After a moment, his brother said in hushed tones, “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“It wasn’t a topic for polite conversation. And we haven’t exactly been on good terms.”
“But you’re my brother. I would have...” Will trailed off.
“Exactly. You could have done nothing. It’s over; I just wanted to clear the air.” Alaric returned his gaze to the tavern, signaling an end to the conversation.
To his surprise, Will said softly, “I had wondered why you seemed different. On the rare visit home, I mean. Ma thought it was because of your illness, but I knew you weren’t yourself.”
His brother had noticed? An odd spasm gripped his throat. “The illness was only a part of it. The sicker I was, the more the duke punished me.”
“Bluidy hell, Alaric, I never knew—”
“Attention, lads.” Kent’s furious whisper broke the spell of the moment. “Scarred man leaving the premises. Can you identify, your grace?”
Alaric pushed from the wall, strode to the mouth of the alley. He spotted the figure instantly. While the burly figure and greasy, overlong hair could have belonged to anyone, there was no mistaking the jagged mark that bisected the man’s face into two menacing halves.
“That’s him,” he said grimly.
“Do you wish to wait here?” Kent began.
Alaric didn’t bother answering. Pulling his hat down low, he started toward Palmer. Kent and Will’s bootsteps sounded behind him, and from the corner of his eye, he saw them fan out, mingling with the throng. Taking his cue from them, he slowed his pace; when Palmer suddenly swung around, Alaric halted at a barrow. He felt the other’s gaze on him, his heart thudding as he pretended to study the peddler’s offerings.
“That cup’s made o’ sterling, guv,” the gap-toothed hawker said cheerfully. “Ruin may rot your gut, but it won’t tarnish that lovely piece.”
Alaric fought not to look at Palmer. “How much?”
“A quid, guv, an’ that’s on account o’ my generous ’eart.”
Alaric risked a sidelong glance... and saw Palmer’s back fading into the distance. He took off after him, the hawker’s voice ringing behind him. “’Alf a crown, guv, an’ that’s my best offer!”
Kent and Will were gaining on Palmer, flanking him on two sides. Alaric quickened his steps and kept to the middle of the road, pushing past drunks and painted whores, dodging carts of goods. His eyes and nose stung from the smoke of scorching chestnuts. He was almost upon the fiend, and Will and Kent were nearly parallel: their triangle formation was poised for attack.
He met Kent’s gaze, saw the other nod, and his muscles bunched, ready to propel him toward the target.
In that instant, Palmer turned his head.
Recognition flashed across the disfigured face, and the cutthroat broke into a run.
He turned right, and with beefy momentum, plowed through Kent, the investigator sprawling to the ground. The villain vanished into the nearest alleyway, Will on his tail, Alaric just behind his brother. Alaric heard the shrill of a whistle cut through the thudding in his ears before he was enveloped in darkness. The labyrinth of the rookery engulfed him, the walls widening and narrowing, a twisting path of disorientation.
“Up ahead,” Will shouted. “There’s a dead end. We’ve got him.”
That his brother knew the stews with such acuity astounded Alaric, and he could only be grateful to have the other as a guide. Energy pumped through his veins, the battle instincts of his ancestors kicking in. Hethirstedfor his enemy’s blood.
The darkness grew lighter as the low-hanging eaves gave way to the night sky. He saw a faint glimmer paces ahead: a stream of moonlight striking off stones... a wall. Palmer scrambling to get over.
A few steps ahead of Alaric, Will raced forward, shouting, “Stop! You can’t escape.”
Palmer spun around. Steel glinted in his hands.
“Down, Will!” Alaric yelled.
He threw himself forward, knocking his brother to the ground as twin shots whizzed past him, blasting through the night. Breathing hard, he pushed to his feet in the next instant, saw Palmer struggling to reload the pistol. He charged into the cutthroat, sending the firearm scuttling into darkness. Red filled his vision as he slammed his foe into the wall. Pinning the other by the throat, he drove his fist into the bastard’s face again and again.
“No one shoots at a McLeod,” he growled.
“Strathaven, I’ve got Palmer covered.” Kent had arrived, positioning himself to Alaric’s left, panting and aiming a pistol at the villain.
