She reached for another arrow, grasping air instead.
Had she truly gone through a full quiver already?
Sighing, she lowered her bow and searched the road to Tornbury. Absent of riders and coaches at present, but the lane wouldn’t stay deserted for long.
No McTavishes had arrived yet either, though within an hour of Da’s death, she’d sent word to Craiglocky. Where she’d house them when they did show, she couldn’t fathom. The men could stay in the barracks, and if any women accompanied them, other guests would have to share their chambers.
Ewan had responded with a short, polite condolence, and assured her he’d attend the funeral.
He’d not mentioned Alasdair. Not as much as a word.
Lydia captured her lower lip between her teeth as she trudged across the uneven, stony ground to retrieve her arrows.
Other than his letter saying he’d been delayed, she’d not heard from him, and she didn’t know what to make of the silence.
She’d thought—hoped—upon learning of Da’s death, he’d send a note as well, and that he hadn’t, worried her. More than the situation with the estate, truthfully.
His silence and delay in returning had her imagination creating any vast number of scenarios. None of which had a positive outcome.
Surely he’d come for the funeral too, and while he and Ewan were at Tornbury, Gwyers would read Da’s official will.
A half an hour later, she deposited her bow and quiver at the smithy to have the arrow tips sharpened.
“Good day, Miss Farnsworth.” Mr. Robertson tipped his hat, two of his freckled, fresh-faced sons curiously peeking from behind his legs.
They’d settled into their cottage, and he’d begun his duties with a fervor that impressed Lydia. Her kindness had earned her a loyal servant.
“Good day to you as well, Mr. Robertson. Lads.”
With a cordial nod, she made her way to the stables to play with Sheba’s pups. Beyond lonely, she intended to pick a pup for herself. She’d always wanted a house dog, but Mum fussed about the shedding. Now nothing stood in Lydia’s way from adopting one of the precious puffs of fur.
And rolling in the hair if she wished.
There was something to be said for only having oneself to be accountable to.
“Hello, Sheba.” Lydia knelt beside the tidy pen enclosing the wobbly pups and their mother and scratched behind Sheba’s ears.
Tongue lolling, Sheba thumped her bushy tail before turning her attention to her rowdy offspring. Three puppies suckled while four others clumsily romped, growling softly as they tackled each other.
One sweet-faced female, black encircling her eyes like someone had lined them in kohl, sat politely, her head cocked adorably.
Lydia lifted the pot-bellied pup, and received several licks to her chin. She buried her face in the puppy’s soft neck. “Aren’t you a sweet lassie?”
Sheba whined and stood, her anxious gaze trained on her baby.
The nursing pups yipped in protest at having their meal interrupted, and Lydia chuckled. “All right. Here she is, but I must warn you, I intend to claim this darling as my own, Sheba. I’m rather lonely, you see.”
Dreadfully lonely.
“Da, do ye think I might have me a puppy, someday?”
Upon hearing a child’s wistful voice, Lydia spun around.
Alasdair stood framed in the stable door, holding the hand of a miniature version of himself—except for the boy’s bright eyes, alight with cautious curiosity.
He’d come.
Her heart leapt with overwhelming joy, and Lydia couldn’t contain her broad smile or giddily leaping pulse.
In an instant, her silly fears evaporated and floated away. She hadn’t even dared let the thought that he wouldn’t return ripen in her most secret musing, and now here he was.
With a lad who had to be his son.
They must’ve taken to each other quickly for the child to have journeyed here with Alasdair.
Hadn’t Searón minded?
Perchance she was too ill to care or voice an objection, or she wanted her son to get to know his father. Likely, that had motivated her to make the unexpected visit to Craiglocky as well, unless it was money she was after.
Alasdair answered with a reassuring smile. “I be sure of it. Why dinna ye ask Miss Farnsworth if ye can play with the pups while I have a word with her.”
Big-eyed, his uncertainty glaring, Al shifted from foot to foot in what appeared to be brand new shoes.
Lydia ran her hand down the puppy’s spine. “Would you like to hold her?”
The child’s eyes brightened even more, and a grin split his face, revealing a missing front tooth. “Aye, m’lady. I surely would.”
“Just Miss Lydia will do. May I ask what your name is?” The puppy playfully nibbled and clawed at her shawl.
“Alasdair, Miss, like me da.” He veered Alasdair a swift, slightly unsure gaze. “But most everyone, except Mum sometimes, calls me Al.”
No doubt the boy was Alasdair’s offshoot then, and he’d claimed the boy as his.
Happiness welled within in her at the welcome news.
“A fine, strong name it is too.” For the boy and his honorable father. “It means defender of men. Did you know that? And your father is Tornbury’s war chief.”
At least temporarily.
The boy beamed, proud to his red-tipped, slightly pointed ears.
“Is Ewan with you, Alasdair? Mr. Gwyers is prepared to read the will after the funeral Saturday, and I’d hope he’d be present.” And they could get that bumblebroth settled.
“Aye, but he went directly into the house, assumin’ ye’d be within.” He released the eager boy’s hand. “Go on then.”
She extended the wriggling puppy, making sure Al had the dog firmly wrapped within his skinny embrace before releasing her.
