The Butterfly Formatted

by Vale, Victoria

  “Will you carry me across the threshold, Mr. Gibbs?” she teased once they’d reached the front doors, finding them open in welcome.

  With a little smirk, he handed the puppy off to Serena, who carried her inside. Then, he was sweeping her off her feet, gathering her to his chest as easily as he always did.

  “Most certainly, Lady Gibbs.”

  He strode through the door, but did not put her down, carrying her all the way into the drawing room, where light refreshments had been prepared for their arrival. Serena was already seated upon a loveseat, feeding Daphne bits of a scone.

  “Welcome home, Livvie,” he murmured, before seeking her lips.

  Olivia clung to him and returned the kiss, feeling like a girl again as he held her tight, his big body as always a shelter for her against the world. If it were up to her, she would remain here forever, her ear against his chest so she could luxuriate in the beat of his heart.

  Niall waited until after he and Olivia had tucked Serena and her puppy into bed, until after his wife had donned her nightgown, and the house had quieted for the night. Once certain he could slip away, he left Olivia reading by the fire in their new chambers with a kiss upon the forehead and the promise to return directly. He gave her an excuse of needing some air, and she did not question him. He supposed she understood how new this all was for him, the oddness of it all. Perhaps she thought he needed to escape. The truth was, he wanted nothing more than to climb into his new, big bed, with his beautiful wife, and make love to her before falling fast asleep. The journey from London had exhausted him, and he was ready to settle into his new life here at Dunvar House.

  However, there was one matter he must attend to before he could truly move forward, living happily with his bride and the little one he’d taken as his own daughter. In his heart, Serena had been his from the moment he’d first held her as a babe, even knowing who’d sired her.

  As he left the house, the bottom of his fine, new greatcoat swirling around his ankles, he made straight for the stables. Once there, he shunned the help of a groom, taking pleasure in preparing his own horse. It had been weeks since he’d done this, but some things could never be stomped out of him, and he would take comfort in that. He now owned a grand home and had a lady for a wife—but he would always be Niall Gibbs, stable boy turned groom, turned Stablemaster, turned butler. Olivia had shown him he had no need to be ashamed of his roots, for his path had led him straight to her.

  He made quick work of saddling a gelding, then led him out of the stable and mounted up. Niall took his time leaving the lands he now owned, absorbing the sights of the places he’d frequented as a boy—the stable, paddocks, and carriage house, the pond where he’d kissed Olivia for the first time, even the tiny cottage he’d once lived in. The new Stablemaster now resided there with his family, the warm, yellow light spilling from the windows telling him they had not yet turned in for the night.

  Once he’d appeased his nostalgia, he set off on the road to town, with a particular destination in mind. He took his time, riding at a meandering pace and simply enjoying the freedom of riding and the cold, night air filling his lungs with a cleansing sensation. Once in the center of Edinburgh, he left his horse in the nearest mews, promising to come back for him in an hour. Then, he made one last stop, making a purchase that he would likely need once he reached his final destination. He wrinkled his nose with distaste as he slid the pint-sized bottle of gin into his breast pocket. To this day, he could hardly abide the sight or stench of blue ruin, but would tolerate it tonight.

  He knew the way well enough, finding the rough, crumbling house on the edge of town as easily as he had the last time he had visited. At first, he’d wondered if he had come too late, but the sound of a rough, scratchy voice booming from inside the dwelling told him otherwise. Raising his fist to knock, he stood back and waited for someone to appear.

  “Goddamn it, woman … the door! Can’t ye hear, or are yer ears as useless as the rest o’ ye?”

  Niall stiffened, unprepared for whomever would greet him. There certainly had not been a woman here when he’d last visited.

  But, when the door swung open, that was exactly what he found—a tiny, slender mouse of a woman with bedraggled brown hair and sad, green eyes. Perhaps a beauty in her day, she looked as if life had beaten the color out of her cheeks and the luster from her eyes. Conall had, obviously, beaten the bluish-black color into a few places he could see—her cheekbone, her collarbone, the inside of one arm. He grew nauseous at the evidence that his father had not changed one bit.

