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“Sure about that, are you?”
Braden narrowed his gaze. “Are we done now?”
His brother crossed his arms and studied him. “Lad, what happened to you?”
He frowned, surprised by the question. “What are you talking about?”
“Something happened to you in the last few years, and it wasn’t good,” Logan said. “Was it during one of your visits to Hanover? Did something go wrong over there?”
For the first time in ages, Braden felt himself standing at the edge of that awful, gaping abyss. He instinctively rebelled against it. Unfortunately, his throat was now so tight that all he could do was shake his head in denial.
“You know you can tell me anything, Braden. I would never judge you,” Logan quietly said. “If not me, then tell Nick. We all love you and would walk over hot coals to help you.”
Braden now felt like a mountain-sized boulder was lodged in his throat.
“I know that,” he gruffly managed. “But the one who needs help is Lady Samantha. And I need your help in order to help her.”
Logan’s smile was wry. “Stubborn, that’s what you are.”
“I’m a Kendrick. We’re born stubborn.”
“True, that. All right, leave these blasted ledgers with me. I’ll see what I can find.”
Braden expelled a relieved breath. “Thanks, old man. I’m in your debt.”
“Speaking of being in debt, I believe I hear Grandda heading our way. Get ready for that lecture, laddie boy. You’ve earned it.”
Unmistakable footsteps sounded from the hallway outside the study. The door flew open and Angus stomped into the room, heading over to the desk. He propped his hands on his hips and glowered down at Braden.
“Ye’ll be makin’ yer excuses to flee, I suppose, now that I’m here.” He waved his hands in the air. “The great doctor savin’ all them lives. Why, ye’d rather be muckin’ about with blood and guts than spendin’ time with your nearest and dearest.”
Braden pointed at his grandfather’s head. “What in God’s nameisthat?”
Angus was garbed in his preferred attire, a linen shirt topped by a ratty leather vest, an old kilt, and boots that had seen better days even twenty years ago. But all that paled in comparison to his bizarre headgear.
The old fellow drew himself up with offended dignity. “What does it look like, ye ninny?”
“A moldy bush,” Logan said, trying not to laugh.
Braden eyed the gigantic wreath of wilting branches and leaves that all but swallowed up his grandfather’s head. “Not moldy, but certainly dusty.” He glanced at his brother. “Can a bush even get moldy?”
“If you don’t know, then I certainly don’t,” Logan said as he stood and came from around his desk. “I’ve actually seen that before. It’s some sort of Christmas decoration, isn’t it? But, Grandda, why is it on your head?”
Angus jabbed Logan in the shoulder. “I’m supposed to be Father Christmas, ye jinglebrains. I wore it one year at Kinglas, when yer da and yer stepmother—my dear daughter—were still alive. Surely ye remember. It was the grandest celebration in the entire county.”
Braden smothered a laugh. “Actually, it was a Twelfth Night celebration and you were the Lord of Misrule. Wasn’t that the year Logan tipped over the flaming punch bowl and set Mamma’s best carpet on fire?”
“That was the twins,” his brother dryly replied. “I took the blame because I’d grown too big for Da to thump me.”
“Och, he kenned who it was,” Angus said. “But I managed to talk the old bugger out of punishing the lads. It was just an accident, ye ken.”
“An accident that could have burned down half the castle,” Logan tartly responded.
“Fah, ye exaggerate.”
Braden snapped his fingers. “Now I remember. Grandda, you also wanted to decorate Da’s mounted stag head in the library. You climbed up on one of the bookcases and tried to wrap ivy and mistletoe around its antlers, but you ended up pulling the whole thing off the wall.”
“Pulled half the wood paneling down with it.” Logan grinned at Angus. “Our father wasrightfashed about that.”
