I think I’ve finished the first draft of Chaos Come Again, my retelling of Othello. The following is the scene illustrated on the cover.

Dorothea lay sprawled on their bed, still fully dressed but sound asleep, though it was only early evening. Lion bent over her, and his heart turned over in his chest. Her eyes had the red puffy look of someone who had cried herself to sleep and the tracks of tears stained her cheeks.

In the course of the day, he had imagined wiping out the insult of her betrayal by killing her. Yes, and Michael Cassiday, too.

He had not expected to reach the farmhouse and find it empty. Empty, that is, except for his sleeping wife.

Lyon had visualised a bullet for Michael, or killing him with his own officer’s sword. Not a duel. The kind of scum who took advantage of his colonel’s wife did not deserve the honour of a duel.

He could not use a gun on Dorothea. He could not bear to think of the damage that a bullet would do to the body he had loved with such passion and tenderness. The same applied to a knife.

He had considered strangling her with his own hands, but he couldn’t do that, either. To touch her with violence—no, it was inconceivable. He could not see her suffer or mar the perfection of her skin in any way.

As he gazed at her asleep, he realised that a pillow would be a solution to the conundrum. He could place it over her face and hold it down. He wouldn’t have to look at her. She might wake. Probably would. But not for long, and death would be as kind as death ever could be in one so young.

He shuddered, and his tears were as much revulsion as grief and shame.

This is a romance, I promise. There will be a happy ending.