“Not all men are as wealthy as you, Roderick. For some of us, whose people are vast in number, it’s a struggle to take care of our clan. And I care for Jillian,” Ramsay growled.
“I’m sure you do. The same way you care for seeing your belly filled with the finest food and the best whisky. The same way you care for riding a pure-blooded stallion, the same way you like to show off your wolfhounds. Maybe all those expenses are why you’ve been having a hard time maintaining your people. How many years did you fritter away at court, spending gold as liberally as your clan procreates?”
Ramsay turned stiffly and was silent a long moment. Grimm watched him, every muscle in his body tensed to spring. Logan had a violent temper—Grimm had experienced it before. He berated himself for antagonizing the man, but Ramsay Logan’s tendency to put his own needs above those of his starving clan infuriated him.
Ramsay drew a deep breath and turned around, astonishing Grimm with a pleasant smile. “You’re wrong about me, Roderick. I confess, my past isn’t so exemplary, but I’m not the same man I used to be.”
Grimm watched him, skepticism evident in every line on his face.
“See? I’m not losing my temper.” Ramsay raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I can see how you might believe such things of me. I was a wild, self-centered reprobate once. But I’m not any longer. I can’t prove it to you. Only time will prove my sincerity. Grant me that much, will you?”
Grimm snorted. “Sure, Logan. I’ll grant you that much. You may be different.” Worse, Grimm added in the privacy of his thoughts. He turned his gaze back to the flames.
As Grimm heard Ramsay turn to leave the room, he was unable to prevent himself from asking, “Where’s Jillian?”
Logan stopped in mid-step and shot a cool glance over his shoulder. “Playing chess with Quinn in the study. He intends to propose marriage to her tonight, so I suggest you give them privacy. Jillian deserves a proper husband, and if she won’t have him, I intend to offer in his stead.”
Grimm nodded stiffly. After a few moments of attempting to block all thoughts of Jillian from his mind—Jillian ensconced in the cozy study with Quinn, who was proposing marriage—and failing, he stalked back out into the night, more disturbed by Ramsay’s words than he wished to admit.
Grimm wandered the gardens for nearly half an hour before he was struck by the realization that he’d seen no sign of his stallion. He’d left him in the inner ward less than an hour ago. Occam rarely wandered far from the castle.
Puzzled, Grimm searched the inner and outer wards, whistling repeatedly, but he heard nary a nicker, no thunder of hooves. He turned his thoughtful gaze to the stables that graced the edge of the outer bailey. Instinct quickened inside him, warning him, and he set off at a run for the outbuilding.
He burst into the stables and drew to an abrupt halt. It was abnormally silent, and an odd odor pervaded the air. Sharp, acrid, like the stench of rotten eggs. Peering into the gloom, he catalogued every detail of the room before stepping in. Hay tumbled in piles across the floor—normal. Oil lamps suspended from the rafters—also normal. All the gates shut—still normal.
Scent of a thing sulfuric—definitely not normal. But not much to go on either.
He stepped gingerly into the stables, whistled, and was rewarded with a muffled neigh from the stall at the farthest end of the stables. Grimm forced himself not to lurch forward.
It was a trap.
While he couldn’t fathom the exact nature of the threat, danger fairly dripped from the rafters of the low outbuilding. His senses bristled. What was amiss? Sulfur?
He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, paced forward and gently scuffed at the hay beneath his boot, then stooped to push aside a thick sheaf of clover.
He expelled a low whistle of amazement.
He pushed at more hay, moved forward five paces, did the same, moved left five paces, and repeated the motion. Sweeping his hand across the dusty stone floor beneath the hay, he came up with a fistful of finely corned black powder.
Christ! The entire floor of the stable had been evenly sprinkled with a layer of black powder. Someone had liberally doused the stones, then spread loose hay atop it. Black powder was made from a combination of saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur. Many clans cultivated their own saltpeter in or near the stables to fashion the weapon, but the stuff spread on the floor was fully processed black powder, painstakingly corned to uniform granules, possessing lethal explosive properties, and planted deliberately. It was a far cry from the raw version of fermenting manure from which saltpeter was derived. Coupled with the flammability of the hay and the natural abundance of fresh manure, the stables were an inferno waiting to blow. One spark would send the entire stable up with the force of a massive bomb. If one of the oil lanterns fell or so much as coughed up an oily spark, the building—and half the outer ward—would be rocked by the explosion.