Nicol gave a short laugh. “From time to time, but usually they just let me get on with it.”
“What about Cruikshank?” Lindsay asked, curious.
Nicol looked thoughtful. “Well, yes, Mr. Cruikshank has been one of the more demanding clients. He’s had some quite... specific requests.”
“Such as?”
Nicol gave him a level look. “You can’t expect me to reveal all my clients’ secrets.”
Lindsay chuckled.
Nicol seemed more relaxed now, so Lindsay decided to change the subject back to their meal. He pointed with his knife at Nicol’s plate, which was still half full.
“You should really eat more, you know.” he said. “You’re a bit thin for a man of your height and build.”
He wondered if Nicol would be offended by the blunt comment, but the man only shrugged, uninterested. “I believe I could still make two of you.”
“You’ve a bigger frame than me, I’ll give you that,” Lindsay said. “But you could use a good feed.”
“I don’t think your standards are typical,” Nicol replied, raising a brow. “I’ve never seen anyone consume quite so much food in one sitting before. Where do you put it all?”
Admittedly, while Nicol had been talking, Lindsay had dispatched almost everything on the table, working his way through the mounds of food with steady concentration. Now he patted his stomach complacently. “My mother used to say I must have hollow legs,” he said, and that was true, though these days it was Lindsay’s wolf nature that fuelled his appetite, rather than being a growing lad. “You, on the other hand, ate almost nothing.”
“I wasn’t very hungry,” Nicol said distantly, and once again, Lindsay had the impression it was a subject that bored him.
“Why so?” Lindsay studied Nicol curiously. “Are you unwell?” He could smell no sickness on the man, but that wasn’t conclusive in itself.
Nicol’s mouth was a wry twist, a not-quite smile. “No, I’m not unwell. In fact, I’m disgustingly healthy.”
That struck Lindsay as a distinctly odd way to put the point. As though Nicol somehow minded being in good health.
Pushing away his plate, Nicol reached for his wineglass, leaning back in his chair as he sipped idly. He seemed content to wait for Lindsay to speak, unfazed by the silence.
“Can I ask you something?” Lindsay said at last.
“You can ask—I may not answer.”
“Why did you agree to come tonight? It obviously wasn’t for the food.”
“Why did you invite me?” Nicol countered.
“I told you—I wanted to talk to you about taking a plot and—”
“Did you?” Nicol interrupted. “Was that the real reason?”
Lindsay stared at him. He couldn’t read Nicol’s expression, which was as flat as his voice, though his scent was sharp again between them.
“It was one reason,” he said carefully.
Nicol stared at him. Waiting for him to expand. Was this an invitation to be frank? It was difficult to tell.
“Another reason,” Lindsay continued slowly, watching Nicol, “is that I wanted to get to know you better.”
Nicol gave a huff. “I can’t imagine why,” he said. “I’m not the sort of person who—” He broke off, pressing his lips together in an impatient line.
“Who what?” Lindsay asked. “What sort of person aren’t you?”
Nicol’s frown was a scowl now, one he directed at the wine in the glass he held. “I’m not someone people want to get to know. I’m not likeable or amiable, or the least bit entertaining or witty.”
