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Alison was a big woman, easily the same size as Robert, and her physical presence was intimidating. After her husband’s death, she had become something of a recluse, rarely venturing out of her chamber. However, the maidservant who had come to fetch her was terrified and begged her to come and see what was going on.
Now, she looked around in horror at the destruction her son had wrought, then he saw her face flush with utter rage. “What have you done?” she asked. Her voice was lower than a growl and throbbing with fury. As she moved towards him, broken glass and china crunched under her feet, and she had to dodge around a pool of spilled ink.
When she finally looked up at her son, her eyes were blazing with rage. “Are you mad?” she asked, in a deceptively quiet voice.
For a moment, Robert could not think of a single thing to say. He dropped his gaze to his feet and saw that he was standing in more smashed glass, then the reality of what he had done hit him. What on earth had he been thinking? Even if Fergus had been trying to take Grace away from him, would destroying his study change that? No, it would not. All he had done was hurt himself, and this beautiful room, his favorite one in the whole castle, his sanctuary, had been wrecked by his own hands.
“Are you going to tell me why you did this?” Lady Alison asked. “Because I can’t think of a single reason why any sane person would destroy their study, no matter the cause.”
“Because Fergus is trying to take Grace away from me,” he muttered as he righted his chair and sat down on it.
Lady Alison stared at her son, wondering where she had gone wrong in raising him, and what on earth had possessed him to commit such an act of wanton destruction. She knew that he was not in love with Grace Gibson, that theirs was a political marriage, so why was he reacting like this?
“Even if that were true,” she said, trying to calm down, since her anger was rising to meet his, “which I don’t believe for a minute—this,” she waved her arm around to indicate the wreckage of the room, “will not help.”
“I know,” Robert conceded. “I was stupid.” He put his head in his hands.
Lady Alison put her hands on her hips and glared at Robert. “You used to be such a sweet boy,” she observed. “You used to hug and kiss your father and me, and show us so much affection. What happened?”
“I grew up, Mother,” Robert snapped. “Young men don’t slobber all over their parents as bairns do. I’m a grown man now.”
“‘Slobber’ is not a word I would use to describe being loving,” his mother countered. “Fergus is still very affectionate towards me. Perhaps I should have had him first, then he would be the Laird and not you. Lairds do not act like this; they never deliberately destroy their own property or anyone else’s. They nurture things and people, not destroy them. Your father did those things. Why do you not behave like him?”
“And if he is trying to take Grace away from me?” Robert asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Grace is a good girl, who is doing what she is told,” his mother answered firmly. “I know where this came from. It’s from that sneaky little tattletale who sneaks around behind you and worships the ground you walk on, isn’t it?”
“If you mean Angus, Mother,” Robert said, “he merely told me what he heard when Grace and Fergus were having a public conversation. He happened to be passing at the time.”
“Pfft!” Lady Alison flapped a hand at him. “I don’t believe that for a minute!” Then she looked around herself again and said, “pack up what you need and leave, please. The lock on this room will be changed and you will never use it again.”
“Really, Mother?” Robert asked sarcastically. “Who gave you the power to do that?”
“Remember that until you marry, I am still the mistress of this castle,” she replied. “That is all the authority I need.”
Then she left, leaving him staring at the door. His control disintegrated, and the roaring rage came back, making him tremble almost uncontrollably. Fortunately, he had not damaged the whisky bottle, and now he poured himself almost a full tumbler of it and tossed it down in one swallow. One glass became two, then a third, by which time Robert was feeling distinctly wobbly, very angry and very sorry for himself.
‘I wish Fergus had been born first.’These were his own mother’s words, and he would never be able to get them out of his mind. What was it about Fergus that made him better than him?
He was sitting slumped over his now-bare desk thinking about his brother and how he could change matters to go his way, when the idea came to him.
12
Fergus usually found that a good bout of wrestling, sword fighting, or archery gave him a good appetite for dinner. The business of the day had finished, and afterwards he would be relaxed, if a little dirty. Accordingly, he was striding towards the guards’ quarters to call out one of his favorite wrestling partner. The man was six feet four inches tall, muscular, but gentle in nature, and he and Fergus had known each other since childhood. As well as being rivals, they were good friends.
Although he was taller and stronger than Fergus and had a punch that could fell a tree, Fergus was nimble and quick, with a longer reach. He was looking forward to the bout today because he had been beaten by his friend the last time and now he wanted to settle the score. His mother had often tut-tutted about this, calling it ‘male madness.’
“Don’t come crying to me if you break something,” she had warned.
Fergus had listened dutifully, then laughed as she walked away. That had been five years before, and all his limbs were still unbroken.
However, just as he was within sight of the men, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around, and it was only his lightning-fast reflexes that stopped him from being punched directly on the nose by this brother. Fergus jerked his head back and caught Robert’s fist as it came flying towards him, then he glared at him.
“Robert! What are you doing?” he asked, astonished. “What on earth is wrong with you?” He let go of his brother's hand and gripped him tightly by the upper arms, so as to stop him from throwing any more punches.
“Nothing is wrong with me, brother,” Robert answered grimly, glaring daggers at Fergus. “If I were strong enough, I would take you on, but I’m not, more’s the pity, so I will have to settle for talking to you instead.”
“You are not strong because you don’t work at it,” Fergus told him. He was furious, and had been ever since Robert had taken Grace away from him, but he would be damned if he let Robert see it. “What do you need to talk to me about?”
