He walked into his room, slammed the door shut behind him, and stepped closer to the bed. In one fell swoop, he took off his clothes and trousers. He hated knowing that she was in pain, but he hated even more knowing that this time around, he was the cause of it.
“Ye blockhead,” he whispered to himself and stepped into the bathing chamber.
The cold floor beneath his feet gave him momentary relief as he climbed into the tub and settled in it. The water stopped around his chest, and he lowered his hand to his lap.
The knock on the door broke the silence.
“Enter,” he called.
Nathan stepped inside, his expression tight. “Me Laird. Do ye intend to ride into the village today?”
Alasdair shook his head, reaching for the cloth beside him. “Nay. Have ye forgotten? I have a council meeting this morning. I cannae be in two places at once.”
Nathan nodded, but his shoulders were tense. “And will yer uncle be there?”
Alasdair turned, puzzled. “Why do ye ask?”
Nathan hesitated, then stepped closer. “Pardon me, me Laird, but ye ken very well that I have been looking into the attack in the woods.”
“Aye, I am well aware,” Alasdair responded.
Nathan swallowed. “Well, the investigation I’ve been conducting these past days… it has led me to believe that yer uncle Thomas may be the one behind the attacks.”
Alasdair went still, the soap slipping from his hand and into the water. “What?” His voice was sharp, low.
Nathan exhaled. “I had hoped to bring this up under more favorable circumstances, but I cannae keep it from ye any longer. I traced the archer. The one ye killed in the woods?”
Alasdair nodded.
“His name was Malcolm. Nay one kent his last name, but I discovered he came from Clan MacEwan. Nay one had ever seen him in town before that morning. Yet several villagers swear they saw him near yer uncle’s house before he slipped into the woods.”
Alasdair’s chest tightened.
His uncle? His father’s brother, the man who had begged him to return to the castle when Jeremiah died, the one who had told him that the clan still needed him?
“That makes nay sense,” he grunted, shifting in the water. “If Uncle Thomas had grievances against me for assuming the lairdship, he would have spoken plainly. He wouldnae have hidden behind hired blades.”
Nathan’s face was grave. “I wish I could say I was mistaken, but there is more. One of the men who stormed into the cèilidh?—”
Alasdair raised his head sharply. “What of him?”
“A shopkeeper told me he saw that very man speaking with yer uncle at the fruit stand in the market last afternoon.”
For the briefest of moments, Alasdair thought he would slip into the bathtub from shock. He gripped the edges to steady himself.
“I cannae believe it,” he muttered.
Nathan took a step closer to the tub, but his foot slipped.
“Careful!” Alasdair called, half rising from the water, but it was too late.
Nathan crashed onto his side, and a loud grunt escaped his lips. Alasdair winced and watched as his man-at-arms groaned, clutching his leg.
“‘Tis nothing.”
Alasdair narrowed his eyes. “That didnae look like nothing.”
Nathan shook his head. “I must’ve slept on it wrong, that is all. Me foot just fell asleep for some reason.”