He giggled and dropped to his knees when she promptly began whining and licking his face. “What be its name, Miss Lydia?”
“Well, she doesn’t have one yet. Perhaps you’d like to help me name her?” She pointed at the pen. “There are seven more. You may kneel outside and pet the puppies until their mama is comfortable with you, and if your papa is agreeable, you may select one of the puppies as your very own.”
“I can, really?” He carefully maneuvered to his feet, and after returning the pudgy female to Sheba’s care, squatted, and watched them.
Suddenly nervous, for Alasdair had wordlessly watched the entire exchange, something reserved and guarded in his demeanor, she brushed black and white dog hair from her torso.
His square chin—very much like his father’s—resting on his hands atop the pen, Al asked tentatively, “Da, might I have one?”
Alasdair considered his son’s angst-riddled face. “I dinna see why nae. It be good fer a lad to have responsibilities, and a dog makes a loyal and lastin’ friend. Do ye think ye be up fer the task?”
“Aye. I be.” A shy smile replaced the uncertain frown on Al’s face, and he gave a solemn nod before returning his attention to the rambunctious puppies. “Can I have a boy dog?”
“Certainly, you may.” At last, Lydia ventured to meet Alasdair’s keen, yet warm perusal. How she’d missed his rugged features, his deep voice, his touch. “You wished to speak with me?”
Alasdair nodded, his great stride closing the distance between them. He drew her slightly aside then turned her to face him. Cupping her shoulders, he peered deep into her eyes, murmuring softly, “I came as soon as I be able. Much has happened that I need to tell ye, and it be too important to put in a letter.”
See, there had been a logical explanation for his delay.
He pressed his forehead to hers, and his glorious manly scent enveloped her. “I be truly and
greatly saddened to hear of yer father’s death, lass.”
She ducked her head to hide the sudden onslaught of tears his tenderness caused.
A muffled sob dragged her attention to Al, his face crumpled in anguish as he wept into his elbow.
Lydia knelt beside him, and after gathering him into her arms, kissed the top of his surprisingly clean head. Given his mum’s profession, she’d half expected him to be a smelly urchin, but the child she held, though definitely thin and wearing well-used clothing, was freshly scrubbed.
“What is it, dear?”
“I . . .” He inhaled a ragged, saturated breath. “I miss me mum.”
“Of course you do, Al.” She gave him a little reassuring squeeze. Probably the first time he’d ever been away from his mother, and surrounded by people he didn’t know with a father he’d just met? Well, she’d be tense and anxious too. “It’s only natural to miss someone you love. I’m sure your father intends to return you to Craiglocky shortly, and then you’ll see your mum.”
Instead of quietening, Al collapsed against Lydia and wailed, a keening, anguished animal-like cry, so distraught her heart stuttered.
What in God’s name?
She veered Alasdair a panicked, questioning look.
What had she said to distress Al so?
Alasdair bent to one knee and clamped his huge hand on his son’s skinny, shaky shoulder. “I wish I could take yer pain from ye, son.”
Realization buffeted Lydia.
“Oh, Alasdair,” she breathed, emotion misting her eyes and closing her throat.
He framed her cheek with his other hand, and bent near Lydia’s ear. “Laudanum overdose.”
Chapter 28
Several hours later, in what served as Tornbury’s nursery, Alasdair sat on the side of the bed harboring his small son.
Lydia, holding Al’s hand, sat on the other.
Al didn’t know Searón had killed herself, and if Alasdair had his way, the lad never would. It served no good purpose and would only increase Al’s heartache and taint his memories of his mother.
Far better and kinder to let him think she’d succumbed to her illness. She would’ve eventually anyway, but Alasdair suspected Searón hadn’t wanted Al to see her continued decline as her physical symptoms worsened, and she gradually lost mental function.
More unselfishness, and her sacrificial act in taking her own life increased Alasdair’s admiration even as it compounded his guilt.
For though saddened at her tragic end, a part of him had been secretly relieved. And the knowledge simmered away, a relentless and accusing tangled mass churning in his middle.
What kind of a self-centered arse had he become?
One who’d been spared having to choose whether to act nobly and quash his feelings for Lydia, at least until Searón died, or risk jeopardizing his developing relationship with Al by having to explain why Alasdair had put Searón aside and divorced her.
Perhaps that day in her chamber, given his reaction to Ewan’s news about Farnsworth, she’d suspected his involvement with Lydia, and had done Alasdair another kindness.
One God knew he didn’t deserve.
All these years he’d blamed Searón, seldom had a kind word or thought for her, and she’d been a victim. He couldn’t even bring himself to be outraged that she’d hidden Al from him, given she was likely terrified he’d be taken from her.
Still, the boy had already suffered far too much in his short life. He should be permitted the fond recollections of the woman he adored and who’d cherished him.
Enough to make the ultimate sacrifice.
Lydia sighed, and after tucking Al’s hand under the bedclothes, bent and kissed his forehead. “Poor dear. I wish I could do something to ease his grief.”