  “Whadye want?” the woman rasped, her voice thick and tortured as if she had wept every day for her entire life.

  Niall cleared his throat and peered past her, finding Conall seated in a chair near a small hearth, a bottle of gin resting empty at his feet. Apparently, he’d arrived just in time.

  “I’m here to see my Da,” he declared.

  The woman started as if he’d slapped her, one hand coming up over her chest. “Conall Gibbs?”

  “Aye.”

  “Ye’ve got the wrong Gibbs. My Conall’s only got one son.”

  Was this woman daft? Could she not see that he was the mirror image of his da?

  “I know,” he said slowly, in case she was in her cups, or touched in the head. “I am him.”

  Shaking her head, she opened the door wider, revealing the last thing Niall would have thought to find. A lad of about eight years sat on the floor, playing with a collection of worn soldiers carved from wood. He glanced up at Niall, revealing a pair of dark eyes and a mop of black hair.

  Niall felt as if he’d just taken a fist to the gut, the wind knocked from him as he stared into the eyes of his brother. The boy had to be Conall’s—looked too much like Niall not to be.

  “’Is names’ Gawain,” the woman declared. “And ’e’s my lad. Just who the ’ell are you?”

  Before he could open his mouth to reply, Conall left his chair, lumbering across the room toward them. “Devil take ye, idiot woman! Who the hell could ye be talkin’ to—”

  He faltered at the door, his eyes going wide as he finally recognized Niall. Time had not done Conall any favors. The man had gotten fat, his belly swollen and his jowls drooping like a dog’s. The whites of his eyes had taken on a yellowish cast, his lips puffy and cracked, his hair thinned away to almost nothing. The change took Niall by surprise, though he realized it ought not have. The man had been drinking himself to death for years. The only wonder was that he’d survived so long … long enough to start an entirely new family.

  The boy was looking on from his place on the floor. Gawain … a mirror image of himself at that age. He’d pegged him to be eight, but would venture to guess that he must be younger than that. He’d grow up to be big like Niall.

  Conall pushed the woman aside. “Well, I’ll be damned. It’s really you.”

  “Aye, Da,” he replied, reaching into his coat pocket to retrieve the gin. “Are ye gonna let me in?”

  Conall’s eyes glittered at the sight of the bottle, and he snatched it from Niall’s hand before motioning him in.

  He stepped tentatively over the threshold, his eyes darting as he took in the home his father had occupied since being let go from Lord Rowland Callahan’s service. The small, two-room house was serviceable, but had seen better days. Conall’s neglect showed in the threadbare rugs, rough walls, and leaking roof. The bucket near the hearth held very little coal, and the place was just shy of comfortable, the heat of the small fire barely enough to sustain them until morning.

  It was a dismal place, worn and neglected. Pity lanced him at the evidence of his father’s lack of care for his wife and child.

  “Niall, my wife Evie, and my son, Gawain … Evie, my other son, Niall.”

  By the look on Evie’s face, he assumed she had not known Conall had another son, and probably knew nothing of his life before their marriage. He pitied the woman, who likely hadn’t realized what she was getting herself into with his da
until it was too late. Evie reminded him of his maw, with her downtrodden expression and lowered voice—to keep from angering or otherwise irritating her brute of a husband.

  Plunking into his chair, Conall opened the bottle of gin while casting his wife a glare.

  “Well, dinnae just stand there, nitwit! It’s bloody freezin’ outside! Get the man tea or some such!”

  Evie flinched and rushed off to do his bidding, but Niall halted her with an outstretched hand. “Thank ye, but that willnae be necessary. I’ll not be here long.”

  Conall shrugged, eying him over the gin bottle as he took a long drink. “Well, look at ye! Ye always did think yerself some sort of fancy gent, didn’t ye? Who’d ye con into giving ye his clothes?”

  Niall sighed, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. “I didnae rob anyone, old man. I came to tell ye some news … good news. I’ve gotten married.”

  Sputtering as he pulled the bottle away from his lips, Conall coughed and choked, taking him in from head to toe with a curious eye. “And what fine lady did ye trick into marryin’ you?”

