Page 37

Thirty-Six

KILMARNOCK ABBEY, EDINBURGH - DECEMBER 24, 1816

Dav,

Please send more shirts. My tailor has the measurements. I’ve ripped a few and the sheep ate one. Black and white only, please.

Mr. Grayson’s limbs are perfect—if a little long. It is fortunate that he is so good-natured and was not offended when you first termed him a cricket.

You may confirm the changeling theory with mother. It certainly feels that way, though I think the emotion I am experiencing is called happiness. I am incapable of it, as you know, and therefore must be a changeling.

In a more serious matter, Sorcha is very much your cousin and, as such, is determined to vex me. I should probably also inform you that she is with child, though unmarried—do not get any ideas. She has asked me to consider adopting the child as my own. Though I haven’t the slightest idea how I would go about making that legal, I must admit her argument is compelling. Do not share this information with Mother or Cee. I will write them in due course.

Warmest regards,

Xander

P.S. I may have underestimated the scope of the repairs required when I first arrived.

XANDER

Though the house was by no means presentable, it was in a state to be decorated on Christmas Eve. The guest rooms, the billiards room, the library, and the music room were the only ones still in desperate need of repair. With the servants’ quarters, the kitchens, the study, the dining and breakfast room, the drawing room, and bedrooms enough for Sorcha, Tom, myself, and a just completed nursery all in need of only minor cosmetic changes.

The scent of fresh lacquer lingered heavily in the air at some part of the house or other on a daily basis. We had little need of Miss Gillan and she had returned home and only visited once or twice a week when her specific skill set was required.

Once the servants’ quarters were sufficient to be lived in, we were able to hire a housekeeper in Lock’s wife, a valet—Godfrey had more than earned his promotion to butler—a couple footmen, a cook, and some maids. In the spring, we would need to add a gardener, stablemaster, and such, a position Lock had expressed interest in. The Black Swan proved to be an exceptional source of loyal staff who did not bat an eyelash when they found Tom and me in compromising positions. At least, as long as no one paid any mind to subtle adjustments to uniforms or wild flirtations.

Sorcha had looked near to popping for more than a month at this point. And she hadn’t wavered in her decision in the slightest. She was resting comfortably—or as comfortably as she was able to at present—on the settee beside the fireplace, directing Lock with the wreath she wanted above it. Murray had proved handy with the evergreen, holly, hawthorn, berries, and ribbon and had fashioned them into a more than passable centerpiece.

Tom was out in the cold, fetching a yule log. Though the winter was colder than I preferred, it was not as severe as I had expected. Snow had been sparse and light, dusting the scenery only to melt with the next day’s rain.

Tom returned in a great flurry of fanfare with an impressive pine log he rolled inside. Fenella gave a bleat of greeting from outside to the cheers of our newest staff who hadn’t had the benefit of the early days with her. They were all rather fond of her, offering her carrots and other treats on every viewing.

Jamie rose to fetch the sheep something from the kitchens, ignoring my protests entirely.

I met Tom by the door, mostly closed to keep Fenella out, and pulled him close for a warming kiss. There was mistletoe after all…

The tips of his ears were icy when I cupped them, and his nose was the same delightful, ruddy shade he turned all over in our bedroom.

“Aye! Knock it off! I swear the two of ye…” Sorcha complained from her perch.

Her complaints earned Tom another kiss, just to spite her. We were still under the mistletoe.

Behind us, Murray hauled the heavy log to the fireplace, now properly festooned. “Are ye ready?” he called.

Jamie came running back and slipped in the hall in his stockinged feet. He had far too many carrots for one sheep to eat clasped in his hands—though I had no doubts Fenella would manage it. “Jus a minute!” He yanked open the door and handed the beast a few carrots that she took with a pleased bleat. Then, from nowhere, he pulled a red strand of ribbon and tied it festively around her neck. The sheep allowed it, never once trying to charge him or shitting where he might step.

The blatant favoritism was beginning to grate.

Token accepted, she set off to her pen, which she had taken to quite happily. The lads decorated it for the holiday with evergreen boughs she had gleefully chewed bare spots into.

“Ready!” Jamie called after shutting the door behind Fenella and joining us in the drawing room.

I shoved Tom’s great coat to the floor before guiding him over to the chair I’d claimed. We settled there, in the chair too small for two, wrapped up in each other.

“Ye dinnae want to do the honors?” Murray asked.

I shook my head while Lock’s short, red-cheeked wife, affectionately called Missus, brought over two glasses of spiced wine. Tom’s neck was a temptation I could not resist after my third—or was it fourth—glass of the stuff. The sweet, spicy combination left me feeling warm and languid, and a little sensual. And the outlet for such feelings was right there .

