Ash started at the apt reference to the Norse god of discord and destruction.
Rothgar spread his hands in apparent invitation. “Please, tell me first. I will follow the Bible and pluck them out. That excepts, of course, my family, especially my wife.”
At last, the blade. “My grandmother thought Lady Arradale would be an ideal wife for me.”
“The Dowager Marchioness of Ashart, as always, was wrong, but at least her taste is excellent. You should not let her ride and spur you, you know.”
“I’m her only surviving descendant.”
“She has grandchildren in Scotland and a daughter in a French convent. And of course,” Rothgar added, “she has me.”
This surprised a laugh, which Ash instantly regretted. He took a step back, a physical disengagement. “I’m welcome to stay?”
“You were invited, Cousin, but an invitation was never necessary. My relatives are always welcome in my homes.”
“Perhaps I should encourage our grandmother to come here, too.”
Ash expected at least a twitch of resistance, but Rothgar appeared completely unperturbed. “I would be charmed if you could arrange it.”
Thwarted, Ash turned and went up to his room. Rothgar had revealed nothing when he’d seen the baby and Miss Smith, nor when Ash had tossed a hint of the threat he held at his throat. It was frustrating, but exhilarating. He hadn’t known until now how he’d hungered to bring the contest into the open.
He had been raised to see the Mallorens as his enemy, as a cunning evil to be destroyed. In his grandmother’s eyes they were not only the cause of her daughter’s death, but of her husband’s, and possibly of two sons. She’d blame Aunt Harriet’s death from smallpox on them if she could.
It had burgeoned out of all reason, but suggestion of softening threw his grandmother into a tempest of rage and hurt, and certainly Rothgar was no long-suffering saint.
Could his apparent moves toward peace be trusted? The proof of that could be his willingness to clear away Molly’s mess, but that alone would require negotiations as complex and delicate as the Peace of Paris.
Which, as John Wilkes had remarked, “is like the Peace of God. It passeth all understanding.”
Bryght Malloren came out of the Tapestry Room to find his brother in an unusual state of contemplation. “He escaped unharmed?”
“Of course.” Rothgar led away from the hall to his office. Once the door shut, he asked, “Why do you think he came?”
“A chance meeting with his great-aunts?”
“If I’d known he merely needed an excuse, I would have provided one years ago. No, there’s been a change of some sort. The question is, how do we use it to reform him?”
“Struth, you plan to turn him virtuous?”
“I have little interest in his virtue. I plan to turn him into a proper cousin.”
“Bey, some family rifts cannot be healed.”
“With a Malloren, are not all things possible?”
“No,” Bryght said bluntly.
Rothgar smiled and shrugged. “Perhaps, but this is worth an attempt. So, what do we have that can hold him?”
“Whatever reason brought him here. What was all that about truth?”
“Interesting, wasn’t it? I suspect he holds some evidence that he believes could be a mistletoe branch.”
“Don’t you mean an olive branch?”
Rothgar shook his head. “I did try to have you educated well. Balder, Norse god of light, was impervious to all weapons except those made of mistletoe. When Loki, god of discord, discovered his weakness, he used it to kill him.”
Bryght’s hand twitched to where a sword might be. “You think Loki comes bearing weapons that could slay you? What?”
