Patrick laughed. “With Elizabeth still on holiday in London, you should be offering a few more substantial prayers than that. I nipped over earlier to see what they’d done with your cousin, but trotted right off before I could be forced to stay.”
“In the hall?”
“In the lists. My brother was overseeing a bit of swordplay with his guests.”
Nathaniel put his face in his hands, then laughed. “Tell me that’s the only thing that’s gone on whilst I’ve been asleep.”
“Your cousin Gerald has been seasoning down in one of Hamish Fergusson’s cells until you decide what to do with him.”
“Poetic justice, that,” Nathaniel noted.
“It is,” Patrick agreed. “I suggested that perhaps the matter should be settled on the field. If Gerald can best Jamie with the sword, he earns himself another chance with Lord Poindexter.”
“Tell me they haven’t started yet.”
“I made them promise to wait for you.”
Nathaniel studied him. “How long do you think Gerald will last against your brother?”
“Your lady destroyed him with a pair of daggers,” Patrick said, his eyes twinkling. “How long do you think he’ll last? A better question is, how long do you want it to last? Your cousin is the reason you found yourself in that dungeon for almost a fortnight.”
Nathaniel considered, then looked at him. “Is that gate closed?”
Patrick nodded.
Nathaniel shifted, trying not to wince. “So my choice is to either kill my cousin and end all possibility that he would ever come after me, or let him live and look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.”
“You could push him through the nettle patch in my garden,” Patrick said with a shrug. “I did that with an enemy once.”
“A modern-day enemy?”
Patrick looked at him. “A medieval enemy who had found his way to the modern day. ’Tis a bit complicated and perhaps something to be saved for an evening when we’re both well into our cups and our ladies have given us up for lost and gone to look for more interesting conversation.”
Nathaniel supposed he shouldn’t have felt pleased at the thought of being so included, but he couldn’t help but admit he was.
“Bastard relative that you are,” Patrick added.
Nathaniel leveled a look at him. “Careful,” he warned. “That’s my ma you’re talking about.”
Patrick only laughed. “I meant to insult you, not her, which I’m sure you knew. As for the nettle patch, ’tis your choice. Send him off to wreak havoc elsewhere or show him mercy and see if it changes him.”
“The thought of James MacLeod keeping an eye on him for the rest of his life might inspire Gerald to make some changes.”
“It did me,” Patrick admitted with a smile. “My brother can be impossible, but he is intimidating. I would never admit to having said that, though, so don’t bother quoting me.”
“Wouldn’t think of it.”
Nathaniel heard a car pull up outside and started to get up, but Patrick stopped him.
“I’ll see to it.”
Nathaniel nodded, listened to Patrick open the door, then heard Emma gasp.
“Is he all right?”
“The patient is alive and complaining,” Patrick said, “which should tell you all you need to know. Here, let me take those and you can go see for yourself.”
Nathaniel stood up, came close to falling onto his stove, then managed to catch himself on his counter. He almost immediately found Emma ducking under his arm and pulling it over her shoulders.
