“Jack Fitzwilliam walked the length of the great hall. He touched the tapestry on the wall, ran his hand over the damask cloth on the table where the food had been. He looked up at the blackened beams and the ornate paneling along the walls. How many times, as a lad, had he considered burning it all to the ground? He moved to the large chair near the hearth. It had been the earl’s chair, and no one else was ever allowed to sit in it. He glanced about him, and then sat down. The cushions were com...fortable, and the arms suited him perfectly. The carved wood hand rests were smooth beneath his fingers. When he was young, he had never been allowed to touch this chair or even come into the great hall. Not while the old earl lived. So he’d sneaked in when the laird was not around. His lordship had always considered Jack no more than a mistake. The bastard son of an idiot brother. He did not accept, respect, or tolerate him. Jack was treated with less esteem than if he’d been a servant. He was to be kept at the Tower, but he was never to be acknowledged.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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