Page 19

There was something in her tone that her son and husband missed, something suggesting that she liked what she had seen in the strong, young stud. Oblivious to his mother’s lusty thoughts, Conan snorted as he turned back to his food.

“Of course he has grown,” he said, spearing a piece of stringy beef with his fine knife. “He has tae be nearing thirty years in age now. I would assume that he is living in the streets like the bastard that he is. Amuse us with a humorous tale of what Titus is now doing with his life, Agnes. I want tae laugh.”

He had never been able to bring himself to call her “mother”. It was yet another indignity he heaped upon Agnes in a long line of indignities. She could hear the condescending tone in his voice, a tone he so often used when speaking to her or about her. The only respect Conan had for anyone in the family was his father, and that was because the man would give him his inheritance upon his death. Conan was smart enough to know not to anger him.

But he held no such caution for his mother.

Agnes had long resigned herself to her son’s hurtful manner. But Conan did as he pleased, and there was no stopping his arrogance or his ambition, much like his father. Therefore, she took some satisfaction in delivering the news about Titus. She wanted her son to know that the boy Conan had been so intensely jealous of had made something of himself.

“He has thrived since his departure from Culroy,” she said, drinking more wine and feeling the fortification flooding her veins. “He told me that he is a professional fighter at the greatest fight guild in all of Scotland. He told me to ask if you knew of it.”

Both Ambrose and Conan stopped chewing. Shocked, they looked at each other, processing what Agnes had just told them.

Or perhaps they had misunderstood.

Ambrose swallowed the bite in his mouth.

“There is only one fight guild in Edinburgh,” he said, incredulous. “It is called the Ludus Caledonia. Is that the one he meant?”

Agnes paused, pouring herself more wine. “He would not say the name of the place. He would only say that it was the greatest fight guild in all of Scotland,” she said. “Do you know of it?”

Ambrose stared at her a moment before setting his spoon and knife down. Sitting back in his chair, he continued to stare at his wife as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I do,” he said. “He truly told ye that?”

“Is it someplace terrible?”

Ambrose shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “Or mayhap it is tae some. I suppose it depends on yer point of view. I visited the place once, though that was several years ago. I’ve not been back since. A professional fighter, ye say?”

Agnes took a long drink of her wine, smacking her lips. “He looked like one, too,” she said. “He is built like a warrior now, muscular and broad. If he says he is a professional fighter, I believe him because he has the outward appearance of one. I suspect Conan would not be able to best him again now.”

Conan’s expression tensed. “I can still thrash him like I always have,” he said. “I will always be able tae defeat him.”

Agnes was feeling her wine. She looked at her son, a man she tried hard not to hate at times. “You always hated him,” she said. “He is the son of a prince while you are only the son of a duke.”

“He’s a bastard.”

“His bloodlines are better than yours.”

Furious, Conan smashed his fists on the table. “Shut yer yap, Woman,” he hissed. “I wouldna speak of bloodlines if I were ye, considering ye’re a Sassenach wench.”

“And you are half-Sassenach. It is a shame you will always have to bear.”

It genuinely infuriated Conan when she said things like that. Before he could throw something at her, as he’d done before, Ambrose turned to his wife.

“Leave us,” he said in a low voice. “I will speak with my son alone.”

With a smile playing on her lips at the victory against her snobbish son, Agnes graciously dipped her head and rose from the table, quitting the hall in silence. Only when she was gone did Ambrose turn to his son.

“I’ve told ye not tae speak tae yer mother like that,” he said quietly. “Ye mayna like it, but she’s the only mother ye have, sorry tae say.”

It was as close to a rebuke as he could get, but Conan received the message. The young man had pushed his food away and was now well into his wine much as his mother had been.

“She shouldna speak tae me so,” he grumbled. “When I am the duke, I’ll…”

Ambrose cut him off. “When ye’re the duke, ye’ll tolerate her just as I’ve tolerated her all these years,” he said pointedly. “But forget about her for now. We have other things tae discuss.”

“What?”