Page 16 of Wild Hearts

Magnus turned to look up at Margaret. "Get the poor lad something to eat, and fetch some of that mead you brewed. You know he's crazy about the stuff, Margaret."

She was shrewd enough to realize she would miss a deal of the conversation while she trekked to the still-room. She shrugged. Perhaps she could get it out of one or the other when she got them alone later.

Paris said without hesitation, "I'm holding a bride for ransom, and I would like to know the best way to communicate without revealing my identity."

"Who's the groom?" asked Magnus, his interest-piqued.

"Maxwell Abrahams, the usurer," said Paris.

Magnus whistled, all attention now. "High stakes, eh? Well, let me think on that awhile. Ah, here's Margaret at last. The poor lad's faint from hunger. I'll leave him in your capable hands."

Her capable hands touched Paris at every opportunity. He stifled a smile. There was nothing subtle about Margaret when she wanted something, and she made it plain she wanted him.

"Paris," she said, making his name sound like a caress, "you never come to see us these days. Even now, it's business that brings you, and not pleasure."

"Is it?" he asked, giving her no information whatsoever.

"We don't see nearly enough of you," she said suggestively, her eyes resting on his body.

"You could visit us," he replied lightly.

She quickly veiled her expression of distaste. "That tribe hates me."

"I like you, Margaret, isn't that enough?" he teased.

"You would be more than enough for me," she hinted, brushing his hand as she gave him the wine cup.

He laughed to lighten her mood. "If I didn't know better, I'd say Magnus has been neglecting you."

She looked him full in the face, her dark eyes holding his for long seconds. "He is over fifty," she said pointedly.

Magnus's voice boomed across the chamber. "That's enough pampering, Margaret. Come, Paris, my favorite mare foaled yesterday. You will be green with envy when you see him."

"Which sire? Your black stallion, Diablo?" asked Paris.

Margaret sighed. Men and horses. What chance did she have in such a competition? "Paris," she called after him; "will you carry a letter to my mother?"

He bowed. "Of course, Margaret; you know f am always at your service."

At mention of Margaret's mother, Mrs. Sinclair, who was Anne's nurse, Magnus inquired, "How is it with Anne?"

The muscle in Paris's jaw turned to iron, and his eyes turned cold. "She is beautiful and ugly, mad and sane, still-crippled, in mind if not in body. She is Anne— what can I say?"

Magnus just shook his head, and they resumed their conversation of horses. As Paris admired the colt, he asked, "Didn't we get the stallion in that raid across the border a couple of years back?"

"The very same," said Magnus. "Give the devil his due, the English know how to breed horses. By the way, I haven't thanked you for that case of French brandy you sent. Magnifique!"

"The French also do some things well." Paris smiled.

Magnus got a faraway look in his eyes. "The only time I was ever in love, she was French," he said wistfully. He shook his head to dispel the ghosts. Mention of the French girl sent Paris's thoughts winging to Tabby, so he probed deeper. "You old devil, I bet you don't even recall her last name!"

The ploy did not work; Magnus smiled secretly. "I'll remember her till the day I die."

Paris was aware of the dilemma he would be thrown into if Magnus's former love was Tabby's mother. His heart wanted her to be his half cousin, not his half sister, but his brain clearly told him that if Tabby was Magnus's daughter, it could be the making of an horrendous battle between the two men, if Magnus discovered all his actions. Paris decided it was safer to let things lie.

Magnus said briskly, "My advice regarding Abrahams... get in touch with Callum McCabe, attorney-at-law. As a neutral third party he can negotiate for you. I've used him, and he did work for the King."

"But this is outside the law. I could be hanged for what I'm doing," protested Paris.

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