He found it the moment he walked into the glassworks on Monday. Considering he left it in the lehr to cool Saturday evening, the ornament could not have broken on its own. “Aye, and I suspect I ken who ‘twas.” He let his gaze travel the length of the glasshouse to where Joseph Pyle stood talking with Isaac Jordan. The men’s faces appeared grim. Gray tinged Jordan’s complexion, and he stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Pyle leaned forward, making his height advantage over Jordan appear far greater, rather as though he were a bird of prey. Another image of the man flashed into Colin’s mind—Pyle standing behind Meg, his hands clenched, his eyes colder than the snow blanketing the countryside, while he challenged Colin’s presence in the kitchen. The cat had merely been an excuse. Colin could have warmed the creature in his own house and returned it to the stable without disturbing Meg. The need to see her, to receive one of her smiles, to hear her voice flared inside him, and he allowed his feet to carry him to her door.
