Chapter 31
For the rest of the day, the castle moved like a hive. Maids hurried with more decorative material and fresh linens while the voices of guests rose from the Great Hall, where men traded news and jokes. The corridors still smelled of flowers and honey, like they had all morning.
Emma watched the bustle as if through glass. She had not seen Jack since that morning. Distance, she told herself, might clear her head.
She was sitting in the corner, with Stella in one hand and a piece of paper on the table before her. Why she was even trying, she didn’t know. It wasn’t like she could get any inspiration from the chaos around her.
Ava slipped into the hall and dropped into the seat beside her. The light lay pale across the stone floor as Emma balanced Stella on her knee and rested the other hand on the paper.
“What are ye writing now?” Ava asked, leaning in.
“A poem,” Emma replied. “If I can manage one.”
“Ye and yer poems,” Ava teased. “Ye could sew or plan or nag folks into work, and yet ye sit with ink on yer fingers while the whole castle labors. I daenae ken why ye even bother with that thing.”
Emma smiled. “It helps me think.”
“Then think loudly. I like to listen.”
Emma dipped the quill until the ink gathered at the tip, slow and patient.
“So, what have ye written so far?”
Emma smiled and leaned forward. Then, she began to read, her voice soft as the evening breeze to the baby on her lap. “A villain who watched the doors. A man folks feared and judged, yet he kept the storm from blowing in.”
Ava made a face as if she had tasted sour fruit. “That is an interesting way to speak of yer groom.”
“It is only a poem.” Emma felt heat rise in her neck. “Words are only words.”
“Aye, and words are snares,” Ava countered. “If ye’re nae careful.”
Emma shrugged one shoulder. “I am careful. Let us go to the nursery. I cannae let Stella continue to fuss.”
They rose to their feet and walked, leaving the Great Hall behind them. Stella batted at the ribbon on Emma’s sleeve. Her fist closed around the bow and then opened. Emma kissed her small fingers.
However, as they moved, Ava’s voice kept echoing in her mind, telling her that one wrote a poem for a man one did not have feelings for.
Ye cannae keep lying to yerself, Emma. Ye have to pick and choose.
Later that night, the corridor rose and fell with the chatter of servants. Ava was called away to receive a new carriage at the gates, and Emma stayed in the nursery until Stella’s eyes closed and her breathing evened out.
She rocked her a little longer, then laid her down and tucked the small blanket around her. She stepped out moments later and headed straight to her chamber. It was getting late now, and she needed all the sleep she could get.
By the time she climbed the stairs, the light in the corridor had dimmed to a soft gold. Her chamber smelled of soap and beeswax, and she sat, meaning to breathe for a moment.
That was when a knock sounded at the door.
She rose at once and opened it, her eyes landing on him immediately. Jack stood there with his sleeves rolled up and his hair a touch tousled. He had the look he wore after work, tight around the mouth and warm at the eyes.
“Ye’ve done well today,” he praised. “Thank ye for helping with the guests.”
“I did very little,” she countered.
He stepped inside and leaned his shoulder against the post. “How do ye feel about tomorrow? Will I need to hunt ye down again?”
She groaned and pressed a hand to her face. “Please stop saying that.”
He laughed, low and rough. “It was mortifying to me as well. It was at that moment I decided to make ye mine.”
“So,” she said, arching her eyebrows, “because I was a challenge?”
He looked at her as if weighing a coin in his palm. Then, he brushed her cheek with his thumb. “I caught ye far too easily. But aye, I like it when ye fight me first.”
Her breath stuttered. She should have stepped back, yet she did not. He was so close that their noses almost touched. The walls seemed to close in on them.
The sound of a throat clearing broke the moment, and the tension seemed to fall apart, like dry petals on a flower. Emma moved at once, and Jack’s hand dropped.
Moira’s parents stood near the threshold, with their cloaks tight around their shoulders. Fiona’s lips were pressed into a thin line, and Arthur’s eyes searched the chamber as if taking in its full capacity.
Jack seemed to notice the change in her behavior, as he turned around as well. When his eyes landed on his in-laws, he gave a quick nod.
“We thought we could greet Stella,” Arthur said. “We wished to say goodnight. We didnae want to go to her without telling ye.”
“Aye,” Jack answered, his tone formal. “Come, I will take ye.”
He gave Emma a look that seemed to say he would come back, then led them down the corridor toward the nursery. Their footsteps faded around the corner, and the silence returned.
Emma closed the door gently before crossing to the chair by the fireplace and setting her nightshift straight. She trimmed the candlewick and smoothed the bedsheets where she had wrinkled them.
She told herself that she ought to go down and have a nightcap with the mothers. She told herself that she should show her face and smile at the guests, but she stayed where she was.
The memory of his thumb on her cheek sent warmth through her, and that annoyed her.
“Nay,” she muttered under her breath. “Ye’re getting married to him. ‘Tis too late for second thoughts.”
She went to the peg and reached for her cloak. That was when she heard it. Another knock, almost as soft as a fingertip on glass. Not Jack’s or Ava’s. She knew the way each of them knocked. This was neither.
She crossed to the door and pulled it open.
No one stood outside.
The corridor lay empty from one corner to the other, with only the soft glow of a torch for company. She lowered her gaze to the floor. A folded scrap of paper lay on the threshold, and her name was written on the cover in a very clear and distinct hand.
She did not like how her fingers shook when she bent to take it, but she did anyway. Back inside, she shut the door and turned the lock. Then, she held the paper to the candle and unfolded it.
There was only one line.
If ye daenae want the bairn to get hurt, run.
She read it twice, and the words began to swim as if she had been staring too long at the sea. She felt the blood drain from her face. She reached for the arm of the chair and missed it, then found it again and stood very still, with the note clutched loosely in her hand.
“This must be a joke.” But she heard the lie before she even finished.
The ink had blotted in one corner where the quill had stopped writing, and the strokes cut thin as if the writer had been in a hurry, or afraid. The letters in her name looked odd, as if shaped by someone who had not written it before.
Who could this be?
She folded the paper and slipped it beneath the small book on her bedside table. The leather cover hid the threat like a lid on a kettle.
The room looked the same as it had an hour ago, but it was not the same. Emma stood there, shocked into stillness, with the warning sitting under her hand and the dark pressing close.
Who could have written the note?