The library was deathly quiet. No fire in the hearth. No lit candle.
Just the shadowy gloaming painting the room in featureless shapes.
The dark made the first pop of a firework particularly brutal.
It lit up the entire room, a flash of noonday sun.
Jamie had lit fireworks for him on their wedding night.
“I spent all week making them with Mr. Chen,” she giggled. “I couldn’t marry ye without a proper celebration. The very sky has to burst with my happiness.”
And it had.
He had sat beside her in the sand in Sydney, the lingering heat of the day shimmering in the ground around them, and let the gleaming sparks of the fireworks fill his soul with her happiness . . . withtheirhappiness.
One thought alone looping in his brain—
How did I convince this bright flame of a woman to marry me? I am the luckiest of men.
And now . . .
He lived in the opposite of that moment—silence and shadow, despair and desolation.
He dragged a hand across his eyes.
The fireworks continued, illuminating the room, one flash after another. It was hard not to see the bursts of firelight as a melancholy homage to their love.
The past glory of it.
Cuthie’s words weighed heavy.
Nothing ye do can spare her now.
Was that true? Surely, Andrew and Alex could use the combined might of their titles to persuade the King to pardon Eilidh, if nothing else?
Surely, not all hope was lost.
Footsteps sounded along the corridor outside.
Wearily, he turned as the door clacked open.
Eilidh stormed in and slammed the door behind her with a loudsmack.
“You!” Her voice vibrated with rage.
In the dim light, she looked like an avenging angel—eyes feverish, chest heaving, hair tumbling from its pins.
Just the sight of her was a dagger between his third and fourth ribs—brutally lethal.
“Eilidh?” He rose from his chair, pushing to his feet.
She stomped toward him.
“How c-could ye?!” she choked.
He shook his head. “What happened, lass?”
He expected her to stop. To stand her ground and spit out whatever she had to say.
