Devorguilla put a hand to her throat. She stared at the bloody rag, then looked at Brodie. “Truly?”
“Aye. So when can I wed Sophie?”
“Did you bring me his body?” Devorguilla asked. She wanted to see it herself, to look down at her stepson’s corpse and know that she’d won, that Glenlorne was hers at last.
“No, just this. Is tomorrow too soon for the wedding?” Brodie asked.
Devorguilla took the cloth in her hand. “This is a handkerchief, not a corpse. And there’s no telling if the blood is Alec’s or not. He might be downstairs right now, enjoying a tot of whisky.” He stood, regarding her blankly. “You fool!” she cursed him.
Brodie’s grin faded. “But what about Sophie?”
Devorguilla tossed the handkerchief into the fireplace and glared at him. “You won’t even get a sniff of her hem if you can’t make certain Alec is dead. You came back too soon.
Brodie shuffled his feet. “I can’t help it. I’m in love.”
Devorguilla looked at him, strong as an oak and as daft as a maypole. She had trusted everything to an idiot. He’d dropped the poisoned chalice last night, and he couldn’t even manage a simple hunting accident. “All you needed to do to win Sophie was to shoot him, Brodie MacNabb, and you couldn’t even do that right,” she said, wishing again she’d been born a man, a laird, capable of ruling.
He thrust out his lower lip in a mulish expression. “Ye’ve no proof Ididn’tshoot him.”
“And there’s no proof you did either. We’d better go downstairs and see if he’s returned yet.”
“What if he’s there?” Brodie asked.
“Then we’ll need to try again.” She pushed him out the door.
There was no sign of Alec in the hall downstairs. The ladies were enjoying tea, an English blend from Lady Charlotte’s personal stock, which traveled with her. There were also cream cakes and tarts Muira had made from late strawberries. The gentlemen stood by the fireplace sipping tankards of ale or tumblers of scotch and compared the hunting in Scotland to that in England, on their own estates.
Devorguilla forced herself to smile. “Did you have any luck today, my lords?” Devorguilla asked Viscount Speed and Lord Mandeville.
“Luck?” Viscount Speed paled.
“Yes. Did you make a kill?”
The viscount went paler still. “I believe we must have, Countess,” he murmured, his eyes flicking toward the door as if he were waiting for someone to walk in. He took a mournful swig of ale. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask the obvious question when Megan spoke first.
“Has anyone seen Alec?”
“Why would I know where he is?” Speed cried, shooting to his feet.
Megan raised her brows. “Someone in our party must have seen him. I was with him for a little while when we set out, but I spent the rest of the afternoon with Jock and Leith.”
“The ghillies?” Devorguilla said, horrified. She despaired of ever making proper ladies of her daughters. The sooner she could take them to England, the better.
“He was in the woods,” Lord Mandeville blurted out.
“Probably stalking deer, then,” Megan said. “Or fishing. He’s probably just forgotten what time it is.”
“What if he’s dead?” Brodie asked, and every eye turned to stare at him. Devorguilla closed her fists in the folds of her skirts to keep from strangling him.
“Dead?” Lord Mandeville’s eyes burned like brands in his flushed face. “Whatever gave you that idea, my good fellow?”
Brodie shrugged. “He might be, mightn’t he?”
“The man is scarcely an hour overdue,” Somerson said, looking at his watch.
“He might have stopped in the village,” Alanna whispered, her eyes wide. “To take someone a fresh fish, or a rabbit or two. He’s a braw hunter.”
Devorguilla pasted on a smile that felt thin and stretched. “Perhaps someone should go out and see if he’s been injured. He might need help.” She sent Brodie a speaking glance. “Brodie, you could go.”