  “Ye know who. Olivia and I have been married nearly two months now. We’ve just arrived back in Edinburgh, and will live in Dunvar House.”

  Conall scoffed with a shake of his head, his lips curled in distaste. “Never could be satisfied with yer lot in life, could ye? Ye couldnae have been content with stealin’ my post out from under me … ye had to have the entire house and the girl, too.”

  Niall’s hands clenched, his jaw following suit. He’d known the man would still be as mean as a snake, but had hoped … well, it was foolish to hope where Conall was concerned. It had been a mistake coming here, hoping that a decade apart had changed things between them.

  “Listen,” he ground out, trying to keep his composure. “I only wanted to tell ye the news, and also … well, if ye need work or anythin’ like that, Dunvar House is always open to ye.”

  Conall’s nostrils flared, the redness of his face deepening, crimson splotches appearing on his drooping cheeks. “Ye’ve got some nerve, boy! After what ye did, gettin’ me sacked—”

  “Ye got yerself let go when ye did this to my face!” Niall snapped, his nerves now frazzled beyond repair. “Perhaps if ye’d stopped yer bloody drinkin’ and kept yer temper under control, ye might still have yer position!”

  “That’d be convenient, eh?” his father groused, slouching in his chair. “For ye to get to lord yer new position over me. Ye can take yer offer and shove it up yer bunghole. Me, work for you? It’d be a cold day in Hell a’fore that happens.”

  Niall ran a hand through his hair, his entire being vibrating with frustration and anger, all the hurts of the past rushing upon him at once. He could hardly keep himself in check, the scars crossing his back and the one slashing his face burning and itching with the phantom agony of the abuse he’d suffered at this man’s hand.

  “Goddamn it, ye old sod!” he bellowed. “Why d’ye always have to be such a stubborn fool? Ye’ve got yer wife and yer boy livin’ in squalor, and I’m offerin’ to help ye get them out of it!”

  Evie shrank into a corner, arms wrapped around herself. She looked frightened half to death, her wide eyes taking in their exchange. Gawain remained in his place on the floor, though he’d ceased playing with his soldiers to look and listen, as well. Conall unfolded his body from the chair, setting the bottle on the mantel with a glare in Niall’s direction.

  “I dinnae need a thing from ye. I never asked no one for nothin’ … not you, not the earl, not even my own da!”

  Niall clamped his mouth shut around the response that had been sitting on the edge of his tongue. Never in all his life had he heard Conall speak of his sire, except to say that he’d been Stablemaster of Dunvar House before him. The one time Niall had asked about the grandparents he’d never known, the man had cuffed him on the side of the head and told him not to pry into matters that weren’t his concern. What could this sudden mention of his unknown grandsire be about?

  “What’s yer da got to do with any of this?” he prodded, his mouth going dry as he anticipated the answer.

  Conall edged toward him, dark shadows crowding his eyes and making them appear like dead, black coals. The man fairly shook with the force of his rage, his chin trembling, chest heaving.

  “Why d’ye think I was always warnin’ ye not to get tangled up with ’em?” he blustered. “I tried … for yer own good, I tried to teach ye to keep away from ’em … but ye’d never get it through yer thick skull that ye could never be one of ’em anymore than I coulda!”

  Niall’s head spun as he tried to make sense of it all. His father was speaking in circles, but in the midst of it lay some grain of truth, some discovery that had been hidden from him all these years.

  “Why would ye have been? Ye were a stable boy, a groom, then Stablemaster just like yer da.”

  “He wasnae my da!” Conall cried, pounding a meaty fist against the nearest wall. The house fairly shook with it, his strength obviously not gone just because he’d gotten old and fat.

  Niall frowned, shaking his head. “What are ye talkin’ about, old man?”

  “My maw was always the vilest whore in all of Edinburgh—all of Scotland, most like. Never could keep her knees together. But, she was a pretty thing, just like that chit ye’ve always fancied. Delicate and fair and … the lairds could make good sport of her when she was amenable—which was often.”

  Niall’s jaw dropped, one hand coming up over his churning belly as he absorbed this. “One of them got her pregnant.”

