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“He paid me to do so,” he finally said.

“Blackburn?” Graeme could not hide his shock.

“Nay. Covington.”

“But what does—”

Then, suddenly, it all made sense. The Earl of Covington had a reputation for being one of those men who thrived when disorder reigned at the border. Men of his rank could not profit from blackmail without repercussion, unless the truce day, and terms of the treaty, fell apart. And then he, others like him, and even members of the clergy, could become even richer from the men and women they cheated. Blackburn was another such man, and that they appeared to be working together was at once unsurprising and alarming.

“You understand what these men aim to do?” he ground out.

Lyndwood lowered his chin to his chest. He stared down at his hands and tonelessly answered. “Of course I do.”

Graeme stared at him, unsure of what to say.

“How bad is it?” he finally asked. It had to be very bad indeed for the man to have so completely abandoned his principles.

When Lyndwood looked up, he did not meet Graeme’s eyes. Instead, he stared off into the distance as if there was something more interesting to be seen beyond him.

“Without Covington’s support,” he said tonelessly. “We will lose everything.” Finally, Lyndwood looked at him. “Whether you believe me or not, Lyndwood is an ally to Clan Scott. So no, I did not want revenge against my son-in-law. I am simply trying to survive.”

He didn’t doubt the man’s words, but Graeme did question his methods.

“By aligning yourself with men such as Covington and Blackburn? You can find no other way?”

Some of the baron’s fire returned. “You think I haven’t considered every possibility?”

Graeme shook his head. “It will never work.” At Lyndwood’s confused expression, he continued. “Those men will never be satisfied until the March Law is completely destroyed. They believe it will benefit them if lawlessness returns to the border, and they won’t rest until they’ve destroyed everything our fathers built. Covington will continue to use you, and your influence, for himself.”

Lord Lyndwood blinked. “She’s not told you then?”

He didn’t like the sound of that.

“Told me what?” The identity of the “she” was unquestionably Gillian.

“I’ll not need to be beholden to men like Blackburn in the future.”

If this had anything to do with his wife . . .

“The banns have just been posted. Covington will be marrying my daughter. My other daughter. Once our debts are paid, Lyndwood will be free once again to take a stand.”

Lady Allie.

Lyndwood would use the only other asset available to him. And apparently Gillian already knew . . . and had not said a word about it. He chided himself for forgetting, even for a moment, that his wife had not chosen him.

He stood. “My lord.”

Without waiting for a response, he left the increasingly stifling room and went off in search of the woman to whom he was married but hardly knew at all.

20

Gillian sat in her old room, which had already been stripped of all of her things—the tapestries had been taken down, the hand-stitched coverlet she’d had since girlhood exchanged for a plain cream coverlet suitable for guests. It felt like a stranger’s room.

Allie had left to prepare for dinner after helping her to change into her father’s favorite of her gowns. Their conversation had not gone quite as she’d hoped. Her sister had been less than enthusiastic about her plan. Gillian had wanted to speak to her father before he locked himself away with Graeme, but it was too late for that. She could only hope he’d still listen to reason.

A foolish hope. Father will never give up Lyndwood. He loves it more than Mother, Allie, and I. More even than himself.

“Gillian?”