Chapter 34
The Great Hall below was quiet. There was nothing else to be done when a wedding had been ruined, and everyone seemed to know that.
In his study, Jack sat with a half-bottle by his elbow. The fire snapped and flickered as he wondered what the guests were thinking. They were probably blaming him. It was easy to do so.
He had killed his first wife anyway. Who was to say that he hadn’t done something that had scared Emma as well?
The thought made his stomach churn.
He grabbed the bottle and drank until the burn in his throat dulled the tightness behind his eyes, then set the bottle aside and stared at the uneven glow on the wall.
He couldn’t believe that part of him had thought this time would be different. That what had happened then would not happen again.
A knock sounded at the door, soft enough to miss if a man wished to miss it. And he so badly wanted to miss it.
He did not answer.
The door opened anyway, slowly, and a young maid slipped inside with her shoulders drawn up and her chin tucked. She kept to the edge of the carpet, her eyes lowered and her hands clasped together.
“Me Laird,” she said, her voice thin. “Yer maither asked me to come take Stella. She says the bairn should rest with her.”
“Why?” he snapped. “Why now?”
“I daenae ken, me Laird. She only said that ye should have time to yerself.”
“Everyone seems to ken what I need to do, do they nae?”
The maid flinched when his eyes rose, and color drained from her face. The sight broke through the haze, and Jack rubbed his hand over his mouth.
“I am sorry,” he offered, softening his voice. “As ye can clearly see, I am nae meself today.”
“Aye, me Laird.”
The maid moved quickly to where the baby lay on the soft carpet, playing with her toys. Stella stirred at the shift in the air, then sighed and rested her cheek on the maid’s shoulder. Soon, they had both gone, and the door clicked shut behind them.
The silence grew even heavier now. Heavy on the chair, heavy on his chest.
Everything reminded him of her. The books on his desk, the ledgers where he kept his records, and the brass inkstand.
The damned brass inkstand.
Without thinking twice, he grabbed it and hurled it at the far wall. Ink burst and ran down in rivulets. Then, he hurled the candlestick after it. The wooden box that held spare quills struck the cupboard, and the lid split.
He kept throwing one thing after another until there was almost nothing left on his desk. Each throw represented a fresh wave of regret.
He should never have wanted her.
He should never have let her near his child.
He should have taken any bride, any woman who brought no risk.
He should have stayed alone. He had told himself that a hundred times.
He had believed it too, at least until he met her.
She had brightened his world and made him change his position.
She had made him think there was always more to life than solitude, and if one struggled for it, one might just be happy.
Now, she was gone, and she had taken every scrap of his happiness with her.
Good God.
The thought alone made his skin prickle. He grabbed one of the last few books on the desk, tightening his grip on it, ready to throw it.
The door burst open, and he hurled it at whoever had just come in. Duncan ducked as the book flew past the frame and landed on the floor.
“Christ, Jack,” he said, surveying the wreckage. “Ye’re scaring half the castle.”
Jack said nothing. His rage had burned down to steel.
Duncan stepped in and shut the door with his heel. Then, he picked his path through the spilled ink and scattered books.
“What are ye doing here?” Jack asked, his voice low enough to kill a fire.
“I came to see if I can offer help,” Duncan said. “Did she act strangely these past days?”
Jack stared at the empty cradle, then at the dark stain on the wall, and memory rose sharp in his mind.
He could picture everything clearly in his head. Emma pressed against him in the library. The way she had laughed when he listed the poets. Her expression when the baby’s fingers wrapped around her ribbon.
“Nay,” he said. “She was herself. She was…” His jaw tightened. “She promised that she would stay.”
He dragged his arm across the desk and sent the last loose papers to the floor. They scattered across the room, one small scrap landing directly at Duncan’s feet.
Duncan bent and picked it up. “What is this?” He smoothed the creases with his thumb, his frown deepening as he read.
Jack stared at the fire. He did not look up until his brother’s tone shifted.
“Jack,” Duncan hissed. “Someone threatened her.”
Jack went still. “What?”
Duncan read the single line. “If ye daenae want the bairn to get hurt, run.”
The air seemed to freeze, and Jack felt his heart sink. “Who would dare threaten me bride in me own home?”
“Someone who hates ye,” Duncan said. “Someone who wants her gone, and kens our halls well enough to leave this note without being seen.”
He held the scrap out. Jack took it and read the line once, then twice. The letters wavered as the ink caught the lamplight.
He closed his fist, feeling a new wave of anger rise within him. This time, he wasn’t angry at Emma. No. This time, he was angry at himself.
A cry sounded in the corridor before he could begin to unpack what had just happened. He exchanged confused looks with Duncan, and they both watched as the door opened wide.
Fiona stumbled in with her cloak wrinkled, and both hands gripped the frame to prevent a fall. The momentum shook the lock, but she did not cross the threshold. She only looked around as if she had run the length of the wall.
“Jack,” she panted. “The bairn. She willnae stop crying. She keeps reaching for Emma. She keeps sayin’ Mama. She kens that Emma is gone.”
Jack’s heart clenched hard. “Where is she? Give her to me.”
“Down with yer maither,” Fiona said. She took two steps forward and caught herself on the back of a chair. “Listen. There is more.”
“Say it.”
Fiona lifted her eyes. Tears shimmered there but did not fall. “Arthur,” she whispered. “He is gone. I tried to stop him, but he left before dawn.”
The name hit him like a boulder, and everything suddenly clicked into place.
“Fiona?” Jack prompted, taking a step toward her. “What did ye do?”
“Ye must forgive me.” The distress in her voice was clear as day. “He said it was the only way. That this was the best way Moira could get peace. I tried to stop him. Believe me, I did.”
Jack looked up at Duncan, whose eyes were just as wide.
“‘Tis Arthur,” Duncan murmured, still in disbelief. “’Twas him who sent the intruder.”
Jack crossed to the wall and took down his sword. The leather hilt felt right, and the old weight steadied his hands.
Duncan hurried to bar the door with a forearm. “Jack, where are ye going?”
“To get me wife back,” Jack thundered.