He’d gone to see Alan before leaving for Campbell lands. Alan had signed the marriage contract the same day Nicholas and Gillian had, but he’d been so weak that he’d been unable to read it carefully. But in the days following, he’d managed to go over it meticulously, and he’d accused Nicholas of the same thing Gillian had.
When Nicholas had assured him he had every intention of wedding Gillian, Alan had challenged him to prove it by setting a date. That’s when Nicholas had told him why he was prolonging it. He would not set a date unless Alan promised not to take his own life. Grim and resigned, Alan had promised, and so Nicholas had set the date.
And now she was trying to poison him.
Even more perplexing was her behavior. She hadn’t behaved like a person waiting for her victim to fall to the ground gasping and twitching. He knew the look of a predator toying with her prey. Perhaps it was a slow-working poison? Catriona had favored those.
He considered the crock for several more minutes, then decided he couldn’t rest until he knew what it was. He replaced the lid and carried it through the castle to the great hall. Several hounds and a mastiff lolled near the fireplaces. Broc, the wiry gray deerhound, waited patiently outside his master’s chambers. The deerhound raised his head from his paws and stared at Nicholas with his strange, cloudy eyes.
A rat was what he needed. Nicholas took the crock into the kitchen. It was empty except for a single scullery maid. She quickly averted her eyes when he entered. He set the crock on a low table and asked her, “Do you have a rat problem?”
She seemed struck with terror that he’d addressed her, and he had to repeat himself before she could formulate a reply. “Oh, no, my lord. The cats kill them all.”
“All of them?”
“Most. We still get them in the larder.” She cowered slightly, as if she expected punishment for this transgression.
The larder was unlocked, a sign of the trust Alan had in the MacDonells. Nicholas opened the door and peered inside. It was dark, so he fetched a candelabra. The flickering flames shone yellow in the eyes of several cats. They greeted him with soft meows, and a silkyblack one leapt from its perch on a barrel to rub against his ankles.
The rats weren’t likely to come out as long as the cats were here, so Nicholas removed them, two at a time, closing the door behind him each trip so they couldn’t slip back in, as they clearly wanted to do.
He poked around the foodstuffs a bit until he was satisfied he’d not missed any cats. He started for the door when the flame caught a red shine of small eyes. A rat, hiding behind several barrels.
He returned to the kitchen to fetch his crock of butter and poisoned wine and was stunned to find the crock empty. The scullery maid was gone, too, but she wouldn’t have left the crock there if she’d cleaned it. He scanned the kitchen, his gaze finally resting on the gray deerhound sitting in the doorway, tongue lolling out of its mouth. When Nicholas looked at it, it became momentarily excited, licking its chops, tail swishing across the floor.
An unaccustomed feeling of dread descended on Nicholas, sinking like a stone in his belly. Broc. Alan’s favorite dog. Nicholas dropped to his knees and called the dog. Broc came to him, tail wagging. Nicholas smelled his breath, praying it just smelled doggy, but he was further sickened by the scent of herbed wine.
“Stupid, stupid dog,” he said, staring into Broc’s dark eyes. The dog seemed to be smiling at him. Nicholas’s mind raced, desperate to find a way out of this horrible predicament. He tried to force the dog to drink fouled water so it would vomit, but Broc refused. When Nicholas tried to gag the deerhound with his fingers,the usually docile dog nearly took his hand off. All that was left was to wait.
Nicholas had no idea how long he knelt on the floor, scratching Broc’s ears, waiting for the dog to convulse or vomit or whatnot, wondering what he would say to Alan, and cataloging his own dogs. He had a fine deerhound back at Kincreag. It was one of his favorites, but he would gladly give it up to make amends for this stupid mistake.
After a bit, Broc yawned and lay down.
“Oh God.” Nicholas sat beside the dog, wondering if he was dying now. He didn’t seem to be in any pain—in fact, he seemed to be in ecstasy from all the attention Nicholas lavished on him. He lifted his front leg and cocked his head, inviting Nicholas to scratch his belly. Nicholas obliged. It was the least he could do.
“Broc?” someone called from the hall.
Broc’s ears pricked, but he didn’t move. The voice came closer and took on a puzzled tone. It was Hagan. Alan must be asking for his dog. Broc was never far from his master. Nicholas felt like a wee lad again, caught sneaking his father’s whisky and waiting to get his arse strapped.
Hagan filled the doorway to the kitchen. His gaze went from Nicholas, sitting cross-legged on the floor, to Broc, lying beside him, neck craning to look at the Irishman.
“My lord?” Hagan said, perplexed.
Before Nicholas could formulate a response, Broc got to his feet and trotted to Hagan’s side. Nicholas stared at the dog, then looked back at the empty crockon the table. Perhaps it had not been poison? But then what could it be? He was utterly confused. He got to his feet, brushing his breeks off.
“My lord?” Hagan said again. “Is aught amiss?”
“No . . . I’m just . . .” He became aware of the chorus of meows and looked back at the larder. Half a dozen cats crouched outside the door, meowing and looking at the men expectantly.
“Who let the cats out?” Hagan asked, frowning deeply. He glanced suspiciously at Nicholas as he crossed to the larder and let the cats back in. Nicholas took the opportunity to examine Broc again. He took the dog’s face in his hands and gazed carefully into the dog’s eyes. Broc panted happily, then licked him. Unless it was an extremely slow-working poison, he couldn’t fathom what Gillian had slipped into his wine.
He straightened when Hagan returned, eyeing him with wary concern.
“If you’re hungry, my lord, I’ll have something sent to your chambers. Just let me fetch Cook—”
“No, no,” Nicholas said, hand still on Broc’s head.
Hagan looked from the dog to Nicholas again, brow furrowed.
