Chapter 40
Patrick
stood at Sunshine Phillips’s front door and waved good-bye to his in-laws, unwholesomely grateful that he was seeing the back of them.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like Madelyn’s parents.
He did. Her father was tall, distinguished-looking, and quite obviously brilliant.
Her mother was handsome as well, with a scholarly mien and a sharp eye for any misstep.
But they both had the very disconcerting habit of changing tongues in the middle of conversations, a habit that had left his mind reeling—and he was not unfamiliar with many of their favorites.
And that had just been casual dinner conversation.
He’d wondered, during dinner, why everyone was so matter-of-fact about the glorious fare. Then he’d realized it was because they were all gearing up for his grilling.
Madelyn’s mother had come first. Her testing of him in Latin had been uncomfortably thorough and he’d had no choice but to reveal exactly what he knew.
Fortunately, he and Madelyn had had the time to discuss their time in the Middle Ages from the comfortable perspective of truly married souls and his lady wife had no more illusions about his skill with that mostly deceased tongue.
So, he’d been tried to his utmost and come away mostly unscathed.
Madelyn’s father had taken over, first in French, then in a handful of other languages Patrick couldn’t speak very well, then finally in Gaelic. It was when he had found himself comfortably in his own tongue that he’d begun to relax.
His mistake, of course.
After dessert they moved to the living room, where he juggled more questions from his new in-laws in their inexhaustible supply of languages.
And the questions were ones he hadn’t answered very well.
Who married you?
Where were you married?
Why weren’t we invited and if the service was done in Latin, why weren’t we consulted about its accuracy?
He’d stalled, he’d hedged, and he had outright lied to soothe and placate. And he’d felt the assessing gaze of Sunshine Phillips on him the entire time.
It was when Madelyn’s parents had asked him where he planned to live, how he intended to support Madelyn, and how happy Madelyn would be in the wilds of Scotland, that an unaccustomed sense of nervousness overcame him.
He feared he didn’t have any good answers for any of those questions either.
Somehow, though, Madelyn’s parents had apparently come to some sort of conclusion about him.
They had found him worthy of his degree, congratulated Madelyn on choosing an appropriately intelligent mate, then departed for their ivory tower with smiles, waves, and plans to attend another wedding in Scotland quite soon.
They hadn’t seemed unhappy with Madelyn’s choice.
Sunny was a different tale entirely.
“I brought pictures to sort,” Madelyn said as they stepped back from the door. “Sunny, are you up to it?”
Patrick looked at his sister-in-law and imagined she was up to quite a bit more than just sorting pictures, but he was in her house, so he couldn’t throw her out of it before she got to it.
“Pictures?” Sunny echoed. “Sure.” But she was staring at Patrick purposefully, and he received the message quite clearly.
The Inquisition was nothing, laddie, compared to what you’ve yet to experience.
Or a sentiment to that effect.
Patrick smiled weakly, took Madelyn’s hand, and made himself comfortable where she put him on Sunny’s couch.
He watched his lady wife sit on the floor before him, then looked around himself in an attempt at distraction.
Not that he hadn’t been here before, but that had been under less than ideal circumstances.
Tonight, at least, he had survived dessert at Miss Lobelia’s table.
Sunny’s home reminded him a great deal of Moraig’s—because of the herbs, not because of the crooked walls. She dried herbs in bunches from the ceiling, she had pots aplenty on shelves that were the slightest bit uneven, and the whole house smelled of things that were good and wholesome.
Now, if he’d just been as comfortable here as he was at Moraig’s, life would have been fine.
He looked at Sunny as she sat on the floor across from her sister.
He supposed she sat there so she could shoot him meaningful looks from time to time.
She was quite beautiful, he conceded without hesitation, looking a great deal like her sister, with dark hair and fair skin.
But he suspected Sunny had never worn her hair back in a chignon, nor put on a business suit. Stockings? He doubted she owned any.
But the fire in her soul was a great deal like his wife’s, and he suspected the man who learned to be near her and not find himself scorched would be a happy man indeed.
Much like he himself was, warming his hands against that raging inferno that was Mistress Madelyn MacLeod.
He looked at the reason for that ridiculous bit of happiness and found that he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to touch her.
He ran his hand down her mane of riotous hair, received a quick smile over her shoulder in return, then shivered as that echo of Culloden magic whispered through him.
