Instead, he was three stories up, mired in shame, guilt, and a throbbing head.
Whatwashe to do about Leah?
She was unhappy.
Fox and the lack of trust in their marriage—all facets of his own unhappiness—were the sources of her misery.
He had no idea how to fix any of it.
Or, rather, he supposed he did.
Drinking less would be a good place to start. Talking more would likely help, too.
But reaching for his own happiness required effort, and he wasn’t sure he had the strength for it at the moment. Or hope that his efforts would meet with success.
He lay on his side, staring at the wall opposite the window, listening as the clip-clop of horse hooves on flagstone faded into the distance.
He closed his eyes. Yes, he was tired.
And yet . . . how could he continue existing like this?
Something had to give, did it not?
Toward the end of his time in the West Indies, Fox had experienced a hurricane. The monstrous storm had roared in from the east, bringing surging surf, punishing rain, and terrifying winds. He and his fellow officers had huddled in their barracks, backs pressed against the stone walls, praying for the building to hold against the wind. The noise had been deafening, like hundreds of crashing waterfalls. Dennis had sat beside him, joking in an attempt to alleviate the tension, but nothing could mask the trembling of their bodies.
And then, everything—the relentless scream of the wind, the lash of the rain—had simply . . . stopped. Like a tap stoppered. Just . . . done.
Mystified, he and Dennis had crept from the barracks. Outside, the world had become a chaos of downed trees, torn branches, and household debris.
The storm had abated, but it all felt . . . off. The air still hung with lung-crushing oppressiveness, and though the storm no longer raged around them, black, angry clouds circled the horizon.
It took Fox a moment to understand what he was seeing. His men, the barracks—they were the center fulcrum around which chaos spun.
And sure enough, just a few minutes later, the lashing wind and rain returned with a vengeance, howling from the opposite direction this time.
Laverloch felt similar. A fulcrum waiting.
But . . . waiting for what?
For the final axe to fall in regard to Madeline?
For his suit before the Court of Arches to fail?
For Leah to renounce the poor bargain she received from their marriage?
Regardless,somethingbrewed on the horizon. Some catastrophe that would deliver yet another punishing blow, pummeling him until he had the wisdom to simply stay down.
After all, hadn’t life taught him—again and again—that happiness was not for him?
A few days later, Leah stepped into the great hall after reviewing household accounts with Mrs. Gilmour. The wind had been battering the castle all morning, whistling down chimneys and sputtering through windows and underneath doors.
Mr. Wheeler predicted a fierce storm before nightfall.
Glancing at the dark clouds outside the hall windows, Leah wasn’t entirely sure. In Scotland, the horizon invariably threatened rain. There appeared no logical connection between looming clouds, high winds, and the actual fierceness of any given storm.
“Mrs. Carnegie,” William said from behind her.
Leah turned to find the man practically wringing his hands.
