The estate had fallen into an uneasy quiet after the attack, but silence never meant safety. Scarlett had learned that long ago. Even in the dead of winter, when the frost layered thick over the windows and the fields glistened silver, danger could seep through the cracks like smoke.
She sat at her window that night, chin resting against her palm, staring out into the snow-laden gardens. Daniel had retreated to his room hours ago, still nursing a split lip from the skirmish with the Mercers’ men. Her father, Michael, had shut himself into the study, no doubt planning his next move with the same precision he used on the battlefield of business and blood.
But Scarlett’s mind wasn’t on strategies. It wasn’t even on James, though his sneering face lingered in her thoughts like a scar.
It wa