Murray heaved the log onto the crackling fire. It dimmed under the weight of the addition but slowly, the log caught and began to pop pleasantly.

The staff settled in to watch and play a few rounds of various card games, but I was content to curl up in the chair with the man I loved.

Months ago, the night of the masquerade, we had sat in chairs very much like this one—with several feet between us—and for the first time in my life, I allowed someone to carve a door in the walls that guarded my heart.

Now, we had a home, and a family we were building.

Tom had seen every vulnerable, abrasive, tender part of me, shared his in return, and he loved me. The same way I loved him.

Sorcha made an odd noise on the settee beside us.

When everyone turned to look, she explained, “It’s nothing. Just a cramp.”

Everyone returned to their games and drinks while she rubbed her belly. Laughter mingled with the crisp sparks from the yule log and the clinks of glasses into a lovely symphony.

“Do you want your present?” I whispered in Tom’s ear. He nodded sleepily, polished off his glass, and set it aside.

“Goodnight, everyone,” he called, grabbing my hand and dragging me out of the room to raucous jeers.

Before I knew it, we were in our room with the lock snicking into place. “As much as I approve of where your mind has gone, I did have an actual present to give you.”

“Me too. But also… after…” His blue eyes sparked with mirth. He must have snapped out of whatever languid haze had washed over us downstairs.

“After. Me first?”

At his nod, I bent to retrieve my gift from under the bed, nerves fluttering. I handed him the flat rectangle wrapped in brown paper and tied with a simple red ribbon.

Tom’s expression was one of boyish eagerness even as he carefully, reverently, pulled the ribbon off and pulled the paper away.

It was upside down when he managed to free it, but I heard the catch of his breath when he recognized the familiar shape of a wooden frame wrapped around a stretched canvas.

My cheeks heated as I waited for him to turn it over and when he finally did, I had to look away.

His gasp echoed in the quiet room, hanging there for a moment, two. Then he broke the silence with a ragged, “Xander…”

“Obviously, we cannot display it. But…”

“Are you sure?”

A laugh burst free from my chest, loosening the pressing anxiety. “Yes, it is obscene. And besides, no one else gets the privilege of seeing you that way.”

Tom’s long finger traced over the brown and grey lines I used to capture his form in watercolor. “I look like this?” he breathed.

“Prettier than that—I’m not skilled enough to capture the way your eyes flicker in happiness or the precise curve of your lips when you’re thinking of me.”

“Xander, I—” Reverently, he set the painting on the bed, reached for me, and claimed my lips with his own.

Our breaths were ragged when he broke away. I couldn’t help but chuckle when he rounded the bed and reached under his side.

The box he pulled free was small and rectangular, wrapped haphazardly in the same brown paper I’d used, but he’d tied it with twine.

“Before you open it, I need to explain. This came into my possession on the day we met. I’ve kept it with me for years, guarded it like a treasure, because it reminded me of you. I just wanted you to have it—in case you ever consider giving me the opportunity to leave you again. You should know precisely how desperately I clung to the scraps of you I could gather before you were mine.”

I could do nothing but kiss him for that speech. After I pulled away, I worked on the twine with shaking hands. What I found beneath the paper was somehow entirely surprising and not at all.

It was a delicate gold snuffbox inlaid with agate surrounded by flowers and vines.

A memory sparked at the feel of the cool metal in my palm. Davina, causing havoc at the Grayson wedding, thieving a snuffbox, and the gangly lad I’d been introduced to whose palm I plopped it into. The gangly lad with the pretty Prussian blue eyes and soft palms.

“Christ,” I murmured through a tight throat. “I couldn’t even remember your name.”

Tom’s gasped. “You remember?”

I nodded, then caught his lips with mine again. Tears were slipping down both our cheeks when we broke apart. “You give me this lovely, sentimental gift, and I gave you erotic art of your own arse.”

“I know. I think I got the better end of the deal,” he teased.

A knock echoed throughout. Tom strode to open it and found Missus there, red-cheeked and wringing her hands.

“Sorry to interrupt, lads. But it’s Miss McAllen—the babe is coming. Jamie’s run to fetch the midwife.”

It took no more than a beat before the instinctual terror flooded through my veins. “Fuck, I don’t— Did she want— Is there something we can do?” I babbled.

“I dinnae believe so. She was very explicit when she said not to let either of ye in no matter how much ye fuss.”

