on his heart. He hated not being able to watch Patrick’s back in battle. Hated Patrick going to battle in the first place. This was not the life he’d planned for them all those years ago when he’d asked for Patrick’s hand.
Marcus lifted a hand in greeting, but Patrick’s brow creased, and a frown marred his beautiful face. Accusations and guilt built behind those eyes. There was an argument brewing in that pretty head, but Marcus didn’t care. He almost relished it. Because it meant they were both still alive. He held Patrick’s gaze until the wall blocked their view.
Once out of sight, Marcus turned his attention to the open trapdoor and the stairs. Galaxy be damned, it might just be easier to fling himself over the parapet than navigate those stairs. He wondered how much time he had until Patrick came to get him? If he could just sit and scoot down the stairs on his arse…. Wouldn’t that be a sight. Probably better than his broken body at the bottom of the stairs, but he’d never been sensible when his ego was involved.
He was still contemplating sitting, when a shout echoed up the stairwell.
“Don’t you dare come down those stairs by yourself.”
Well, that answered his question about how long he had. And bloody hell, it also meant that now he had to navigate the stairs himself. Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place, because he honestly didn’t know if his legs would hold him. He took one step to test it out.
“You’re not the boss of me, Patrick!” His leg buckled, but he managed to slow his fall with his cane. Cursed useless leg. He ended up on his arse, with his legs out in front of him. Pain burned through his hips to his thighs. Sleeping tonight would not be happening without help. He was going to have to stop by Glenna’s cottage on the way home and get some more valerian. It didn’t work as well as a bioinjector full of heavy-duty painkillers, but it was better than nothing. Maybe a hot soak in the tub with the herb mixture Glenna made him for pain. He’d make Patrick wait on him hand and foot, and maybe bathe him wearing only a kilt, since it was his fault. It might not take the pain away, but it would certainly distract him from it.
The sound of footsteps increased in tempo and reverberated off the walls. “Did you just fall? What was that thud? So help me, if you’ve cracked your thick skull open and killed yourself, I’m going to be quite put out.”
If he didn’t ache so much, Marcus would’ve grinned. “If I’ve killed myself, I won’t really care about you being put out, now would I?” He scooted forward, deciding dignity be damned. He was not about to be carried out of the tower in front of the warriors who’d just rode in. He’d just scoot on his arse until he had a wall to hold on to.
He got down two steps before outright laughter rang out below him.
So much for the worry he’d heard only seconds ago. With a sigh, Marcus ducked his head below the trapdoor opening. At least one of them was amused. It was dim with the wall torches being spaced every twelve steps or so, but making out Patrick’s fine form wasn’t difficult.
Standing just around the curve in the stairs, Patrick had one hand braced on the wall and the other at his stomach. The fiend was slightly bent at the waist and laughing his fool head off. He was beautiful and annoying at the same time. If a more joyous sound existed, Marcus hadn’t heard it. The laugh was damned near musical. Gads, what he wouldn’t do to hear music again. Real music, not clumsy lute playing.
Marcus raised his head back up so Patrick wouldn’t see him grin and moved his arse to the edge, then lowered himself to the next step, making his cane clack as he descended. Thank galaxy, he’d never taken to wearing kilts. The stone was cold enough through his trousers.
The laughter increased. As penance, Marcus was going to make him walk around the cottage in nothing but a kilt for a sennight—that ought to do it. A short one that came to about midthigh. Oh, but that was a lovely thought.
And speaking of kilts… Patrick’s wasn’t nearly short enough. Patrick still cut a fine figure. He’d been lovely at eighteen, but at