“Ye should take yer own advice.”
Damned if Malcolm hadn’t already caught up with him again. Duncan growled. His feckin’ brother was worse than midges swarming his bollocks in the heat of summer. “Shut yer gob, Malcolm. Weare done with this conversation, ye ken?”
After an astonishingly long moment of blessed silence, Duncan risked a glance over at his stubborn sibling. Malcolm was the picture of smugness, promising that once they arrived home, there would be no peace because the wee fool would run straight to Mother.
“Why are ye so determined to interfere?”
Malcolm jutted his chin higher. “Because that woman took a liking to ye, and ye felt the same toward her.”
“I pulled her from a carriage. Any honorable man would have done so.”
“And ye talked to her more than I have seen ye talk to much of anyone since Catherine died. Lady Merry drew ye out of yer shell until yer scairtness took over and ran ye back inside it like the coward ye’ve become.”
Duncan clenched his teeth so tightly his jaws ached. “Let it go, Malcolm. The cause is lost, and I am weary of yer trying to save me. Find yerself a wife and sire an heir to take the title once I am laid to rest. That is the only thing I need from ye—not this incessant meddling.”
“Meddling is good for the soul.”
“Then yer soul should be as braw and hearty as one of the saints’.”
“Mother wants grandchildren.”
“Then marry and give her some.” Duncan nudged Spartan to a faster trot, willing his brother to shut his gob.
“She wants grandchildren from the both of us. How many times has she said that?” Malcolm easily caught up, his mount just as frolicsome as Spartan.
“Again, I ask ye, why has this put such a burr in yer arse?” Duncan squinted at the sun reflecting off the brilliant whiteness of the snow. His head already pounded from lack of sleep. Malcolm’s nagging made it worse.
“Lady Merry is fearless. She can handle ye.”
“I dinna need to be handled.”
“Aye, ye do, brother,” Malcolm said with a grin. “In every sense of the word.”
Duncan scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “Can ye not grant me some peace, brother? At least for the rest of the ride home?”
Malcolm lifted his right hand, then placed it over his heart. “I’ll hold my tongue the rest of the way, but then…”
Aye, Duncan knew damn well what that meant.
*
Duncan took histime in the stable. Even though the lads always took the best care of Spartan, he found comfort in tending to his horse. Of course, Malcolm had nearly broken his neck, rushing inside and making a beeline for Mother. Well, the wee eejit could tattle as much as he bloody well pleased. As a man grown and pushing hard against the ripe old age of five and thirty, Duncan no longer feared losing his mother’s approval. He respected and loved her dearly, but didn’t live his life to impress her.
“Extra grain for ye,” he said to his horse while adding another bucketful to the trough. “Eat hearty, my friend. Ye did well, as always.”
The great black beast gave an affectionate grumble, then went back to munching his feed.
“Excuse me, my lord.”
Before turning to face the butler devoted to doing his mother’s bidding, Duncan blew out a heavy sigh. “Aye, Barclay? What is it?”
“Lady Kirkston has tea waiting in the parlor.”
“Does she now?” As the dowager marchioness, Mother ran the household with the precision of a battle-hardened general, and Duncan had learned long ago to choose his wars with her wisely. It was just as well. Their housekeeper, Mrs. Barclay, had always worked well withMother and was accustomed to how she wished things done. “I suppose she sent ye to fetch me?”
“Yes, my lord. She did.” The expressionless Barclay stood in the stable doorway, patiently waiting with the steadfastness of granite.
“Feckin’ hell,” Duncan muttered. He tossed the brush back into the rack and patted Spartan. “Pray for me, lad.”
