Chapter 2 #2
Patrick MacLeod was evil. Stephen told him that a time or two, though perhaps not in such polite terms.
The first ten minutes of that fight were very dodgy only because he spent so much time spitting out the blood dripping down his face and trying to clear his eyes that were still smarting from the pain of what he was fairly sure was a broken nose.
After that, things went better—if any sort of encounter with Patrick MacLeod could ever go well.
All Stephen knew was that he managed to get his sword free from its hiding place so he at least had something in his hands to fight with.
And he managed to use that sword for almost another ten minutes before Patrick kicked it out of his hands and left him backed up against his Rover with another, not-exactly-modern blade pressed uncomfortably against his throat.
Patrick tsk-tsked him.
“You’ll have to wash that shirt now, I imagine.”
“As well as explain the stain to my mother,” Stephen said, forcing himself to take slow, even breaths in spite of how his lungs burned.
Patrick removed his sword and propped it up against his shoulder. He held out his hand—which was, fortunately, quite empty. Stephen dragged his sleeve across his face, then took Patrick’s hand and shook it.
“Ian said you were on holiday.”
“He lies,” Patrick said mildly. “Never trust him.”
“I won’t make that mistake again,” Stephen said with feeling. He started to walk away, then stopped and looked at Patrick. “I’m going to fetch my sword.”
“I don’t stab men in the back.”
Well, there was that at least. Stephen retrieved his sword, replaced it from where he’d wrenched it free, then glanced at James MacLeod’s younger brother. Patrick was smiling slightly.
“Ian said he didn’t completely destroy you this weekend.”
Stephen shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“And you’re still standing now,” Patrick continued. “Bloodied, but unbowed.”
“Are you daft?” Stephen said with a snort that made his eyes water. “I think you broke my damned nose.”
“Stuff a pinch of knitbone up it.”
Stephen rolled his eyes, went to rummage about in the garden in front of the cottage, then did as he’d been advised. He felt a complete arse, but at least he might escape a trip to the local surgery. Patrick stabbed his sword into the ground, walked over, and gave Stephen’s nose a hearty pinch.
“Not broken, you woman.”
Stephen laughed because it was all he could do. He could only hope he wouldn’t choke to death from the blood he could now feel draining down the back of his throat. “You bastard.”
“Nay, I’m not,” Patrick said cheerfully, “but likely a handful of other things you should be clever enough to think up. Really, Haulton, this is an area in which you could use quite a bit of improvement. Your slurs are pitiful.”
Stephen indulged him in a string of profanities that left Patrick’s left eyebrow going up just the slightest bit.
Patrick retrieved his sword. “My ears are ringing.”
“But unfortunately your mouth is still moving.”
Patrick laughed and walked away. Stephen packed himself in his Rover, drove gratefully off MacLeod soil, and turned himself for home.
He was going to be hard-pressed to get back to Cambridge in time for his Monday morning ten o’clock, but he’d been summoned to make an appearance at the family seat, and when duty called, he tended to answer.
It was, after all, what an English gentleman of quality did without complaint.
Six hours later, he pulled to a stop in front of his father’s gates. He had to let himself in and close the main gate behind him, but he did so again without complaint. It was well past supper and he certainly wouldn’t have expected anyone to be waiting for him.
He parked in his accustomed spot, got out of the Rover, then had to pause and look up at the castle rising into the air in front of him.
The lights were on the outer walls, of course, because that’s what his father did to please those who might be driving through the village for a glimpse of eight hundred years of history tucked up there on that bluff.
The keep itself was, Stephen had to admit, absolutely spectacular.
It had taken buckets of money to keep it so, but that had never been an issue.
His father had managed to thus far satisfy the Inland Revenue without selling anything.
Stephen tried not to think about how that burden would eventually fall to him, but he had his hands full with his own titles and bits of land.
He supposed when the time came, he would manage it.
Because he was the heir to Artane, and it was expected.
Not only expected, desired—and by him. He had loved Artane for as long as he could remember, been enormously proud of his heritage, and, thanks to his mother, been humbled that one day the care of all that heritage and stone would be his.
He found himself smiling at the memories that just looking at the place stirred in him.
