Weeks had passed since that day by the forge—weeks lush with fragile days and delicate dawns, ruby nights and midsummer storms. And in those passing days, those jewels of Scotia's summer, were a thousand sights he wanted to share with her.
Damn it! He pounded his fist upon his desk, sending papers fluttering and statues scurrying. She was his wife. She had no way back to wherever she'd come from! When was she going to accept that and make the most of it? He would give her anything she wanted. Anything but to leave him. Never that.
His existence had all the makings of a gilded, living hell and he could find no exit.
As swiftly as it had assailed him, his rage evaporated.
Adrienne, his lips formed the word silently. How did we come to this impasse? How did I make such a mess of it?
* * * * *
"Walk with me, lass," he said softly, and she whirled upon the cliff's edge, a breathtaking flutter of silver and cobalt blue. His colors, the Douglas colors. Unwittingly, it seemed, she wore them often. Did she even know that she donned in vivid splashes the very threads of the Douglas tartan, and that no name could have branded her more certainly his lady?
He waved a dismissive hand at his guards. He needed to steal precious moments with her alone, before he left. After hours of struggling, he had reached many decisions. First and foremost being that he was long overdue for a visit to Uster, one of his many manors and the most troublesome. He simply couldn't keep neglecting his estates in his lovesick idiocy. The laird had to put in the occasional appearance and take an interest in resolving his villagers' concerns.
Besides, he was making no progress here. If she chose Adam in his absence, then he could just die inside and get on with the pretense of living. It was how he'd survived the first thirty-odd years. What kind of fool had he become to expect the rest to be any different?
"Laird Douglas," she clipped.
In silence they walked the cliff's edge together, toward the forest.
"I will be leaving for a time," he said finally as they entered the forest.
Adrienne stiffened. Was he serious? "Wh-where are you going?" And why did it disturb her so much?
He took a sharp, indrawn breath. "Uster."
"What is Uster anyway?"
"One of my manors. Seventeen manors belong to Dalkeith. Uster holds the villages of Duluth and Tanamorissey, and they are an intemperate lot. 'Twas a problem even when the king's men held Dalkeith."
When the king's men held Dalkeith.
When her husband had been the king's whore.
In the last weeks the heat of Adrienne's anger had cooled, leaving a poignant regret. Hawk had mostly avoided her, except for the occasional times he'd seemed to be trying to pick a fight with her for some reason. She'd half expected him to lock her in his room, but after that terrible night he had retreated carefully to his study by the sea.
There he'd stayed every night—so quiet, so beautiful, and so alone.
"Hawk?" she began tentatively.
"Yes?"
"What exactly did the king's whore do?"
Hawk stiffened. Could this be the chance he'd been waiting for? Perhaps he could dare to hope after all. His laughter was full of bitter self-mockery. "Are you quite certain you wish to know, lovely Adrienne?"
* * * * *
Lurking behind a towering oak, Esmerelda studied Adrienne's silvery-blond mane, silvery eyes, sparkling face. What did the Hawk see in that skinny, pale girl he couldn't find in Esmerelda's sultry embrace?
For the first time in weeks the guards were gone and the bitch walked unprotected enough that Esmerelda could strike and flee into the shelter of the dark forest. Her beloved Hawk might suffer a time of mourning, but he would find solace and sweet passion in Esmerelda's arms once the soil stilled upon his wife's grave.
She raised the arrow with a hand that trembled. Frowning, she dug the edge of the notched head into her fleshy palm until blood welled in her tawny-gold skin. She grimaced against the pain, but it steadied her nerves. This time she would not fail. Esmerelda had chosen her weapon carefully. Poison had proved too chancy—her drawn and corded bow would send the arrow flying true, with force enough to lodge in the flesh and bone of Adrienne's breast.
Esmerelda dropped to her knee and coiled the leather cord tighter. She notched the bow and took sight as Adrienne stepped into a clearing. She nearly faltered when she saw the look on Hawk's face as he gazed at his wife. He loved Adrienne as Esmerelda would have loved him; a wild, claiming, know-no-bounds kind of passion. With this realization, any compassion Esmerelda may have felt for Adrienne evaporated. She steadied the bow and took aim at Adrienne's breast. With a soft whoosh, the arrow flew free. Esmerelda swallowed a frantic scream. At the last minute the Hawk turned, almost as if he saw her lurking in the shadows or sensed the arrow's flight. He moved. No!