by Bree Wolf
Soft murmurs tumbled from her lips as she pushed onward, her gaze fixed on her target, watching it grow larger with each step her gelding took. Soon, she could see people moving about the village. She waved her other arm, calling out to draw their attention.
Some stopped in their paths, and then after an agonisingly long moment, one spun around and darted up the path to the castle. Moments later, men appeared on the parapet wall before distant shouts drifted to her ears.
Deidre pushed onward, her heart growing lighter now that she was so close. Her gaze remained fixed on the castle, and a breath of relief rushed from her lungs when she saw a rider suddenly charge out of the gate, heading straight toward her. Even from the distance, Deidre recognised the tall, bear-like stature of her cousin Connor.
His horse’s hooves thundered closer, eating up the ground, before he pulled the black beast to a halt right in front of her. “What’s happened, Lass?” he demanded, his gaze wide and fearful as it swept over her. “Ye look the fright. Where’s Alastair?” His eyes drifted to the horizon, but there was nothing yet for them to see.
“We need a cart,” she rushed to say just as the babe in her arms began to squirm in earnest, soft wails echoing from his lips. “Now! Go!”
Connor frowned at the sound of the babe, but then nodded, urging his mount back up the path. Deidre noted that he’d not bothered to put a saddle on the beast, but merely thrown on a bridle.
Before she’d even reached the gate, a small cart rumbled out, accompanied by a group of clansmen as well as her cousin. “Where to, Lass?”
“Toward the ruins,” Deidre rushed to say before Connor waved the men onward. “’Tis Sophie. Miss Harmon,” she told him then. “She’s had a babe. We found her at the ruins, bleeding, barely conscious. She needs Morag. We need to send for her.”
Running a hand over his face, Connor shook his head, a disbelieving smile tickling the corners of his mouth. “The old crow is already here,” he chuckled. “Said the wind had whispered to her that she’d be needed here.”
For a moment, Deidre was stunned before she remembered that the old woman had always come when she’d been needed. Long since had Deidre suspected that Morag possessed a similar gift to Moira’s. Who knew? For the old crow had always wrapped herself in silence, a mysterious twinkle in her seeing eyes.
“I need to see to the babe,” Deidre told Connor before she urged her gelding through the gate. The moment she pulled to a halt in the courtyard, her cousin was there beside her, his huge hands lifting her and the child out of the saddle and setting her gently onto the ground.
The boy was now screaming at the top of his lungs, and Deidre all but ran up the stairs to the great hall. Her family met her there, their eyes widening at the sound of the child’s cries. Rhona, Connor’s mother and the heart of the Brunwood family, quickly distributed tasks as she pulled Deidre down the corridor and toward her chamber.
“He needs milk,” Deidre told her aunt as she unbuttoned her coat.
Rhona pushed open the door and led Deidre inside. “And he shall have some,” she stated in a voice that brooked for no argument. If ever there had been a woman who could move the earth, it was Rhona. She was a quiet woman, often kept to the background, but when crisis struck, she stood tall, her calm presence seeing to all those under her care. “Dunna worry, dear. He shall be fine.”
“I hope so,” Deidre whispered as she carefully lifted the boy from her chest and gently placed him in Rhona’s waiting arms, a warm blanket wrapping about him. Her skin and dress where stained with dried blood as was the babe’s. Still, the way he waved his arms made her heart soar.
A moment later, women rushed in bringing warmed milk as well as clean linens and hot water with a small tub. Rhona handed the boy to Deidre and all but pushed her into the armchair by the hearth. Then she handed her the milk. “Go ahead and feed him, dear. I’ll see to the rest.”
For a few moments, the chamber exploded in a flurry of movements as all was set up. Then Rhona chased the other women out before turning to Deidre. “I’ll go see to his mother,” she said, a gentle smile on her face. “Call me if ye need anything.”
The moment the door closed behind her aunt, Deidre felt the whole world fall away. Her eyes were glued to the boy’s little face as he drank hungrily, his right fist clenched in her sleeve. He had big, blue eyes and…a tuft of red hair on the top of his head.
Deidre’s heart clenched at the memory of her own child. Little Rory with her auburn curls!
