He hastily put distance between himself and the window, not wanting someone to come in and see what he had been looking at.Whohe had been looking at.
“Come in,” he ordered.
The door creaked open, and a tall, slim redhead stepped inside.
“Ah, Fergus,” Evander greeted, giving a wry smile. “Good to see that ye made it home safe.”
“I could say the same to ye,” Fergus shot back. “I wish ye had let me escort ye from the festival.”
“I needed ye to tidy things up there and make sure everybody got home safe. Besides, we were attacked on the road. Ye might have been hurt.”
Fergus folded his arms tightly. “Aye, I heard about the attack. If I’d been there?—”
“If ye had been there, ye might have died. And where would I be without me captain?”
Fergus rolled his expressive eyes. He was a fairly ordinary-looking man and set off no flutters in the hearts of the women at the keep. However, his eyes often received stares.
He had one brown eye, nut-brown, and the other was a cloudy bluish-green. He’d said once that his vision was exactly the same in both eyes. Some people claimed that mismatched eyes were bad luck and a sign that a child was a changeling.
Well, if Fergus was a changeling, he was also the best friend Evander had ever had. Had there ever been a time when they weren’t friends? If so, Evander couldn’t remember it.
“She’s back, then. Lady Bryden, I mean,” Fergus commented, leaning back against the door. “That’s good news. And she remembers nothing?”
“Pieces of memory are returning. We only have to be patient,” Evander responded, sinking into the chair behind his desk.
Fergus shook his head. “We cannae afford to waste time. Clues might be fading even now, and there could be another attack. We’re looking at all the villages around Inverness, to begin with. Tell me of yer journey home.”
Evander knew that Fergus wasn’t asking for friendly reasons. He wanted the details. He wanted a lead. So, in a few short words, he explained the trip. The attack, the curious encounter between Annabelle and ‘Lady Moira.’ His friend listened closely, red eyebrows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Oh, and that wretched man—Mason—appeared, too,” Evander added, scowling. “I still daenae trust that bastard. He’s too close to her. Investigate him hard. Interrogate him, if ye must.”
Fergus was silent for a moment, pursing his lips. “Are ye sure that…” he trailed off.
Evander lifted his eyebrows. “What? Go on, man. Tell me what ye were going to say.”
Fergus sighed, puffing out his cheeks. “Ye willnae like what I have to say.”
“Come on, man,” Evander scoffed, reaching for a bottle of whiskey sitting at the edge of the desk.
He poured himself a generous measure, then glanced up at Fergus, quirking his eyebrows questioningly. Fergus nodded, and he poured another measure, pushing the second glass toward him. Fergus took it, taking a large gulp.
“I trust ye to tell me the hard truths,” Evander continued, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Me faither surrounded himself with fools and toadies. I always said that I would never allow meself to make the same mistake. I need ye to be honest with me, Fergus. I’m no fainting lassie, ye daenae have to worry about sparing me feelings.”
“Very well,” Fergus responded, setting down his glass with aclack. “Are ye sure that yer hatred of Mason is based on fact?”
Evander pressed his lips together. “Me instincts say…”
“They say what? Because me fear, me Laird, is that yeare jealous.”
Evander flinched. “Ye accuse me of letting me judgment get clouded?”
Fergus shrugged. “I suppose I am.”
Irritation bit at Evander’s insides, chased by a hearty helping of guilt.
Jealous. Am I jealous? If Fergus has seen it, then so have others. Fergus is the only one who dared say it to me face.
“That man has a habit of showing up exactly where Skye is,” he huffed.
