much truth as possible.
    Niall nodded contemplatively upon hearing the
last. “How did you find him?” His voice was soft.
    Breanne’s chest panged. “I thought I heard
something outside. I looked about, began to worry. When I peered
over the cliff’s edge, it was more to assure myself than anything.”
Her stomach turned over remembering the stark edge and Finn braving
it. But, omitting Finn’s presence was imperative, for both their
sake.
    “And you found him there.” Niall’s shoulders
drooped, his head lowered.
    Breanne had a hundred questions she hungered
to ask of him. But she bit her tongue, seeing they would have to
wait until the suddenness of Heremon’s death faded. One, however,
she couldn’t suppress. “How did he die, my lord?”
    When he didn’t answer or perceptibly react
Breanne thought she spoke too quietly. She hated to repeat the grim
inquiry.
    “Interesting that you ask, Breanne.” He
straightened and confronted her. “I was hoping you might be the
person to tell us that very terrible thing.”
    Breanne’s breath whooshed out of her like a
felled animals. His stare met hers resolutely. “My lord?” Her voice
squeaked.
    “Before I attend to announcements, or burials
proceedings, I need to be certain that no foul play arrived at
Heremon’s door. I have men searching the area, as we speak, for any
signs of conflict or malicious intent. Their information combined
with your intimate knowledge will offer the insight I need to rest
the concern.”
    Relief came slow but steady, plumping
Breanne’s limbs back to life as she realized his meaning. He needed
her to examine Heremon. For a bewildering moment, she’d concluded
that he suspected her of far more than hiding a man in a cave or
protecting an enchanted cat. For being mistaken, Breanne silently
thanked the Virgin Mary in all her blessed wisdom.
    “When shall I see him, my lord?” Breanne
said, bowing her head respectfully.
    “Straight away,” Niall answered and motioned
for her to rise and follow.
    Breanne prepared for the worst. Heremon’s
body would not be the first she’d examined but was the first she
knew. If Niall had no guess of cause of death then perchance he had
died of natural, albeit tragic, causes. She recognized the idea as
a desperate hope, knew deep down in her flesh and bones that it was
not the case. But, it helped her face the chore, prodded her
reluctant feet forward when the door opened in front of her. Access
granted.
    She nodded formerly to Niall and the three
men. Only Niall remained with her. The silence between them hung
ominously like a storm cloud on the horizon. There would be no
rainbow at this dismal storm’s end.
    Heremon’s blue lips were parted. His eyes
were wide-open, surprised looking, disturbingly similar to the
expression she last saw on his face. Crazed. His body was still
wooden stiff and the faintest trace of death assaulted Breanne’s
nostrils. She began with his hands as taught. The iciness of his
skin when she touched it broke through her wariness and instantly
Breanne no longer thought of the body before her as Heremon.
    The whites of his eyes were slightly
yellowed. Liver. His palms were pale, unmarked. No wounds,
scratches. If he’d been attacked, he hadn’t resisted. If he fell,
he had not gripped rock on his way down. She probed his neck,
rolled him to feel his spine. No breaks. She examined his feet.
Calloused, scraped.
    Breanne tried to recall ever having seen
shoes on the man but for all her days and nights couldn’t conjure a
single image. Sitting, kneeling, walking, all of her memories
contained the long blue cloak and no more.
    “When did you last see him well, Breanne?”
Niall asked.
    She guessed he needed to keep his mind busy.
She understood the inclination. “In the grove, early afternoon.”
How much detail should she