“Ye have, by bein’ kind and permittin’ the pup.” Alasdair pointed to the black and white ball of hair asleep on the pillow. Every now and again, the dog jerked, his nose quivering and his small paws twitching.
Al had wept for hours, and only Lydia allowing him to tote a fur-covered ball of energy into his bed had calmed him.
The puppy, dubbed McCuddles after an intense discussion about appropriate names, lay asleep, his snout across Al’s neck. The biggest of the litter, McCuddles’s name matched his temperament.
Esme had volunteered to sleep in the nanny’s quarters while Al remained at Tornbury, otherwise, Alasdair wouldn’t have left his son tonight.
“Ring for a footman if the pup needs to go outside, or misses his mother too much, Esme. And thank you for offering to stay with Al.” Lydia waited beside the open door as Esme lowered the lamp.
“I’m happy to do it, and it relieves me of having to attempt conversation with house guests. They poke fun at my American accent.” She smiled good-naturedly. “I might have exaggerated a southern drawl a mite. Or a lot.”
Already smitten with his son, Alasdair brushed a strand of hair from Al’s forehead. “If he awakens and can’t be calmed, please fetch me.”
“Of course, I shall, Mr. McTavish.” After settling into a chair near the fireplace, she picked up her embroidery and stabbed the needle in and out, her face puckered in concentration.
In the corridor, Alasdair kept pace with Lydia as she swept along.
“I asked Sorcha to have a tray sent to the study for when we were done, Alasdair. I’m sure you’re hungry, and I’d like a word with you before I retire.” She’d gone a bit starchy and formal. Because of what she wanted to discuss?
This was the first they’d been alone since his arrival, the first time the house hadn’t buzzed with the voices of Tornbury’s many guests, and he meant to take advantage of the deserted passage and the late hour.
“I missed ye, Lydia.”
She slowed her pace, her features softened as she graced him with a beatific smile and reached for his hand. “And I you.”
“Enough to grant me a kiss from yer sweet lips?” Wrapping an arm about her svelte waist, he steered her into a shadowy, corner nook.
He gathered her close, and she came to him eagerly, standing on her toes and twining her arms around his neck.
“Just one kiss?” she whispered against his throat, before throwing her head back in a sensual challenge. The heated look she gave him sent his simmering desire into a full-on blaze of passion.
Groaning, he nibbled a trail from her delicate ear, along her jaw, and down her swan-like throat’s slender column before plundering her mouth and ravishing the delicious depths.
Her little sighs and mews of pleasure as her tongue danced with his, drove him on as he pressed her into the wall, his manhood surging into her soft belly. All his concerns faded away, and the yearning he’d kept dammed, waiting to make her his, welled over his carefully constructed barriers.
Rucking her skirts, he feathered his fingers up one silky thigh, their panting breaths mingling. Her legs trembled, surely from want as uncontrollable as his.
No, not up against a wall in a darkened corridor like illicit lovers. When he at last explored the treasures her lovely body had to offer, it would be atop a luxurious bed with his ring around her finger.
Amidst their frenzied kisses, she’d unbuttoned his vest and unlaced his shirt.
“I want to feel your chest.” She pulled at his shirt, tucked into his pantaloons, seemingly unware he’d let her gown drop to her ankles once more.
“I want to feel yers too,” he quipped while obligingly yanking his shirt free.
No harm in her exploring a bit.
An instant later, her soft fingertips skimmed his chest and ribs and she nuzzled the hair at the shirt’s vee. “Alasdair? Can we . . .?”
He claimed her mouth in a kiss meant to express how precious she was before denying her innocent request.
“Nae, my love.
Not when we both be tired and overcome with other emotions. I want the first time I take ye to be somethin’ ye’ll remember the rest of yer life.”
She released a soft, frustrated sigh. “You’re right, of course. I’m sure society’s matrons would frown upon me bedding you with my father laid out below.”
More was the bloody pity.
A saucy smile tilted her mouth. “Besides, I’m quite famished. I’ve not eaten today at all.”
Righting his clothing, Alasdair winked. “I confess, I’m starving too, and will need my stamina when the time does come.”
Her pretty eyes widened, and she swatted his arm. “You’re making me color.”
He trailed a finger along her bodice, lingering for an instant where her pulse—as light as a butterfly’s wing—fluttered gently against the tip. “I intend to do much more than that, lass.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it.” She whirled away.
The seductive smile she tossed over her shoulder had him hauling her back into his arms for another stolen kiss before firmly turning her toward the stairs. He threaded her arm through his elbow as he led them below.
“I need to tell ye somethin’ too. I winna have any secrets between us.”
Descending the stairs, she slid him a sideways glance. “All right. My news isn’t unexpected, but I’d rather make sure we aren’t overheard. The house is packed tighter than a biscuit tin with guests. Honestly, I’m looking forward to them departing after the funeral and the house returning to its former quiet.”
A few minutes later, seated before a toasty fire and having enjoyed a simple fare of cheese, bread, cold meat, pickles, boiled eggs, and fruit spread on a plaid throw Alasdair had commandeered for the occasion, she took a sip of wine and stared into the flames.
Her black gown emphasized her raven hair, with just a hint of coppery highlights apparent in the candle and firelight.
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