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“Well, I suppose it’s better if Jarvis thinks that than knowing the truth.” He deliberately put an emphasis on the viscount’s name, if just to be petty.

It was easy to understand why the viscount would think so. The murdered gentlemen were all members or former members of the Brotherhood of the Crimson Fist. At least, according to Grace, who had no trouble identifying them by the little crimson fist tattoo on their bodies.

“What is the truth?” Helen insisted, then her fingers fluttered to her temples, and her eyes drooped. She was still in pain and yet here she was, interrogating him.

Ian knew it was time to tell Helen everything.

But at the moment, she was weak. Her fingers at her temples tried to stave off the headache. She was pale, and he didn’t know whether she’d eaten anything today.

She had just woken up, but her eyes were still sleepy. And what Ian had to tell her required her full alertness. He would need to force her to concentrate on the details that were not so easy to grasp.

There was a method of torture that he had learned as part of being in the King’s service, a method of torture he’d been on the receiving end of—deliberate sleep deprivation. It was the worst of all the torture techniques in his opinion, especially if one wanted to get a confession out of someone. In Scotland, this was remembered as “Waking the Witch.” A method that forced women to confess to being witches under extreme conditions.

And looking at Helen’s contorted features, he knew that his confession would resemble this torture if he insisted on doing it right now.

“I will tell you everything,” he said. “But not right now. You need to rest and perhaps have a bit more sleep. After dinner, I shall tell you everything there is to know about me, but I don’t want you telling your cousin-in-law any of it.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” Her answer was immediate. Instinctual. And a small smile couldn’t help but tug at Ian’s lips. “And you’ll tell me why you went after Jarvis?”

Ian relaxed his jaw. “I shall tell you that, too.”

“I am sure whatever bad things you think about him, you’re wrong,” Helen said confidently. “And I shall prove it to you.”

Ian let out a breath and smiled.

He admired her spark and her loyalty. He loved how confident she was in her own powers when many people would call her powerless. She was resting against the pillows because she couldn’t even sit up. But her will was stronger than that of many able-bodied men. And he couldn’t help but feel pride.

Mine, his heart whispered, although he wasn’t ready to say it out loud.

Ian left the room and went to look for Annie, the only person in this damned house that he had actually missed for all those years he’d spent in England.

Instead, he found his father. Or rather, his father found him.

“Ian,” he said from the dark corridor as Ian was passing the staircase landing leading to the first floor. “Come here a moment. I want tae talk tae ye.”

Ian paused and let out a deep breath. It wasn’t as if he could ignore the summons. After all these years, deep down in his heart, he was still looking for this man’s approval.

Ian slowly followed his father into his study, then sat across from him in a chair.

Lord Atholl slowly lowered himself into a chair, the chair creaking from the heavy weight. “Pour us some whiskey, will ye?”

Ian stood, poured one glass, and set it in front of his father.

“Dae ye feel ye’re too guid tae drink wi’ yer auld man?”

Ian relaxed in his chair. “I gave up strong spirits.”

Lord Atholl harrumphed. “Probably a good thing considerin’ the things I’ve read aboot ye in the papers.”

Ian raised a brow. “You read about me?”

“Not intentionally,” Atholl said with a shrug. “But when ye graced a page in the paper I’m readin’, I wisnae gonnae look awa’.”

“What a warm sentiment,” Ian said drily.

“Wit did ye expect? Ye ran off as soon as ye reached yer majority, spent all yer youth gallivantin’ aboot England, drinkin’ yersel’ tae death. Did ye think I’d feel pride in tha’? Then ye got caught in an abominable brothel. And now ye show up here, in peasant’s clothes, dirtied and bedraggled wi’ a sickly woman in yer arms. Is tha’ where ye found her, in tha’ brothel?”

Ian shot up from his chair, fumes coming out of his ears, but his voice was low as he spoke. “Don’t you fucking dare insult her.”