Page 43

Drew leaned back against the broad trunk of the old oak, cradling little George in his arms, and crooning to the child. He had stolen his son from the nursery maid while Mary slept. George was already two months old and summer was setting in again. Spring’s blossoms had turned to green leaves to shade George from the sunshine which was nourishing the crops Drew had helped to plant in the fields.

His son’s fingers wrapped about Drew’s thumb.

Every time he looked into the boy’s eyes his heart melted. He adored his son. He had hated naming him Framlington, yet that was the name he had and thus it was his son’s. But a name was not the thing that made a man.

He could tell George had strength of will and purpose, even now. It was in his grip of Drew’s thumb. He had been determined to come out when he wished to, not waiting for a midwife, a doctor, or even his aunt to arrive. Drew was the one who caught his son, when George slithered from Mary’s body.

Ever since that moment, George had Drew wrapped around his little finger. The only hardship was to leave the child in his cradle.

George gurgled, kicking a single leg free of his loose blanket; a strong healthy leg. The boy was getting fractious, hungry for a feed, the one thing his son could not get from his father. But everything else, everything else, he could.

Drew rose and walked across the front lawn to the house. Caro was sitting outside on a bench. She doted on his son too, but he knew she also remembered the children she had lost.

He touched her shoulder. ‘Would you like to hold George briefly? He is due a feed and getting fractious but it will do him no harm to wait a moment, before I take him to Mary?’

‘No. He wants his mother and his milk.’ She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. ‘Go on. I am happy here.’

‘Very well.’ He smiled too, then walked on.

He had tried to cheer her, but she refused to take part in social engagements and she would hide in her rooms when people called. It was only when he and Mary were there that she would occasionally dine with them, and sit around the house reading or sewing, or come into the garden to cut flowers or gather seeds. She may be physically free of Kilbride, but she was still imprisoned by him. At least her divorce would complete soon.

When he entered the front hall, Mary stood with her hand on the newel post of the dark oak staircase, her eyes looking glassy from sleep. She looked even more beautiful, womanlier, with her breasts swollen with milk.

She held out her hands to take George. ‘I was just coming to fetch him.’

‘I will come upstairs with you.’

Andrew’s eyes glowed like warm honey, as he watched her feed George.

‘Where were you?’ she asked.

‘Sitting beneath the trees, enjoying the day. He likes the leaves swaying above his head.’

She glanced down at George, whose eyes were shut while he sucked. His little hand rested on her breast.

‘When Papa came to see George, he said you are an excellent father.’

He laughed. ‘I recall being called many things by your father a year ago, and excellent was not among them. But if I am, it is because I adore you both.’

‘That was before Papa knew you. You know he and Mama love you now.’

His eyes glittered with amusement, devil-may-care thoughts shining in them. Fatherhood and marriage had not made him any less of a rogue. When the family met at John’s, he was always whipping the children up into a riot with boisterous games. For a man who had shied away from her family, he was now a pivotal part. Mary only wished that Caro would join in and find happiness too.

A smile twisted Andrew’s lips. ‘I think the next time I see Edward, I shall call him Papa, and see how he reacts.’

‘He will love that.’