  Conall shrugged. “Aye, but she was married to the man who ended up raisin’ me, so by the law, I was his. Oh, but the son of a bitch could never let me forget I wasnae his … or that he and my maw were stuck livin’ out back o’ the stable while the other children of my sire—some friend o’ the old earl’s—got to go to school and live in a fine house and have everythin’ I couldnae!”

  He felt as if he might be sick as it all became clear to him—so clear, he could not believe he’d never seen it for himself. Conall had always hated his lot in life, complaining that he could have been as great a man as any other if only he’d had everything handed to him like those born to privilege. He’d never ceased reminding Niall that he’d been born a nobody, just like him.

  Except, Conall had not been born no one … he’d been born of a lord, someone with power and privilege. Someone who might have improved his circumstances, but who had chosen not to, leaving him to be raised by a Stablemaster and the woman who’d conceived him in sin.

  “I had to see the bleeder often,” Conall went on, unable to stop now that he’d begun. “Had to see him comin’ to visit with his wife and other children and see what I couldae had, what I should’ve been. I was his son, same as the ones with his wife. But, d’ye think he gave me the time o’ day? Do ye think he cared at all about the bastard whelp he’d gotten on some whore chamber maid?”

  Niall sighed, his jaw unwinding and his hands going limp at his sides. He had always suspected Conall’s hatred for him ran deeper than anything he’d ever understand. There had always been this notion in his mind that his da hated him because he hated his own self, and because Niall was a part of him. Now, he could see things more clearly. His father hated Niall for earning the favor of the Callahan family, for making friends with Adam and Olivia and earning the sort of privilege and acceptance that bond came with. That he’d been let go and had his post given to Niall had only added insult to injury.

  “And now, here ye come to rub my nose in yer new life,” Conall rasped, his glare intensifying, his mouth curving into an ugly sneer. “Does it make ye feel good, boy? Ye like comin’ here in yer fancy clothes to flaunt yer new wife and the fine house ye now own in my face?”

  “I only came to offer ye my help,” Niall said wearily, shoulders sagging. “But I see now ye’re too intent on nursin’ yer anger to see it as the gift it is. I’ll go now, as it’s clear ye’ll never be able to see past yer own h
atred. I cannae do anythin’ about yer da not claimin’ ye. But I can help yer wife and yer boy … my brother. The offer stands if ye can pull yer head out of yer arse long enough to find yer way to Dunvar House.”

  Nodding at Gawain and tipping his hat to Evie, he turned to leave.

  Conall’s footsteps rang out over the floorboards as he approached—at a run by the sound of things.

  “Bugger ye, ye snobby little—”

  Niall spun and struck with swift efficiency, his palm against Conall’s throat bringing him up short before his raised fist could land. He grasped the man’s throat and propelled him back against the wall and held him pinned there, fingers tightening around his windpipe. His da’s eyes went wide as he clawed at Niall’s hand, grunting and gasping for air. Evie cried out, sinking deeper into her corner while Gawain crawled back across the floor to get out of the way. Both looked on with wide, awe-filled eyes. Niall could not tell if they were afraid of him, or simply surprised that anyone would dare raise a hand to Conall.

  Leaning close, Niall made sure his da looked him in the eye and saw the truth before it had fallen from his lips. “I’m not a lad anymore, Da. Ye put yer hands on me again, and I’ll kill ye. Ye ken?”

  Conall shook with fury, his face reddening as he tried to fight his way free. But he was old, and Niall still young and strong; for once, he was now outmatched. After a brief struggle, he went still, glaring daggers at Niall as he nodded his understanding.

  “Yer wife and yer boy, too,” he added. “If I come back here and see bruises on them again, I’ll kill ye slow … ye’ll be beggin’ me to end it by the time I’m finished. Aye?”

  “Aye!” Conall spat. “Now get off me!”

  Niall let him go and stepped away just before the man could spit upon his shoe. He could not conjure any anger over it, finally seeing his da for the pitiful soul he was. There was nothing else he could do here. He could only hope the man heeded his threat. He’d return to ensure that the woman and child weren’t being abused. He hadn’t been able to save his own maw before her death, but he could help Evie and Gawain.