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Chapter One
Fin
“How’s she doin’?” Fin asked.
Fin watched Col, his cousin, best friend, and the current Baron of Westmarch Hall, pace the chamber, running his hands through his hair, both fear and rage etched upon his features at the same time. He finally stopped before the large hearth and stared silently into the flames for a long moment. Fin could feel the emotions radiating off his cousin and oldest friend like the heat from the fire. He was scared for Gillian as well. And he was just as angry as Col that somebody had tried to kill her.
Finally, Col turned. “The physician’s seein’ some improvement. He thinks she’ll recover in time.”
“That’s good news,” Fin said, feeling the first spark of hope he’d felt in days.
“Aye,” Col nodded. “Tis good news.”
“Then why dae ye look so grim?”
A wry smile touched Col’s lips. “I suppose I daenae want tae jinx it b’fore she’s back on ‘er feet again.”
Fin nodded. “Aye. I s’pose I can understand that.”
Col dropped down into one of the chairs at the large table near the hearth and poured out a couple glasses of mead for them then motioned for Fin to sit down. Fin walked over and took the seat across from him and raised his mug. They both took a long swallow in silence, the only sound in the room was the crackling and popping of the fire, and the air was thick with tension.
Fin could see the myriad of emotions swirling across his cousin’s face but could only imagine how hard they were hitting him. He set his mug down hard, the hard thump echoing around the hall.
“This is my fault,” he said, his voice choked with emotion.
“Bollocks,” Fin said. “Tis nae yer fault. Tis nae Gillian’s fault. Tis the fault of the bast’rd who done this.”
“Twas my wine she drank,” Col pressed. “And by God, I’d rather twas me layin’ in that bed right now.”
“She drank from yer mug,” Fin told him. “That daenae make it yer fault.”
Col runs a hand over his face. “I ken,” he said. “But it feels like it.”
“Aye. I get it. But tis not.”
They drained the last of their mugs, and Col refilled them immediately.
“The Captain of yer personal guard shouldnae be drinkin’ on duty,” Fin said.
“Then ye watch me drink,” Col said.
“Fair ‘nough.”
They sat at the table mostly in silence as Fin watched his cousin drink, a faraway look of anger and pain etched deeply into his features.
“Ye should get some sleep, Cousin,” Fin said. “When’s the last time ye got some rest?”
“We need tae find who did this,” Col said. “I cannae sleep until we ‘ave that bast’rd’s ‘ead on a pike.”
Fin nodded. “We’ll get ‘im, Col. But ye arenae goin’ tae dae anybody any good if ye’re dead on yer feet.”
Col swallowed down the last of his ale and reached for the pitcher but seemed to think better of it and withdrew his hand. Instead, Col turned and looked at him, pursing his lips.
“I need ye tae look intae it, Fin,” he said.
Fin sat back in his seat. He was good in a fight and could always be counted on to wade into a battle. That’s what made him the perfect bodyguard for Col - he was practically fearless. But when it came to something like Col was asking him to do, Fin felt horribly out of his depth. He did not feel capable of doing what he wanted. He was a man of action, not a man of critical thought. And perhaps that was a flaw in his character, but he was always more comfortable with a sword in his hand.
He knew that, of the two of them, Col was the smarter one. Col was the one who came up with all of their plans and did the thinking. Fin was the one who, when the action started, was always the first one to charge in. As a result, he felt woefully ill-equipped to be the one leading an investigation into who poisoned Gillian - into who had been trying to poison Col.