Her hand brushed gently over the boy’s soft face, his skin still covered in dried blood. Then she touched the pad of her finger to a red lock, lying curled upon his head. It felt soft and warm and wonderful.
Tears began streaming down her face as she rocked him. “All is well, leannan. Yer mother will soon hold ye in her arms. Dunna worry. All shall be well.”
11
An Echo of the Past
The moment Morag shoved him with her bony hands out of the chamber and told him he was no longer needed, Alastair breathed a sigh of relief for he could no longer bear to look at Miss Harmon. The sight of her made his heart twist in agony, and he could barely keep at bay the memories that lingered nearby. He prayed she would live, but he could not hold her hand during this fight.
Exhausted, he stumbled down the corridor toward their chamber, only to pull up short as Deidre’s soft voice drifted to his ears. She was humming a lullaby she’d often sang to their daughter and his heart clenched with longing.
Without doubt, he knew what he would find on the other side of the door. He knew he would find his wife with a child in her arms, a soft smile on her lips and joy in her eyes. Only this child was not hers.
Alastair sighed, knowing that more heartache lay in their future. Then he pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold.
Deidre’s warm gaze found his, and the smile that lit up her face nearly brought him to his knees. “He’s well,” she whispered, rocking the sleeping boy in her arms. “He drank the whole bottle.” She brushed a loving finger over his little forehead. “Aye, ye were a hungry little lad.”
Alastair swallowed as his gaze drifted over the sleeping child. A part of him uttered a warning, urging him to be cautious, but he could not keep his eyes away. Slowly, he stepped closer, noting the boy’s warm skin, glowing rosy in the soft light of the room, now clean after a good washing. His eyes were slightly slanted. His thin lashes resting against his cheek bones as he slept peacefully, his little fist curled around one of Deidre’s fingers.
“Look at his hair,” Deidre urged him, a smile on her lips and her eyes brimming with tears. “’Tis red, like Rory’s.”
Alastair swallowed as he knelt down beside them. “Aye, he’s beautiful.”
Deidre sighed, the breath shuddering past her lips. Still, the soft smile stayed on her lips, bravely fighting against the sorrow that lingered. “Will ye hold him?” she asked then. “So I can change and wash.”
Alastair’s heart clenched in panic, and yet, he could not deny that a part of him wanted to hold the child.
Pushing to his feet, he gently took the babe from her arms. The boy stirred slightly, a soft sigh leaving his lips, before he settled contentedly into the crook of Alastair’s arm. He was warm and soft and so very much alive.
He felt like Rory.
Seating himself in the armchair, Alastair alternately watched his wife and the child in his arms, a part of him crying out at the sense of family that washed over him while another urged him to reach out and hold on to it, not allowing it to slip away.
That night, he slept with his wife in his arms and the child tucked safely between them. They had tried to settle him in Rory’s old crib, but he would start crying every time they set him down and only calm the moment they settled him back in their arms.
“He feels lonely,” Deidre whispered. “He misses his mother.”
Alastair understood his wife’s need to remind herself of the reality of their situation for a part of him wishe
d they could remain in this dream as well.
Over the next few days, they settled into a delicate routine caring for the child. Morag had seen to the boy’s mother, remaining at her side as Miss Harmon was still very weak. Fortunately, the old healer had managed to stem the blood flow and was now cautiously optimistic that the woman would recover.
“Can we see her?” Deidre asked on the third day, the boy in her arms. “I’m certain she’ll want to meet her son.”
Alastair had cautioned her, raising the question of why Miss Harmon had set out on her own, placing herself as well as her child in danger. Deidre, however, had waved his objections aside, unable to contemplate the notion that a mother−any mother−would not wish to see her child.
“Aye, she’s awake,” Morag replied, watchful eyes drifting to the boy. Still, Alastair thought to see a hint of apprehension in them. “Perhaps the sight of him will rouse her spirits.”
Smiling, Deidre stepped up to the door, then waited for Alastair to open it. Slowly, she moved inside, gesturing at him to follow. “Sophie,” she whispered, her eyes gliding over the woman in the bed. Her skin was still pale, but no longer ashen. Her lips once more held a little colour, and her chest rose and fell with even breaths. “Sophie, I’ve brought ye yer son.”
