All for You Read Online Free PDF Page B

before Patrick kicked it out of his hands and left him backed up against his Rover with another, not-exactly-modern blade pressed uncomfortably against his throat.
    Patrick tsk-tsked him.
    “You’ll have to wash that shirt now, I imagine.”
    “As well as explain the stain to my mother,” Stephen said, forcing himself to take slow, even breaths in spite of how his lungs burned.
    Patrick removed his sword and propped it up against his shoulder. He held out his hand—which was, fortunately, quite empty. Stephen dragged his sleeve across his face, then took Patrick’s hand and shook it.
    “Ian said you were on holiday.”
    “He lies,” Patrick said mildly. “Never trust him.”
    “I won’t make that mistake again,” Stephen said with feeling. He started to walk away, then stopped and looked at Patrick. “I’m going to fetch my sword.”
    “I don’t stab men in the back.”
    Well, there was that at least. Stephen retrieved his sword, replaced it from where he’d wrenched it free, then glanced at James MacLeod’s younger brother. Patrick was smiling slightly.
    “Ian said he didn’t completely destroy you this weekend.”
    Stephen shrugged. “Perhaps.”
    “And you’re still standing now,” Patrick continued. “Bloodied, but unbowed.”
    “Are you daft?” Stephen said with a snort that made his eyes water. “I think you broke my damned nose.”
    “Stuff a pinch of knitbone up it.”
    Stephen rolled his eyes, went to rummage about in the garden in front of the cottage, then did as he’d been advised. He felt a complete arse, but at least he might escape a trip to the local surgery. Patrick stabbed his sword into the ground, walked over, and gave Stephen’s nose a hearty pinch.
    “Not broken, you woman.”
    Stephen laughed because it was all he could do. He could only hope he wouldn’t choke to death from the blood he could now feel draining down the back of his throat. “You bastard.”
    “Nay, I’m not,” Patrick said cheerfully, “but likely a handful of other things you should be clever enough to think up. Really, Haulton, this is an area in which you could use quite a bit of improvement. Your slurs are pitiful.”
    Stephen indulged him in a string of profanities that left Patrick’s left eyebrow going up just the slightest bit.
    Patrick retrieved his sword. “My ears are ringing.”
    “But unfortunately your mouth is still moving.”
    Patrick laughed and walked away. Stephen packed himself in his Rover, drove gratefully off MacLeod soil, and turned himself for home. He was going to be hard-pressed to get back to Cambridge in time for his Monday morning ten o’clock, but he’d been summoned to make an appearance at the family seat, and when duty called, he tended to answer. It was, after all, what an English gentleman of quality did without complaint.
    S ix
hours later, he pulled to a stop in front of his father’s gates. He had to let himself in and close the main gate behind him, but he did so again without complaint. It was well past supper and he certainly wouldn’t have expected anyone to be waiting for him.
    He parked in his accustomed spot, got out of the Rover, then had to pause and look up at the castle rising into the air in front of him. The lights were on the outer walls, of course, because that’s what his father did to please those who might be driving through the village for a glimpse of eight hundred years of history tucked up there on that bluff. The keep itself was, Stephen had to admit, absolutely spectacular. It had taken buckets of money to keep it so, but that had never been an issue. His father had managed to thus far satisfy the Inland Revenue without selling anything. Stephen tried not to think about how that burden would eventually fall to him, but he had his hands full with his own titles and bits of land. He supposed when the time came, he would manage it.
    Because he was the heir to Artane, and it was expected.
    Not only expected, desired—and by him. He