He’d almost grown used to the fact that it seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside him, always there under the surface when he was around Madelyn.
He didn’t know why it was there, but he suspected that something had been trying to tell him she was meant to be his.
He wished it hadn’t taken a trip back in time to convince him of what he should have seen from the start.
But he couldn’t, in all honesty, say he regretted it. He was married to the woman he loved. Could he, really, ask for more?
Well, perhaps a vote of confidence from her sister, but that likely wouldn’t come without a price.
Madelyn reached up and covered his hands that rested on her shoulders. She twisted around to smile up at him.
“They liked you.”
He took a deep breath. “A man could hope.”
“My father is flying to Scotland without the excuse of a paper to deliver,” she said. “He likes you.”
“And your mother?” he asked.
“She’s coming, too, without a professional reason. No higher praise.”
“You know, they could be coming to see you get married,” he said dryly.
“They wouldn’t bother if they didn’t like you.”
He could scarce believe that, but he wasn’t the one to say. Madelyn’s parents were an unknown quantity; if she said they were pleased, then he would believe it.
He squeezed Madelyn’s hand. “What do you suppose your sister thinks of me?” He looked at Sunny then, giving her his most charming smile.
Sunny regarded him coolly. “Her sister is still unconvinced.”
“Sunny,” Madelyn chided, “stop.”
“He hurt you,” Sunny said.
“He made up for it.”
“Pretty is as pretty does,” Sunny said stubbornly. “I’ll watch him a while longer before I decide.”
“I cleaned up the loo after myself,” Patrick offered.
She was having none of that. “You might have picked up the bathroom, Patrick,” she said crisply, “but you didn’t have to pick up the pieces you left of my sister.”
He nodded. “You’re right.”
“If you hurt her again, I’ll be the one coming after you. And don’t think I can’t use a sword, because I can.”
“You can’t,” Madelyn said placidly.
“I can learn.”
“Sunny, I love her, too,” he said.
“So you say, but how are you showing it? What are your plans for the future? What are you asking her to give up? What are you giving up for her?”
“Sunny,” Madelyn warned, “you’re pushing it.”
“I’m asking the questions our father is too feeble to ask. He looks at Patrick as an opportunity to brush up his Gaelic. I’m looking at him as your potential husband.”
“Potential?” Madelyn asked dryly. “That’s sort of a case of the cow already being out of the barn, isn’t it?”
Sunny glared at her sister, then turned that glare on him. “Well? Any good answers on what you’re doing to prove you’re worthy of her?”
“Sunny!” Madelyn exclaimed.
“Think of it as repayment for Conal’s torture of you,” Patrick offered, giving Madelyn’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. He looked at Sunny. “I’m not afeared to answer what you want to ask. And I hope I’m not asking your sister to give up all she holds dear. Her great-grandmother’s house is hers—”
“For the moment,” Madelyn said with a sigh.
“For as long as you want it,” he said. “I paid off your loans, so you needn’t sell it.”
Madelyn dropped the handful of photos she was holding and turned fully around to gape at him. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Patrick,” she said, looking quite stunned, “that was over a hundred grand!”
He shrugged.
“You can’t—”
“I already did.”
“But that’s my debt—”
“And Gilbert’s mine,” he said. “It weighed on you and I could ease that. So I did.”
Madelyn started to cry. Patrick slid down to sit on the floor, then put his arms around her and pulled her back against him.
“Patrick,” she whispered against his neck, “you really didn’t have to—”
He stroked her hair. “I didn’t have to,” he agreed, “but I wanted to.” He waited until she’d pulled back to look at him before he spoke again. “’Tis but money, Madelyn. Now you’re free, to work if you will or turn your hand to other things—without any burdens weighing on you.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You said me aye,” he said with a smile. “That was enough.”
She kissed him. “I suppose that now you’ve razed your bank account, we’ll be camping in your house?”
He laughed. “I think I might have enough left for a chair or two. We’ll see to it when we go home.”
“And that’s another thing,” Sunny said briskly. “Where will she call home? Are you dragging her off to the Highlands? And what are you going to do for money, now that you’ve spent all yours on her loans?”
“I have enough to see to her quite comfortably, even after that,” Patrick assured her. “As far as where we’ll live, we’re still thinking on that. And as far as work goes, I can’t say as of yet. I am without employment at present.”
“I can relate,” Madelyn muttered.