“It’s very odd,” David agreed. “But somehow the people have been convinced that we Scots are the most loyal subjects the King has in all the British Isles.”
Balfour shook his head again and leaned back in his chair, his dram cup sitting patiently in front of him, barely sipped. When David glanced at his own cup, he found it empty. He couldn’t even remember drinking it all. He found he wanted another and clenched his hands under the table to stop himself reaching for the jug.
“So why have you come back here?” he asked after a brief silence. “Are you playing a part in the festivities?”
“A bit part. I’m representing the family—excuse me, theclan. One must observe Sir Walter’s Celtifications. To pass muster as acting head of the clan, I’ve had to be fitted out in the finest highland dress—I’ve spent a fortune on tartan and eagle feathers over the last few weeks.”
David chuckled, then asked, “Why isn’t your father here?”
“Oh, Father’s far too busy with the Verona business to come up—that’s exactly what the government wants the King to keep his noseoutof. It had to be me or my brother, and since the King’s not too fond of my brother, it fell to me.”
David recalled Balfour speaking of his dislike of his father’s manipulations. “I’m surprised to find you doing your father’s bidding so willingly,” he remarked.
Balfour just shrugged. “I was planning to come up to Scotland anyway. Once this fiasco’s over with, I’m going up to Perthshire to my own estate. I’ve not managed up since I bought it, and I plan to stay for a couple of months at least.”
“I remember you talking about buying an estate in Perthshire—is it the same one? The one with the beautiful views?”
“The very same. And the viewsarewonderful, but I’ve a thousand and one problems to resolve. The previous owner seems to have had disputes with every man within fifty miles, every one with a history as long as your arm. It was bad enough when I first bought the place—then, a few months ago, the estate manager took another position and it’s become ten times worse. I need to spend a good while up there to get it turned about.”
David laughed softly. “Mr. Chalmers told you to beware beautiful views.”
“Yes, but I still think they’re worth it. The best things in life invariably require the most effort, don’t you think?” Balfour lounged in his chair, his long legs stretched out before him, the very picture of confident masculinity. “Wasn’t it you who once told me that life isn’t all about pleasure?”
David swallowed. “I don’t remember,” he said, looking away.
That was a lie. He remembered every part of that particular conversation—that last conversation—as though each word had been branded on his flesh.
“If life isn’t about pleasure or happiness, what is it about? Tell me, Lauriston, so I can learn from your great wisdom.”
“I think it’s about being true to yourself…”
This time, David did reach for the jug, sloppily topping Balfour’s cup to the brim, then his own, and lifting it to his lips to take a gulp of the spirit.
“I see you still like to drink,” Balfour remarked dryly, adding, “and you look as though you still forget to eat. I take it you ignored the last bit of advice I gave you?”
“What advice?”
“To get yourself a wife to take care of you. Specifically, that young woman who was so enamoured of you. Miss Chalmers, wasn’t it?”
David realised that Balfour couldn’t know how sensitive a subject that was, but he couldn’t stop himself snapping, “Of course I ignored you. What did you expect?”
Balfour took another small sip from his cup before he replied. “Just that. You were very clear in that last conversation, when you told me you would never marry.”
“It was more of an argument than a conversation, if I remember correctly,” David replied tightly.
For a while, Balfour didn’t say anything. Then he sighed and said, “Later—when I returned to London—I came to regret the way we parted. My anger especially.”
That admission took David by surprise. “Why were you so angry?”
Balfour fixed his gaze on the scarred wooden table, one hand idly playing with his dram cup. “You took a huge risk that night when you stepped in front of MacLennan’s pistol. I was angry at you for risking your life—especially to save my worthless cousin.”
“Euan would never have shot me,” David said.
Balfour gave a bark of humourless laughter. “He was this close,” he said, holding his thumb and finger half an inch apart.
David just shook his head. Impossible to explain that his decision to step in front of that pistol had been to save Euan, not Hugh Swinburne. And that when Euan had run away rather than shoot David, David’s faith in the lad had, thankfully, been vindicated.
“That wasn’t the only reason you were angry,” he said.