“But—”

“I dinnae take orders from ye. Not in this Yer Grace.”

“Bloody hell. You’ll inform us the second we’re needed—for anything?”

“Aye. But try to get some sleep. Bairns come in their own time.”

Tom and I shared a single look before we silently agreed to pace the hall outside Sorcha’s room to absolutely no point or purpose.

It was early morning, Tom and I long having flopped down to sit on the floor outside the room, when Missus finally opened the door and whispered, “She’d like family to support her,” in my direction. I left Tom curled on the floor with a quick glance at his nodding face.

The next two hours were filled with sights and sounds that absolutely affirmed my preference in gender. Fortunately, after the initial horrors, I was able to keep facing the wall and holding her hand. Seeing my brave, bold niece so frightened and in such pain, kept the vomit where it belonged.

I hated the fact that I was Sorcha’s best, only option by way of family. A mother should be here. Or a loving husband. Instead, she was left with her irritating, fussy uncle.

But she was strong and in short order, a pink, wrinkly babe was swaddled in her arms.

A boy.

She traced the lines of his tiny scowling face, complete with a dark brow, her tears mixing with his as she bent to whisper something into his ear.

When she spoke aloud, it was with a strangled voice. “Do ye want to hold your son?”

I met her watery eyes with my matching ones. “You’re certain?”

“Yes. Meet Ewan Thomas Hasket.” She passed him carefully, waiting for me to grip him under the head and back in both hands before wiping away her tears.

“Thomas?” I asked through my own thick, syrupy throat.

“He should carry both of his fathers’ names.”

It was impossible to restrain a sob, but I forged ahead between tears. “And Ewan?”

“That was my pa’s name.”

“Fitting—strong.”

“I thought so.”

“Ewan Thomas Hasket, Marquess of Rycliffe”

“Oh Christ, not even an hour old and he’s got a bleeding title,” she joked through more tears. “Missus, can ye send Tom in?”

The housekeeper nodded, then opened the door and dipped her head toward the bed before stepping out. I heard Tom clamber to his feet before he stumbled in, rumpled and terrified. Precisely the way a new father should look.

His jaw dropped as he took in the sight. An exhausted Sorcha, furiously swiping at the tears that refused to stop falling. My own dropping unrestrained on the soft blanket wrapping little Ewan, who was the only one to cease crying and instead released an angry snuffle every few breaths.

“Meet yer son,” Sorcha repeated, steadier for the rehearsal.

“A boy?”

“Yes. Ewan Thomas Hasket.”

Tom melted in understanding, his hand covering his heart. He approached my side, but didn’t reach for the babe. Instead, he found her hand. “Are you well, Sorcha?”

Her laugh was sharp and ironic. “No, but I will be. Little lad couldnae ask for better pas.”

“Do you want to hold him?” I asked.

He looked absolutely petrified, brows high and lips parted. There was nothing but sincerity in his nod. When he accepted the bundle, a shocked laugh escaped. “How is it possible that every single one of you shares the brow?”

“Dinnae ken. But I’m glad we do.”

I pressed a kiss to her temple while we watched Tom fall in love. It was so plain, so obvious on his face and in his countenance that I wondered how I had missed it all those years. Tom Grayson loved fast, hard, and forever.

When his eyes began to water, we all shared a laugh.

“Fusspots, the lot of us,” Sorcha murmured.

“Here,” Tom murmured, handing the babe back to Sorcha.

“Oh,” she breathed, eyes only for her son.

“Do you want to rest? The two of you? Or we can take him. Whichever you’re more comfortable with,” Tom said.

“He can stay,” she whispered.

Tom and I stepped out and shut the door behind us. He led us back to our bedroom, where he pushed me onto the bed and stripped my boots and his own before he turned me to lay back with the rest of my clothes still on. He curled up alongside me in much the same state.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Overwhelmed. Exhausted. Terrified. In love. Pick one.”

“Hmmm.”

“You?”

“Much the same.”

He nuzzled into my neck and drew a soothing breath. “It will be well, though. After all, the boy just has a little extra love in his life. No one was ever hurt by that.”

“No, certainly not,” I agreed, leaning down to steal a kiss.

“Just so you know, I am so glad you decided to leave London. We never could have had this in London.”

“Not cross with me for leaving you any longer?”

“No. Not when it brought us this—a home. And a life together.”

After another sleepy kiss, we settled to fall asleep in our bed that we selected, in the room we made our own, in the house we repaired, in the country we chose. My Scottish scheme had been a brilliant notion indeed.

Outside, a bird gave a two-note chirp as I drifted off, overflowing with love.