“No. I need to speak with Cormac.” She glanced over at Nora. “Is he downstairs with Moreen and Lorcan?”
“I don’t know,” Nora said. “I haven’t seen him. And I don’t think Moreen or Lorcan are here.”
“Will you help me find my husband?”
“I can try to bring him to you,” Maire offered. “Please lie down. You don’t look well.”
Emma knew it, but an unspoken need pulled at her, a visceral fear she couldn’t explain. “We have to find Cormac. Now. I’m not going back to bed until I know he’s safe.”
Nora surprised her when she came to Emma’s side and put an arm around her. “All right. I’ll help you.”
Maire joined the other side, and the two of them guided her outside her bedchamber and toward the stairs.
Her mind was spinning, but as the girls helped her toward the library, her sense of dread deepened. It was as if instinct pulled her to him, along with the fear that something wasn’t right.
When they reached the library, there was only silence. Emma turned to Nora. “Is anyone inside?”
“I don’t think so,” Nora answered. She left her side and asked a footman, “Where is my brother? Is he with our cousin?”
“I haven’t seen Lord Dunmeath,” the servant answered. “And we’ve had no visitors yet today.”
“Open the door to the library,” Emma insisted. “He said he was going to meet Lorcan and Moreen there.” Her heart was pounding with unspoken fear, and she dreaded what they would find inside.
Nora opened the door, and Emma saw the faint glow of the fire hearth. It had died down to glowing coals, and the rest of the room was dark.
Maire went to draw the drapes, and the moment she did, she let out a cry of alarm. “Cormac!”
Emma hurried forward and realized her husband was lying across the desk unconscious. She could see very little, other than a stack of books and what looked like paper. She knelt before him, pulling him off the desk. It did seem that he was breathing—barely. “Cormac, look at me,” she pleaded. Tears flooded her eyes, and she didn’t care about holding them back. All that mattered was her husband. “Who’s done this to you?”
“He made a list of names,” Maire said. “Grandfather, our father, Finn. I’ve not heard of any of the others.”
“He was reading grandfather’s diary,” Nora said. “Searching for answers, it looks like. But it’s completely fallen apart. The binding is broken, and the paint on the cover is everywhere.”
The answer came to her in a flash of understanding. The book. It had been with Cormac both in Ireland and in London. She knew he’d been reading it regularly, enjoying the stories his grandfather had written. It had been passed down to his father, who had also read it faithfully. And Finn, his older brother. It had been their prized possession—a deadly one.
During the times they’d spent together by the sea and at the cottage, he hadn’t been near the diary. But after she’d touched it the other day, she had fallen ill within hours. Although she’d only touched it once, it had made her skin itch. She thought she’d inhaled some of the dust on it—or was it crumbling paint?—and later, her stomach had twisted with nausea. Had someone added poison to the binding or even the paint itself?
“It’s the book,” Emma blurted out to his sisters. “I think the painted cover contains poison.”
“Oh no,” Maire whispered. “What should we do?”
“We should burn it,” Nora suggested. “Then no one will be hurt by it again.”
Although Emma was inclined to agree, they had to be cautious. “Not yet. We need to know what kind of poison, if any, was in it to help Cormac. Cover it with a handkerchief so no one else will touch it.” Nora obeyed and then Emma ordered, “Maire, please go and find some footmen who can help me bring Cormac upstairs.”
The young girl hurried out, but before Nora could follow her, Emma called her back. “Nora, will you ask someone to bring back the physician? And tell your mother what’s happened. Your Aunt Nuala might be able to help.” The orders came pouring out—she was determined to save Cormac. She felt the strangest sense of relief, even though she was still worried about him. It felt as if they finally had the answers it would take to help him.
After the girls had gone, she knelt beside her husband. “Can you hear me, Cormac?” she asked, while she waited alone in the library. “Please, open your eyes.”
Emma held him upright, but she wasn’t strong enough to lift him, and he hadn’t regained consciousness. “Stay with me,” she urged. “You’re going to be well again, I promise.”
But his skin was so very pale and cool, his breathing shallow. She clung to him, dimly aware of her own tears.Don’t leave me,she prayed silently.
Somehow, this man had become the center of her life. His impulsive moments, his willingness to seize every chance for happiness, had filled their brief marriage with joy. No, she could never be the sort of countess his mother would expect. But it didn’t matter anymore. All she wanted to be was his wife.
He can’t die. I love him.
When the footmen came at last to lift him, Cormac never regained consciousness once. And dread dug its claws into her, making her fear the worst. Her emotions were scattered apart, and she tried to follow the footmen back upstairs. But her own strength was faltering, and she was starting to grow dizzy. When she reached the stairs, she held on to the banister for a moment, struggling not to faint.
