Trick allowed himself to be led through the crowd of reveling mourners. Servants passed among them, offering plates of oatcakes and shortbread. Goblets filled with spirits sat waiting on a sideboard, and he snatched one as he walked by, drinking deeply.
Beside the great hall’s magnificent canopied fireplace, Niall pushed him into a seat niched into the wall. Trick drank again, then looked around him and leapt to his feet.
“Nay, you belong in the sedile now,” the younger man said, gently easing him back down to the fur that draped the stone bench.
Kendra sat beside Trick in the niche and silently took his hand. He gave her a grateful half-smile. Just as he felt uncomfortable in his father’s English mansion, neither did he feel that he belonged in this sedile—the seat of honor for the master of the house. Against his back, the stone felt too cold, too solemn.
But he did belong here now—that much was the truth. No matter how awkwardly that truth rode on his shoulders.
Heat rolled out of the fireplace beside them, and torchlight glinted off the armor scattered around the perimeter of the chamber, a reminder of days gone by. Curious glances were slanted in Trick’s direction, and people seemed to be edging their way closer.
Oblivious to it all, his mother lay in a box in the center of the room.
Sipping again, he looked away, up to Niall. “I cannot believe she’s dead.”
“I share your disbelief.” Niall hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. “But unlike Da, I’m not entirely sure there’s no evil force at work. I intend to get to the bottom of it.” His suddenly narrowed gaze hinted at bravery beyond his years. “Will you help me?”
“I wasn’t planning to stay here,” Trick said. “I came at my mother’s request, and now she’s dead.” He had pressing matters back home. The king’s mission still awaited completion. And a trusting relationship with Kendra was waiting to begin.
“Who is this?” a woman asked, stepping close. Her dull chestnut hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and she looked to be near Trick’s age.
“Ah, Annag.” Niall’s smile failed to reach his eyes. “May I present the Duke of Amberley, my mother’s eldest son. Patrick, my half-sister, Annag.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Annag said, although she clearly wasn’t. Her dark brown eyes flashed with some emotion Trick couldn’t put a name to, but it was plain enough she didn’t like him. Or didn’t like him here.
“And Duncan,” Niall continued as a man joined their little gathering. Another of Hamish’s grown children, from the looks of him. He and Annag bore a marked resemblance to each other, the most obvious being their matching expressions of distaste.
Raising the tankard in his hand, Duncan took a deep swallow. “When are you going home?” he asked, skipping the preliminaries.
Wondering why he felt surrounded by the enemy, Trick rolled his shoulders and changed his mind about leaving so quickly. “When I’m good and ready. I’ve only just met my brother, and—”
“Oh,him,” Annag interrupted, shooting Niall a look every bit as deadly as the one she’d given Trick. “High and mighty Lord Niall.”
Apparently Niall had been passed off as the duke’s son, and Hamish’s other children resented him for it. But the young man only gave a good-natured shrug. “If you cannot be civil, Annag, I will ask you to leave my home.”
Duncan took another gulp of his spirits. “It’shishome now,” he said, indicating Trick with a smarmy, pleased gleam in his eye.
Niall flinched, but recovered swiftly. “And so it is, I suppose.”
“I won’t be throwing you out,” Trick assured him.
“I wouldn’t trust him,” Annag told Niall, as though Trick weren’t even there. “He may have been born here, but he’s turned English.”
When Niall just glared at her, she continued. “Well, listen to the man speak. English through and through. He’s forgotten his Scottish roots, and even you, gowk that you are, ought to know better than to trust a Sassenach.”
“Don’t the women need help in the kitchen?” Niall asked his sister. “And what are your bairns up to? And Duncan, have you sat some time with Da this day? Rhona and Gregor could use a respite. They’re good friends, but you’re his son.” After that brave speech, he looked down to his scuffed black boots. “Give us some peace, will you? Our mother just died.”
“And good riddance,” one of them muttered as they shambled away. Trick wasn’t sure which, but it didn’t seem to matter. So far as he could tell, they both hated him equally. The fact that they’d hated his mother as well came as no surprise.
From what he knew of her, she, at least, hadn’t deserved their love or admiration. His father had made no secret of all her faults, and already one had been proven true this night: His mother had been a whore. Perhaps Hamish’s wife had been dead when Niall was conceived, but Elspeth’s husband had not.
He slumped in the stone niche and extricated his hand from Kendra’s, belatedly realizing she’d been holding it in an iron grip.
“Welcome to Scotland,” he said, flexing it ruefully.
Thirty-Seven
ALTHOUGH IThad grown late, the castle was still overrun with people. Apparently, after his years away had made it clear to Elspeth that her husband was never returning, she’d invited Hamish to live with her and Niall. Hamish’s older children had been grown by then and had homes of their own, but since Elspeth’s death they’d had been staying here to keep him company. With his grandchildren, too, of course. One big, happy family, as the saying went.
