Free The Ground She Walks Upon by Meagan McKinney

the misty countryside to the ogham stone that stood directly in his view. She could almost feel pity for the lonely portrait he made: his black-trousered legs braced beneath him, his arms crossed over his chest, his profile—when he presented it—refined, yet manly, his nape-length wheat-colored hair slicked back as if it were common for him to run his fingers through it in frustration. And the expression in his eyes... bereft.
    She was barely thirteen and not sophisticated in the ways of reading emotions; still Ravenna found herself in the spell of the man's mood. Power and melancholy made a heady mix. She felt herself drawn to him. She might have even said, "Please don't be sad, " if not for the fear that froze her voice and the terror of that violent gaze finding her in his private room and proclaiming, "To the hangman!"
    She hugged the dressing-room wall and tried to think of an escape. The only way was to cross the bedroom and sneak out the door when the footman arrived to light the fires. The three golden hairs still clutched in her palm mocked her. It was a meager treasure for so great a risk. She'd been foolish to come here. The days of her childhood were finally drawing to a close. Never again would she stoop to such folly.
    She heard a rustling sound in the bedroom, then footsteps.
    Panicked, she backed away, her gaze clawing at every wardrobe and bureau for a hiding place. Her hand reached out for the last wardrobe's door latch, and Trevallyan entered.
    "God save me," she whispered. Her gaze met Trevallyan's and her back slammed against the partly opened door of the wardrobe.
    Ravenna had never seen a man so shocked in her life. Trevallyan looked at her as if she were a shade, a ghost, one of many reputed to haunt the castle. It was a full minute before the stain of anger crept to his cheeks.
    "What are you doing here?" His words, deep with fury, gave strange emphasis. It seemed as if he were saying, "What are you doing here ?"
    "I—I was not stealing from you, Lord Trevallyan, I swear upon my mother's honor. " Her voice trembled. Wildly, she looked past him to see if she could break for the door.
    His lips hardened to a straight line, and his gaze pinned her to the wall. " 'Tis a fine thing. You of all creatures to be swearing upon your mother's honor. "
    "Nay, " she whispered, stung by his insult but too frightened to fight him fully. He was master of all Lir. Whatever punishment he wanted to dole out, the county would be hard-pressed to go against his wishes. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she blinked them away as she'd done most of her young life. Malachi hadn't cried when a lord from Dublin shot his father dead right in front of him by outrageously claiming his father was a smuggler in cahoots with Daniel O'Connell. She would not cry either.
    "What do you have in your hand?"
    Trevallyan's contemptuous gaze lowered to her small, dirty fist and Ravenna's heart lurched as she realized how things looked. If she showed him the hair, he might think she was some kind of witch come to put a spell on him and he would force the magistrate to show her little pity. Yet if she refused to show him what was inside her hand, then his accusations of stealing would be cemented forever.
    " 'Tis nothing, my lord. I was not stealing from you, I swear it. By all that is holy, I swear it, " she rambled, unsure of which course to take when both seemed to lead her to gaol.
    He stepped forward; she backed away. He was not a big man, but to a frightened young girl, he was a giant.
    "Show me what you have in your hand. "
    Witch! she could already hear him cry. There was no way to explain what she had in her hand, except to put the blame on Malachi, which she would never do.
    " 'Tis nothing, my lord. 'Tis nothing of any value." Her gaze flew to the doorway behind him. She would have to run. She could flee to the neighboring county and hide. Malachi would help her. There was always Malachi.
    "Show me. Now. " He took an ominous step toward