“I’m not entirely sure how to comment on that,” Nathaniel managed.
“I suspect there are several things you might hesitate to comment on,” Stephen said.
Nathaniel felt the need for a little lie-down, but he didn’t imagine the present was the right time to beg for one. He was in a medieval city with a modern earl speaking an antique version of a Scottish tongue.
His life was, as he would have readily admitted to anyone with stomach enough to listen, very strange.
“My great-grandfather, Rhys de Piaget, built my hall, you know,” Stephen said, toying with whatever it was he was drinking.
Nathaniel wondered if it would be rude to send one of the employees over to the nearest pub to procure him a whisky.
“I never had the chance to meet him,” Stephen continued.
“His living eight hundred years ago likely gets a bit in the way,” Nathaniel observed politely.
Stephen met his eyes. “I know his son, Robin. And his son, Phillip, as it happens. I’m surprised by the men I know.”
Nathaniel felt his mouth go dry. “Read a lot of histories, do you?”
“No more than you, likely.”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at,” Nathaniel said evenly. “My lord.”
Stephen was unflappable. That could have come from all the years he’d spent with students at Cambridge. It also could have come from any number of other experiences Nathaniel didn’t want to attempt to investigate.
“You know what the secret of the MacLeod forest is, don’t you?” Stephen asked mildly.
“Haven’t a clue,” Nathaniel said promptly.
“You and Patrick MacLeod could be twins, you know,” Stephen said.
“I hadn’t known that, either,” Nathaniel said, “before I encountered him a few days ago.” He suspected that, given the look he had seen on the good lord of Benmore’s face, neither had Patrick MacLeod.
“I’m at Ian’s now and again,” Stephen said. “Less than I used to be, but my focus now is on my family and my ancestral seat.” He smiled briefly. “Less time for swordplay, as it happens.”
“A pity, that.”
Stephen smiled, a feral sort of smile that sent chills down Nathaniel’s spine—and he was by no means a coward.
“I can keep this up all afternoon, you know,” he said pleasantly. “This dancing about what you don’t want to discuss.”
Nathaniel suppressed the urge to bolt. “I vow I’ve no idea what you’re referring to.”
“Don’t you?”
Nathaniel gave in. “My lord,” he said in a low voice, “even if I knew what you were talking about, which I absolutely do not, I wouldn’t admit it. Would you?”
Stephen studied him for a moment or two in silence, then he smiled wearily. “I suppose not. The idea of making a journey to—well, how shall we term it? Off the beaten path? Into the mist? It’s completely barking. And to venture into the shadows of the past and encounter one’s ancestors? Mental, that, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I daresay I would.” He paused, then looked at the current earl of Artane. “Do you know Robin of Artane personally?”
“Did I say that?” Stephen asked, apparently stopping just short of scratching his head. “I meant I read a lot. Don’t you?”
“You rotter.”
Stephen laughed, looking far too amused for his own good. “I know how to use a sword, you realize.”
“I think I could as well.”
