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York. Gillian’s father was the Duke of York, and there was a time when Col and Fin were on the opposite side of a great divide with the Duke. Fin and his cousin had raided the Duke’s supply carts for more than a year some time back and had eventually gone to war with his brother and son.
Having saved James’ dukedom, he had built this castle for them out on the Western March, halfway between York and their clan lands in Scotland. It was meant to serve as a symbolic bridge between the two lands and their two people. It was not without its detractors, though. Not without its share of controversy. And Col had ended up with enemies on both sides of the border.
But time — and of course, his marriage to Gillian and the children they’d had — had managed to heal the wounds between the Duke and Col. And for that, Fin was grateful. After years of fighting, war, and surviving on the scraps of their criminal endeavors, it was nice to have some stability. Security. It had been nice getting used to a life without war.
“What is it?” Fin asked.
Col’s face darkened. “The Duke was poisoned,” he said, his voice grim.
Ice water flowed through Fin’s veins. That was the last thing he had been expecting to hear. The implications of it were even direr than Fin had thought.
“Is he--”
Col shook his head. “Nay. The Duke lives.”
“Thank God in ‘eaven.”
“Aye,” Col said, his voice tight. “But ye need tae get tae York. Ye need tae look in on the Duke’n see if ye can find who did this.”
Fin sighed but nodded his head. “Aye. On me way.”
