Reborn as the Nightingale: Escaping the Duke's Poisoned Marriage

I died with bitter almonds burning in my throat while my husband watched.

Kian Ferguson did not call for help. He stood over me as the poisoned wine stopped my heart, already making room for the woman he had always preferred—his delicate cousin, Isabelle.

In my first life, I begged for his love. His family forced fertility tonics down my throat, blamed me for an empty nursery, and called me barren while the medicine slowly ruined my body.

Then I opened my eyes five years before my death.

This time, I did not ask Kian why he loved her. I asked for an annulment.

He refused. The Crown refused. They believed an unwanted wife had nowhere to go.

So I sold my dowry in secret, bought merchant ships under another name, and built an empire from remedies, debts, secrets, and gold.

The family who mocked my medicine would beg for the Nightingale's help. The cousin who coveted my place would watch every future Kian bought for her slip away. And the husband who swore I would leave him only in a coffin would learn that I had become wealthy, powerful, and impossible to cage.

By the time Kian discovered that his discarded wife was the mysterious Nightingale, I would no longer want his love.

I would want his name removed from mine.

…

Kian Ferguson was looking at Isabelle Vance as if she were already the woman meant to stand beside him.

Isabelle was his distant cousin, a delicate young woman who had been living under their roof for six months. Kian's relatives praised her sweetness. His friends welcomed her into every gathering. More than one of them had quietly suggested that Isabelle possessed the warmth and grace Adeline lacked—and would make a far more suitable wife for the future Duke of Blackwood.

That was the first thing Adeline saw when she opened her eyes.

Her mare shifted beneath her. For one disorienting instant, she still remembered the final moments of her previous life with perfect clarity: the wine that smelled of bitter almonds, the poison burning down her throat, her body collapsing across the table, and Kian watching without calling for help.

Then the years before her death returned in order—the marriage that had become a prison, the fertility tonics that weakened her, Isabelle's calculated tears, and every accusation Kian had chosen to believe.

Adeline choked back a dry heave, gloved fingers tight on the reins. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic trapped bird.

She looked around and understood.

Damp earth. Fallen leaves. The Northgarde royal standard snapping above the hunting party. Kian riding beside her, five years younger than the man who had watched her die.

She had returned to the King's autumn hunt five years before her death.

Dappled sunlight through gold and crimson leaves blinded her a moment. She saw the Northgarde royal standard, a golden lion on blue, snapping in the breeze, and the hard aristocratic profile of the man riding beside her. Lord Kian Ferguson. Her husband.

He looked younger. Unburdened. The faint lines of cruelty around his mouth hadn't deepened yet.

Adeline knew this day. It was the first time she had seen clearly that Kian's devotion already belonged to Isabelle—and the first time everyone around them had begun treating that choice as natural.

A short, sharp whinny cut through the air. Ahead, Isabelle's chestnut mare shied, eyes rolling as a pheasant burst from the undergrowth. Isabelle cried out, swaying in the saddle.

Before Adeline could process it, Kian moved. A single fluid motion: he spurred his black warhorse, Shadow, flank-to-flank with the trembling mare, using his own horse's weight to steady hers in a masterful show of horsemanship. He leaned close to Isabelle, his arm a barrier.

"Are you alright, Isabelle?" His voice held a concern she hadn't heard aimed at her in years.

He didn't so much as glance at Adeline, his wife, a few feet away.

Approval moved through the nobles. Someone praised the Duke's heir for his chivalry. Another remarked that Isabelle looked perfectly at home beneath his protection. They saw the woman they believed suited him better.

Adeline heard them and felt no jealousy. She had already followed that jealousy to its final destination once: years of humiliation, a ruined body, and poisoned wine.

Isabelle looked up at him, blue eyes wide with fear and adoration. She gave a fragile, grateful smile. "Thank you, Kian."

The first-name intimacy was a casual claim that stung more than any open insult.

In her first life, Adeline had confronted him that evening. She had begged him to admit what she had seen, endured his accusations of jealousy, and then spent a month being punished with his absence.

In this life, she would not compete with Isabelle for a man who had watched her die. She would count her assets, secure her freedom, and leave them to each other.

The hunting horn blew a long clear note. The party began to move. Kian shot a quick, irritated glance over his shoulder—a silent command to keep pace. She ignored it.

Deliberately, she reined in her mare, widening the gap, and let herself be absorbed into the gaggle of noblewomen trailing behind. She felt his gaze on her back, sharp and questioning, but she didn't turn. Instead she smiled at the Countess of Silverwood riding beside her.

"The weather is simply perfect for a hunt, isn't it?" Her voice was light, perfectly modulated.

The Countess, surprised and pleased by the attention from the normally reserved Duchess-in-waiting, agreed readily.

Kian's frown deepened. He hesitated, but Isabelle's soft voice called his name again, and he turned back to her.

A cold thin smile touched Adeline's lips. Exactly what she wanted.

She began an inventory. Not of her feelings, but of her assets. Her dowry. The properties, shops, jewels, all detailed in ledgers locked in her private study at Blackwood Manor. They weren't just possessions. They were her escape fund, her capital for a new life.

Hours later, when the hunt paused for midday respite, Adeline slid from her horse and approached the Queen with composed grace. She executed a perfect curtsy.

"Your Majesty, the morning's ride has left me rather unwell. I must beg your leave to return to the manor."

The Queen, a kindly woman who always seemed to feel sorry for her, nodded with concern. "Of course, my dear. Go and rest."

Her departure caused a small stir. It was unheard of for the heir's wife to leave the royal hunt early. While she waited for her carriage, Kian's stern-faced guard, Gideon, approached.

"My lady. Lord Ferguson asks if you are well and sends this." He held out Kian's signet ring—a public token of concern.

Adeline didn't look at it. "Tell the Duke's heir that his wife needs to rest," she said to her maid Clara, voice clear and steady.

She turned her back on the messenger and climbed into the carriage without a second glance. The door shut, muffling the sounds of the hunt. Inside, the silence was a relief. She leaned against the velvet squabs and methodically pulled off her riding gloves, finger by finger. Then her hand went to the heavy gold ring on her left hand. The Ferguson crest, a snarling wolf's head, was cold against her skin.

She slid it off. The weight in her palm was insignificant.

"Clara," she said quietly.

Her maid, who'd been with her since childhood, looked at her with worried eyes. "Yes, my lady?"

"When we return to the manor, bring every ledger, every deed, and every key related to my dowry to my study."

Clara's eyes widened. "My lady? But you haven't looked at those papers since your wedding."

Adeline stared at the cold metal in her hand. "I am going to count my assets," she said. "Every last coin. Nothing will be missing."

She closed her eyes. Kian and Isabelle disappeared. In their place came ledgers, contracts, ships, and names she could buy—or ruin.

The carriage carried her away from the royal hunt and toward the first move of her second life.

This time, she would not beg for freedom.

She would take it—and make Kian Ferguson regret ever mistaking her love for weakness.