The Bard
Page 27
Evander leaned close again. “What does she mean?” he whispered entirely too loud.
“I will explain later,” Magnus said in a tone he hoped would close Evander’s mouth until the boy could put it to use eating his supper.
“Ye may call me Mistress Wicklow,” the woman said, her relaxed smile accompanied by a chuckle.
Magnus gave her a polite nod. “I am Magnus de Gray.”
“Oh, dear God.” Mistress Wicklow stared at him with a hand pressed to her chest as though all the air had just been squeezed from her lungs.
“My name doesna usually cause such a reaction.” Magnus took note of all exits. The woman looked ready to bolt. She knew about Lady Bree. He could smell it. “Might I ask why my presence causes ye such distress, Mistress Wicklow?”
Working her mouth like a fish out of water, she stared down at her clasped hands. “It was I who sent for ye.” She jerked her head from side to side, then waved away the words. “Nay. That is wrong. I didna send for ye exactly. At least not when I shouldha. But ye must understand, I couldna have any bairns of my own. And that…that precious babe was such a joy to me.” She paused, swallowed hard, then looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. “Please forgive me. I just couldna bear to part with him.”
“Where is my son?”
Her tears spilled over as she gave a quick shrug and shook her head. “I dinna ken. Brenna, Bree’s sister, took him away when that bastard I was married to beat her one time too many.” She sniffed and swiped at her tears. “That’s why I finally sent the letter. I held it for a while longer, hoping she might return if she happened to hear about Master Wicklow’s accident.” She shook head again. “But she never did. So, I sent for ye. Praying ye’d come. She’s out there. Alone. Her and little Kiegan. If they survived the winter, ye must find them and see them safe.” She stood and bowed her head. “Brenna asked me to send the letter the day after dearest Bree died, but I couldna bear to part with the wee bairn. Ye mustn’t blame her. ’Tis I who robbed ye of yer son for so long.”
Magnus leaned forward and covered his face with his hands. Kiegan. His son’s name was Kiegan.
“Ye might go south along the coast. I know she would never go north again. Not after all that happened.” Mistress Wicklow eased a step away, then turned back. “I’ll pack food a plenty for yer travels.” She slid her trembling fingers under the cloth sash belted at her waist and pulled out the three coins he had given her. Tossing them to the table, she gave him a sad smile. “Room. Food. Drink. Stable. No charge. It’s the least I can do after all I kept from ye.”
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About the Author
“No one has the power to shatter your dreams unless you give it to them.” That’s Maeve Greyson’s mantra. She and her husband of almost forty years traveled around the world while in the U.S. Air Force. Now, they’re settled in rural Kentucky where Maeve writes about her beloved Highlanders and the fearless women who tame them. When she’s not plotting her next romantic Scottish tale, she can be found herding cats, grandchildren, and her husband—not necessarily in that order.
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