Remaining by the foot of the bed, Alastair watched as Deidre strode closer, then sat down at the edge of the mattress. “He’s well as I promised ye.”
Miss Harmon’s eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, she seemed thoroughly disoriented. Then her gaze drifted over Deidre before dropping lower, touching upon the auburn-haired head of her child. Instantly, she tensed, her fingers clenching into the bedclothes. “No,” the word left her lips on a shuddering breath, panic widening her eyes. “No, take him away. I don’t wish to see him.”
Alastair tensed, and he saw his wife still as well. The smile slid from her face, replaced by a look of utter confusion, her arms tightening on the child as though to shield him from the harsh truth. “But ye dunna understand,” Deidre began gently, lifting up the child so Miss Harmon could see his lovely face. “He is well. Ye dunna need to fear for him. He is well.”
Still, the look of terror on the woman’s face did not change. She all but tried to push herself to the other side of the bed, her arms trembling with the effort. Her breath came fast now, and Alastair feared she might lose consciousness if this continued on much longer.
“Deidre,” he said softly before rounding the bed and coming to stand by her shoulder.
Her eyes held sorrow as she looked up from the boy’s face, a hint of agitation coming to it as he began to squirm, no doubt upset by the harsh voice filled with panic that drifted to his ears.
“Hand him to me,” Alastair said, kneeling down beside his wife. “I promise to keep him safe.” His gaze drifted to Miss Harmon’s wide eyes. “Ye’ll speak to her.”
Nodding, Deidre handed him the child, the pad of her thumb brushing over the boy’s brow before her hands fell away and she turned toward Miss Harmon.
With the boy’s soft weight settled in his arms, Alastair took one last look at the child’s mother before leaving the room. In his heart, he could not understand how any parent could refuse their child. Still, a part of him knew that sometimes there was a good reason why a woman could not bond with her babe.
Poor Miss Harmon.
12
Dark Memories
As shocked as she was to hear Sophie reject her son, Deidre was not blind to the signs of terror, of sorrow in the woman’s fearful face. Her eyes were wide, and yet, brimming with tears while her hands could not seem to relinquish their tense hold on the bedclothes as though they were a lifeline keeping her afloat.
“What happened?” Deidre asked softly as she carefully reached out and placed her hand on Sophie’s.
The young woman’s eyes closed, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “I never wanted this. I did not know what to do.” Her lips began to quiver, and the hand under Deidre’s tensed further.
“I know,” Deidre murmured softly, scooting closer and gently rubbing her hand up and down the woman’s arm. “I know.”
For a long while, they sat in silence as Sophie fought down the panic that held her in its clutches. Little by little, her body began to relax and her breathing evened. Still, when she finally opened her eyes, the sorrow Deidre had seen there still shone with the same painful acuteness as before.
“Will ye tell me what happened, Sophie?” Deidre asked again, knowing only too well that pain had a way of settling in one’s bones if it was kept a secret. It was by far better to share it and thus rob it of at least some of its power. “Did ye know ye were with child when ye came here?”
Swallowing, Sophie nodded. “I didn’t want to go, but I couldn’t…” Shaking her head, she closed her eyes. “Lady Whitworth has always been so good to me. I couldn’t bear the thought of her thinking that…” Again, her voice trailed off.
“Thinking what?” Deidre pressed, squeezing the woman’s hand. “Who’s the child’s father?”
Sophie flinched as though slapped, her eyes going wide with memories dark and painful.
Understanding found Deidre, and her teeth gritted together at the sight of the other woman’s pain. “Is he still in yer life? Do ye still need to fear him?”
Sophie drew in a shuddering breath. “No. It was a house party, a former acquaintance of Lord Radcliff’s.” She swallowed. “I haven’t seen him since.” She sighed, and her hand clasped Deidre’s. “I tried to forget, but then…”
Deidre nodded, thinking of John and the man he’d once been. The rake. He had changed, but it would seem his old acquaintance had seen no need to. “Ye realised ye were with child.”
