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.
