He smiled briefly. “Nay, I’m well enough if you can stand to listen. I’m just not a fan of medieval dungeons, so the memory of Malcolm MacLeod’s leaves me wanting to go for a bit of a run.” He smiled. “Not many I can share that with, are there?”
She had her own thoughts on that, but she supposed the present moment wasn’t the time to offer them. Highland magic? She thought she just might punch the next MacLeod who said those words with a straight face.
“No,” she said finally. “Not many. So, what happened then?”
“I managed to get home—dumb luck, I suppose—only to find that my father had suffered a heart attack and was in hospital. I saw him before he died.” He paused. “I think he was waiting for me.”
“Do you have siblings—oh, you do, don’t you?”
“Older brother, younger sister. Gavin is not one to linger in any one place for long, but Sorcha lives in London. She has too much money and a bit of a death wish, but I can’t tell her that. Gavin has a fondness for extremes, so he’s likely presently hanging from some bloody rock face by his pinky fingers alone.” He shook his head. “He did manage to show up for the funeral, though, and there we were, a happy little group of three gathered to present a united front on Long Island. That’s when the true torture began.”
“A fight over an inheritance?”
“A fight being pursued to this day,” Nathaniel said. “My father had made me trustee of his portion of the old bastard’s largesse. My grandfather objected.”
“But your father had a good attorney, right?”
“The best,” Nathaniel said solemnly, “and no, it wasn’t me. The trust is set in stone, I have control, and my siblings don’t care as long as their checks continue to arrive on time. My father fought Poindexter off for years.” He smiled at her grimly. “My grandfather believes I don’t have the stomach for the same sort of fight.”
“He should see you with a sword in your hands.”
“I’ve considered it, believe me.”
“Do you care?”
He winced. “I know it’s only money, but he offends my sense of fair play.”
“That and your mother probably told you to give him hell.”
Nathaniel laughed a little. “My father, actually. My mother was the only one who could manage the old fool. The truth is, my grandfather doesn’t need the money. I think he fights because he’s bored. Add that to the usual assortment of greedy cousins, daft aunties, and, again, my grandfather who refuses to listen to his very expensive attorneys, and you have a family drama made for telly.”
“And all the while there you are, taking these day trips to another time zone,” she said. “Exhausting.”
“Very,” he agreed. “I will say it tends to put things into perspective in a way I don’t think I could manage on my own. When one begins to dream in medieval Gaelic... well, haggling over hundreds of millions in my grandfather’s boardroom seems rather pedestrian by comparison.”
She considered that until they had garaged his car and were setting off in his Range Rover. She waited until they were back on the road south before she looked at him.
“Do you ever wonder why you continue to go back? To, well, you know when.”
“Every day,” he said with a sigh. He considered, then shook his head. “There always seems to be something I need to do, but I can’t imagine why I’m the one who needs to see to it. I can’t do anything the MacLeods aren’t already trained to do, and far better than I.”
“What about your uncle?” she asked. “Is it possible you’re supposed to rescue him?”
“He doesn’t want to be rescued,” Nathaniel said. He looked at her. “The truth is, my uncle is drunk most of the time and hopelessly in love with the laird’s daughter the rest. He almost became a Jesuit priest, so his command of Latin is impressive. He’s the local vicar, in a manner of speaking. They love him, and he has his own designated spot by the fire. I can see why he wouldn’t want to come home and face my grandfather.”
“Maybe there’s someone else you’re supposed to rescue.”
“I can’t imagine who,” he said with a sigh.
She didn’t think she had enough information to speculate. “Do you ever wonder if you’re related to those MacLeods in the past?”
“I haven’t had the stomach to investigate. If Uncle John actually manages to marry the laird’s daughter it would mean that my uncle is my uncle and potentially my medieval grandfather at the same time.”
“Eeww,” she said. “That’s disgusting.”
He laughed a little, then reached for her hand. He looked at it briefly before he put it on his leg and covered it with his own. “You have blacksmith marks on the back of your hand.”
“I know,” she said. “I should wear gloves to avoid the sparks, but I don’t.” She looked at the little round scars there, then smiled at him. “It would have been a good profession to have, I suppose, back in the day. Warm in the winter, don’t you think?”
