“Yes, our second.”
“And your first…?”
“A healthy son.” There was a gleam of happiness in her eyes as she answered the question.
“The boy’s name?”
“Charles,” she replied, “after my father.” Lady Moncrieffe returned to the bedside and dabbed at Angus’s forehead with the cloth again.
“Aye, the great English colonel,” he said. “A good friend to the Scots. Duncan always thought well of your father.”
“Yes, he did, and the feeling was mutual.”
But Angus knew that her father was dead now. It was a significant loss for the Union of Great Britain.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked, heading for the door with the basin in her hands. Angus tried again to sit up, but she set the bowl down on a table and hurried back to his side. “Please rest, Angus. I will go and fetch Duncan right away. I promise.”
He studied the softness of her face, the compassion in her eyes, and said with bewilderment, “Why are you treating me with such kindness? Two years ago, I did everything I could to destroy you, and then I tried to destroy Duncan.”
“Things were complicated back then,” she replied.
“And they are less complicated now?” He did not think they were.
“You are my husband’s oldest friend,” she explained, then proceeded to straighten the bedcoverings. Almost as an afterthought, she added, “And I read your letter.”
He relaxed back down onto the pillows. “So you received it. I was not sure. There was no return message.”
“Duncan was going to come and see you in person,” she explained, “but he couldn’t leave yet. He wished to wait until after our child was born.”
Angus regarded her steadily in the iridescent firelight. “I understand.”
As it happened, he understood it all too well, and his guts were churning at the thought of his own unborn child back at Kinloch Castle, without his protection, in the care of his enemies.
And Gwendolen. His wife. His love—who had fed him the poisoned wine…
His heart throbbed painfully in his chest. His emotions confused him. He didn’t know what to think, how to feel, what to do. Not that he was capable of doing much of anything. He was still very weak. He had to get his strength back. And he needed to see Duncan. There was much to be said.
***
With no idea how much time had passed, Angus woke with a start. He sat up and clutched at his neck, gasping for air while battling a violent urge to fight and kick.
The bedchamber was quiet, except for the snapping of the fire in the grate. A log shifted and dropped, and he stared into the hellish dancing flames, willing his heart to slow its harried pace. He took a few slow, deep breaths.
“I reckon you will be dreaming about it for a while,” a voice said.
Angus squinted through the blur of the night and saw Duncan lean forward into view. He was seated in a wing chair in front of the fire, rolling a glass of whisky back and forth between his palms.
Angus had not seen his friend in two years, and his first response was joy—incredible joy—but that emotion was immediately smothered by his own sense of guilt and the certain expectation of Duncan’s loathing. Perhaps even some kind of aggressive retribution. God knew he deserved it.
Angus tried to relax onto the thick feather pillows, while he braced himself for whatever was about to come his way. “I thought I was dying,” he explained, while keeping his eyes fixed on Duncan’s.
“Well, you’re not dead. You were just dreaming.”
“And you weren’t inclined to wake me?”
“Nay.” Duncan rose from the chair and walked to a window seat adjacent to the bed. He sat down again and watched Angus intently.
Duncan MacLean. Earl of Moncrieffe. Known to a select few as the Butcher of the Highlands. He deserved every bit of fame and notoriety that had turned him into a Scottish legend, for he was an imposing figure at all times—a fierce and brave warrior with more honor and integrity in his little finger than most men could ever dream of achieving in their lifetimes.
