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reproachful glance at Edgar.
    The thin man responded, “We were instructed that you were not to be bothered with…the master’s failing.”
    Thomas looked back at Manachan.
    Manachan squeezed his hand. “Allow me my dignity, boy. No one but those who have to need to see how low I’ve sunk.”
    It wasn’t easy, but Thomas forced himself to swallow that—along with the acid guilt that he hadn’t come back to the estate before now, that he’d stayed away for the past two years purely in pursuit of his own agenda and a cowardly wish to avoid Lucilla Cynster.
    He drew a deep breath, and let it out with “Very well—I’ll allow, but that doesn’t mean I agree.”
    There was so much he didn’t agree with about Manachan’s current situation that he wasn’t sure where to start, but today, there were more urgent matters on his plate.
    Refocusing on the problems immediately before him—those facing the clan and the lairdship—he recaptured Manachan’s gaze. “I received a letter from Bradshaw, and also one from Forrester, saying there were problems with the supply of seed stock for the season’s plantings. They wanted me to intercede with you about the matter.”
    Manachan frowned, the expression starting in his eyes and slowly transforming his face. “Seed supply? But….” His gaze grew puzzled, then Manachan glanced at Edgar. “What’s the date?”
    The request was rapped out—still weak, but the tone more like that of the Manachan Thomas knew. Clearly, that man lay inside somewhere.
    “April twentieth,” Edgar promptly supplied.
    Manachan’s gaze swung back to Thomas. “The crops should already have been planted, shouldn’t they? Or at least be about to go in?”
    Thomas nodded. “But there’s been no seed supplied, at least not to the farmers on the northern farms—and, I suspect, not to any in the clan.”
    Still puzzled, Manachan’s gaze turned inward. “There must be some delay…or something.” Refocusing on Thomas, he said, “Ask Nigel—he’ll know.”
    “Nigel and Nolan are in Ayr, and have been for the last few days. They were in Glasgow before that—I don’t know for how long.”
    That that was news to Manachan was clear. His frown returned, darker and more definite.
    “And now,” Thomas said, freeing his hand from Manachan’s and rising, “the Bradshaws have fallen ill. Seriously ill. The whole family.”
    “What?” Manachan stared at Thomas, then glanced questioningly—almost accusingly—at Edgar.
    Edgar folded his hands and piously intoned, “We were ordered not to bother you with any disturbing news.”
    “The devil you were.” Manachan’s tone boded ill for whoever had given that order. He didn’t say anything for several moments, then he looked at Thomas. “Where are you going?”
    “To the Bradshaws’ farm.”
    “Good. Go and find out what the deuce is going on. Take Joy, our healer, with you.”
    “She’s already there—the Forresters sent for her and she went last night.”
    “At least someone’s thinking,” Manachan muttered. After a moment, he looked up at Thomas from under his shaggy brows. “Go and be my eyes and ears, boy. See what you can learn—not just about what’s stricken the Bradshaws, but about this business of the seed supply. As Nigel’s not here to ask, he can’t be surprised if we ask others for information.”
    Thomas nodded, but the comment disturbed him, suggesting as it did that, even in Manachan’s mind, all responsibility for the estate now rested with Nigel. It was one thing for Nigel to be acting in Manachan’s stead, but Thomas hadn’t imagined that Manachan had abdicated his role so completely, to the extent of thinking to be careful about stepping on Nigel’s toes.
    Then again, Thomas hadn’t known how weak Manachan had grown. Perhaps the change had been necessary.
    Regardless… He stepped back from the bed. “I’ll come and report when I get back.”
    He waited for Manachan’s nod, then turned and strode for