A Soldier's Salvation (Highland Heartbeats Book 7)(22)

He hadn’t gotten word of the wedding until after it had taken place. No one had alerted him to the upcoming event. The sudden knowledge of his brother’s marriage had hit him like a death blow to the chest, as though a bludgeon had caught him at the height of its force and knocked the life from him.

Yet the household had been led to believe he was aware the wedding ceremony was to take place, that he’d simply ignored the announcement.

Damn that Alan. Not until that moment was Rodric certain that his brother had understood the full weight of what Caitlin meant to him. What had he expected? A violent brawl on her behalf?

Cook was unaware of the turmoil in his head, prattling on about everything he’d missed. Who had wed whom, who was no longer in the clan’s service, who had come into the household to replace those who’d left. He wouldn’t have been able to keep track of it all even if he’d been paying attention.

“The kitchen looks the same,” he observed, looking about himself.

Unlike the repairs which had been done to the outside of the house, the kitchen appeared just as rundown and overcrowded as ever.

“No one will be touching my kitchen,” the old woman warned, eyes narrowed dangerously.

Naturally, she would never have allowed anyone to step in and advise her to run things more efficiently. Several young women bustled about, cutting and plucking and watching him as though he were the first interesting person who’d crossed the threshold in years.

Perhaps he was.

“I’d expect nothing less.” He eyed the doorway which led to the great hall.

She read his gaze. “Your brothers are both at home—I only just served the midday meal,” she murmured. “Late, of course, but Alan rarely rises from bed before late morning. The evening meal is sometimes served close to midnight.”

“I see. I suppose neither he nor Padraig received word of Gavin McMannis’s passing?”

“Och, we heard of that,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Your brother instructed that none of us were to leave for the services, as there was more than enough work to be done about the house. I had planned on calling upon poor Sorcha McMannis on my afternoon off.”

“I see.” It was a stupid thing to do, but well in keeping with Alan’s general disregard for anyone but himself. A graveside appearance, even a brief one, would have spread goodwill. He’d never cared much for behaving with diplomacy.

One reason of many why it would’ve been better had he not been born first.

“I suppose I should continue on,” he murmured, rather unsure of himself all of a sudden.

What would he find when he confronted his brother, who now rarely rose from bed before mid-morning and had refused to pay his respects to a lifelong neighbor? Just how had leadership changed him?

And what could Rodric possibly do about it?





11





The great hall was dark, the drapes pulled closed over every one of the tall, narrow windows which lined both of the long walls. Their home was nothing like the Duncan house, whose great hall could easily have sat one hundred men or more, but the room was just as imposing as he’d remembered.

The table was still set, the servants only just clearing away what was left of the meal his brothers had shared. So much food for only two of them, with so much left over. What a waste. He picked up a chicken leg and sank his teeth into the succulent, if slightly cold, flesh.

He left the room through an arched doorway which led him to the entry hall. The walls were hung with rich tapestries depicting the history of the Andersons. He knew every one of them by heart, having studied them time and again throughout his youth. The glorious history of his clan had always interested him, something which had pleased his father to no end.

It was one of those tapestries he was examining when Alan’s voice rang out. “You think you’ll find something there you haven’t already learned?”

He sounded pleasant, perhaps even glad to see his brother, and Rodric turned to face him with a smile.

What he saw shocked him, though he thought he did a good job of concealing the surprise at what his once-strapping brother had become.

He’d gained weight. Quite a lot of it. The man wasn’t yet thirty and yet looked at least ten years older. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and a permanent flush colored his cheeks and nose. Too much food and drink. He’d always had a weakness for overindulgence.

The two clasped hands, Alan holding on a bit longer than he needed to. “Aye, you’re looking healthy,” he observed, his grey eyes shrewd. Waiting to see what his brother’s response would be.

“And you seem to have taken well to your position in the clan,” Rodric replied as diplomatically as possible.

It seemed unlikely, his brother’s change in appearance, seeing as how he’d always been rather vain about his physique. Always looking to impress the lasses with his strength, the broadness of his shoulders, the thickness of his arms and thighs as he rode on the back of his favorite stallion.

Why concern himself with that anymore? He was head of the clan. That was impressive enough.

“Aye, I have at that,” Alan agreed, clapping Rodric on the back before leading him to the room just off the entry hall which had served as their father’s study.

It would be Alan’s study now.

“The house and fields are well-kept,” Rodric continued, wondering if his ploy to get in his brother’s good graces was as obvious as it felt coming from his tongue. “You’ve truly taken to leadership.”