Fresh tears tumbled down the woman’s cheeks as sobs tore from her throat. “I did not know what to do, and then we came here, and when the pain started, all I could think about was that I needed to get away.” Her eyes were wide as her hand clutched Deidre’s harder. “I sneaked outside and got a horse. I thought if I could get to a nearby village…” She shook her head. “I didn’t want anyone to know. I wasn’t thinking. I was…I…”
“Ye were afraid,” Deidre finished for her. “Of course, ye were. There’s no shame in that, Sophie. No one here would blame ye for anything.” She glanced over her shoulder at the door. “Lady Whitworth, Adelaide, is a kind and understanding woman. She wouldna have blamed ye or looked down at ye. Believe me. These people out there,” she squeezed Sophie’s hand, casting her a warm smile, “they take care of one another. They’re family, to me as well as to ye.”
Dropping her gaze, Sophie shook her head. “I’m only the governess. They wouldn’t−”
“Ye’ve taken care of Tillie since she was a babe?”
Glancing up, Sophie nodded.
“Then ye’re family,” Deidre told her, her gaze drifting to the straw figurines on the woman’s nightstand. “Tillie made these for ye?”
Sophie nodded, a soft smile coming to her face. “She’s such a sweet child, always taking care of others.” She sighed. “She made these for me to help me feel better. Of course, she could not have known that…”
Deidre patted her hand. “I understand that ye were afraid, but ye need to know that ye’re not alone. Has Adelaide come to speak to ye?”
Sophie nodded once more. “She has, but I pretended to be asleep.” She pressed her lips together. “I could not face her.”
“If ye want, I will speak to her,” Deidre offered. “Explain everything. Ye will see that she will stand by ye. She will make sure that that man will never get anywhere near ye again.”
Although doubt still clung to Sophie’s face, her muscles began to relax and a spark of hope came to her wide eyes. “You truly think so.”
“I know so,” Deidre told the other woman, knowing that there was nothing more powerful to battle fear than someone who would stand by one’s side. “She will help ye as ye’ve helped her with her children. Now, she’ll help ye with yers.”
Pan
ic widened Sophie’s eyes once more. “No, I do not wish to see him. I can’t!”
Deidre sighed. “Why not? He’s but a babe. A sweet, innocent, little lad with a beautiful tuft of red hair.”
A shudder of revulsion shook Sophie, her jaw clenching as she fought against the panic that welled up in her heart. “Like him,” she gritted out. “Red hair like…like him.” Her eyes closed. Then she pinched them together as though trying to rid herself of the memories. “I can’t look at him. I simply can’t.” Her eyes opened then, once again brimming with tears. “I know that he is innocent. I know that he deserves to be loved, but…” She shook her head, deep sorrow in her gaze. “I cannot be his mother. If I tried, I would only fail him. He would know that…”
Deidre felt her own heart clench at the heartbreak in Sophie’s gaze. “Do ye not at least wish to try? The day might come that ye will regret ye gave him up. At least hold him and−”
“No!” Sophie replied with a surprisingly strong voice. “I’d rather risk regrets of my own than to force them on him. This is the one thing I can do for him.” She inhaled a deep breath as her hands reached for Deidre’s, her eyes intent and full of purpose. “I need to let him go. It’s the only way I can give him a chance at happiness.”
The thought of giving up one’s child−no matter the circumstances−was something Deidre couldn’t grasp. A hollowness spread through her chest at the thought, and in her mind she saw the little boy’s soft face, eyes closed in slumber as he’d lain in her arms.
So precious.
“Do you want him?”
Blinking, Deidre stared at the young woman, her heart beginning to hammer in her chest as Sophie’s words slowly sank in. “What?”
The young woman swallowed. “I’ve heard of…your loss,” she whispered. “I know he cannot replace your daughter, but if you think you could love him…”
Deidre surged to her feet as fear gripped her heart, squeezing it until it hurt. Her feet carried her away from the bed, to the window, then the other side of the room and back, her breath coming in panting gasps that she feared she might faint. Her hands rose to rub over her face, and she found her cheeks wet with tears.