How many times had he come charging out the front door of the keep itself as a boy, wooden sword in hand, prepared to defend his hall from imaginary foes and the odd tourist or two?
How many times had his father chased after him just as enthusiastically, bellowing threats of punishment for Stephen having picked the locks on glass cases to liberate various sharp objects in order to practice with them?
As time had gone on, he’d come to realize that that wasn’t the sort of thing that the future earl of a very solvent, very visible castle was supposed to be doing, so he had pursued a more traditional path of academia.
In medieval studies, of course.
His parents thought, wrongly of course, that he’d put away those boyhood dreams of being a knight-errant.
It was ridiculous, when one looked at it logically, for a man of his maturity and stature to be involved with sharp, pointy things.
Then again, he was a fair horseman, so perhaps it was equally as silly to be taking his own very expensive jumpers and sending them flying over poles indiscrete distances off the ground.
He pushed away from his car and walked across the courtyard, then jogged up the steps to the front door.
He steeled himself for comments from his parents over the condition of his shirt and where he’d been over the weekend.
Perhaps he would tell them he’d been playing an especially vigorous game of cricket.
He opened the door and found his mother standing in front of the fire.
“Stephen, darling, what’s happened to the front of your shirt?”
Stephen sighed and shut the front door behind him.
Dinner had been held for him along with the after-dinner conversation.
After he’d made his way through both and assured his parents he had been behaving in a manner above reproach all weekend long, he gathered his gear from his car and took himself off to his bedroom.
He set everything down, then noticed the envelope on the dresser.
He flipped it over, then cursed at the sight of the seal on the back.
Kenneworth, unfortunately, no doubt extending an invitation he knew already he would absolutely refuse for a variety of reasons he didn’t care to examine at present.
He did unbend far enough, however, to allow himself to enjoy thoughts of David Preston enduring a few hours on Scottish soil, having the arrogance beaten out of him.
He was rich, not overly ugly, and had a penchant for collecting gorgeous women and then tossing them aside when he was finished with them.
If Stephen had had a sister, he wouldn’t have allowed her within ten miles of the blighter.
Why others in England didn’t follow that same sensible plan, he didn’t know.
He was tempted to just chuck the invite in the rubbish bin, but his curiosity got the better of him.
He popped the seal and pulled the invitation out to read it.
A house party, fancy ball dress, shooting, drinking, eating: the usual fare.
Should he accept, it would require a tuxedo on his part.
He wasn’t sure why Kenneworth had included him, given the animosity that existed between their families.
He wasn’t even sure he could be trusted in a shooting party not to shoot his host when his host was David Preston.
And the thought of an entire weekend spent watching the man chasing some poor girl who hadn’t the sense to see through his ploys was simply more than Stephen could take.
No, he wouldn’t do it.
He leaned against the dresser and checked the texts he’d ignored earlier on his phone, then he sighed again.
Messages from not one but all three of the women he was currently dating, telling him each assumed he would be accepting Kenneworth’s invitation.
The only positive thing about that was at least they knew he wasn’t seeing any of them exclusively, which simplified things.
They were also only interested in his title, which simplified things even more.
His current income was more than sufficient for his own needs but not enough to keep any of the three in the style they would have liked to have become accustomed to.
Why they continued to date him, he couldn’t have said.
He tossed the invitation onto the dresser and went to put himself to bed.
He knew he should have accepted the invitation, to put foolish rumors about family feuds to rest if nothing else, but he would be damned if he would.
It would be easy enough to plead a deadline, go back to his office, and bury himself in as much medievalism as he could.
He looked up at the wooden canopy above his head for a moment with his hand on the lamp and frowned thoughtfully.
His father, an unusually robust and hearty man, hadn’t looked particularly well that evening, but perhaps that was from stress.
He would have to quiz his mother at breakfast and see if there was something amiss.
He had been coming home once a fortnight to see to things his father didn’t want to give up but didn’t have the energy to attend to properly, but perhaps it was time he increased his visits.
After all, whilst Artane’s library wasn’t Cambridge’s, it was extensive.
And he wasn’t past handing over a few tutoring duties if necessary.
Yes, he would forgo the delights of Kenneworth House and spend the following weekend at home.
It was the very least he could do.