Strong winds buffeted the windows of Marquis Bors Lothian's private dining hall and hail mixed with rain, bouncing off the glass panes with a sharp -PING-PING-PING- sound that echoed like thunder across the small dining room in the wake of Bors's declaration that Loman might inherit his throne.
It took every bit of control Jocelynn possessed to keep her knife and fork firmly in hand, poised over her leg of grouse without moving as tremors rippled through her body. Just when everything had been going so well, why? Why would this old man pull the rug out from under her when she'd done so much to find her way to Owain's side?