Page 120 of Midnight Conquest

“Then give me a moment, woman. I’ve justwalked through the bloody door.” He waved her off, weariness flattening his tone. “Get a hot meal on the table—something hearty—and I’ll need a bath drawn once I’ve eaten. After that, I’ll hear whatever it is you’re so concerned about.”

The housekeeper hesitated, her lips parting as if to press the matter, but she thought better of it and scurried off.

Tammus shook his head, muttering about overzealous staff as he trudged toward the dining room.

By the time he’d unloaded his belongings, the table was set, and a steaming trencher of roasted lamb and root vegetables awaited him. He dropped into his chair with a groan, savoring the first bite as it melted on his tongue.

Warmth seeped into his limbs, easing the tension wound tight in his shoulders. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to breathe—and let the quiet embrace of home settle around him like a well-worn cloak.

He was halfway through his meal when the housekeeper reappeared, wringing her hands again.

“Forgive me for interrupting, milord, but ye have a guest.”

Tammus paused mid-bite, brow furrowing. “A guest? Who?”

She leaned in closer and whispered, “This is the ‘development’ I tried to tell you about.”

Before he could respond, the sound of uneven footsteps echoed from the hall. Tammus turned just as a man limped into the room. His breath caught in his throat.

Ian Russell?

The chair scraped loudly against the floor as Tammus shot to his feet. “Good God,” he muttered, eyes wide as saucers. “Ian? Everyone thought you were dead!”

Ian attempted a smile, though it wavered beneath the weight of exhaustion. “Hello, Tammus.”

Tammus gestured curtly to the housekeeper. “Help him to the chair! And bring another trencher. Bread and wine. Now.”

The housekeeper hurried to Ian’s side, guiding him to the chair as Tammus stood frozen, still trying to process the sight before him.

Ian slumped into the seat with a groan, his movements stiff and pained. “I almost was,” he admitted, his voice rough as gravel. He struggled to stand again, lifting his shirt to reveal jagged, mutilated scars across his ribs and side. “These wounds should’ve killed me.”

Tammus stared, unable to hide his shock. The scars were brutal, a testament to the kind of savagery Ian must have endured.

Ian eased back into the chair with a wince. “My leg looks worse. That’s why I limp.” He let out a bitter laugh that carried no real mirth. “It’s a miracle a healer found me instead of a scavenger. She saved my life, nursed me back to health. A kind soul, though not much of a cook.”

“I…” Tammus struggled for words. Ian’s return was a miracle in itself, but it also brought complications he wasn’t prepared to face. “I can hardly believe it,” he said finally.

The housekeeper returned with a trencher of food, placing it in front of Ian. He dug in eagerly, moaning in gratitude. “This is the best meal I’ve had since…well, since Stewart Glen,” he said between bites, his words thick with hunger and memory.

Tammus’s chest tightened at the mention of Stewart Glen.

“How is everyone?” Ian asked, pausing mid-chew. “Parlan? Kehr? Davina?”

The weight of the question settled heavily on Tammus’s shoulders. He cleared his throat, his voice turning grim. “Parlan and Kehr didn’t survive Flodden.”

Ian froze, his expression darkening like a gathering storm. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said quietly. “And Davina?”

Tammus hesitated, bracing himself. “She’s been through a great deal,” he admitted. “After you were presumed dead, Russell lands passed to your cousin Brian. Davina returned to Stewart Glen. She’s been managing the estate and…raising a bairn.”

Ian blinked and slowly chewed the food in his mouth. “A bairn?”

“Aye. A daughter. She only discovered she was with child after King James called everyone to arms.”

“It’s mine?” Ian’s eyes narrowed, flickering with suspicion, though it softened almost immediately beneath the rough edges of hope.

Tammus nodded firmly.

Ian sat back in his chair, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “A daughter,” he murmured, as if testing the weight of the words. “I’m a father.”

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