Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
After a restless night spent pacing the nursery, watching her son sleep and listening out for any unexpected sound in the hallway beyond, Octavia stirred from the slumber that must have claimed her some time before dawn.
She groaned, her muscles stiff; she had fallen asleep in the armchair again, and her body was paying for it.
Did all of that really happen? Is Malcolm really here at Huntfield?
She rubbed the back of her neck and tilted it from side to side to try and loosen a tight knot.
A moment later, she forgot her morning aches as her gaze shot toward the empty bed where Simon should have been.
“Simon?” she shouted lamely.
“Millicent?” She called for the night nursemaid instead, who was also worryingly absent from the room.
Jumping up from the chair, she ran for the door, cursed as she found it unlocked, and rushed out into the hallway. Millicent must have taken Simon downstairs for his breakfast without waking her.
But I warned her. I told her not to cross paths with Malcolm.
She tried to comfort herself with that thought as she raced across the landing and down the stairs.
Judging by the sun that still hung low in the dusky sky, it was not yet so very late in the morning.
Perhaps, with his affliction and the doctor’s prescription for rest, Malcolm would not rise from whichever guest chamber he had taken until much later.
But as her search took her to an empty breakfast room, an empty dining room, and to the kitchen staff who had not seen her boy, any sense of calm evaporated.
What if Millicent had left to go to her quarters and rest, figuring her presence was not required if Octavia was already in the nursery?
What if Millicent had informed the day nursemaid to take over, but the day nursemaid had been delayed?
What if, in that gap of time, Simon had awoken, seen the door partially open, and seized his opportunity for adventuring alone?
He did like to wander. It would not have been the first time he had snuck off to explore.
Oh heavens, no…
Octavia opened every door and looked inside, her heart beating hard in her chest, her desperation rising with every room that her son was not occupying: he was not in the library, the music room, the sun room, the drawing room, the secondary parlor, the study.
She was on the verge of screaming, her nerves on a knife edge, when she caught sight of the butler coming down the main stairs in something of a rush.
“Mr. Lincoln?” she called out.
The butler stopped, wide-eyed, and blanched at the sight of her. Not exactly a good sign.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” he said, moving again, coming toward her.
“Have you seen Simon?” she asked, forgoing niceties. “He is not in the nursery. He is not having his breakfast.”
The butler frowned. “I haven’t, Your Grace.”
“Do you know where Millicent might be?”
“I haven’t seen her either, Your Grace.” His frown deepened. “I apologize for using the main stairs, but I… went to see what His Grace would like for breakfast, and… well, he was not there. I had hoped to find him before you awoke.”
An awful thought surged into Octavia’s mind. “Do you think he has kidnapped my son?”
“What?”
“The duke. Do you think he has kidnapped my son?” she repeated, realizing full well how insane she sounded.
“I highly doubt it, Your Grace,” the butler replied in a soothing tone. “The young master will be with his nursemaid somewhere. Perhaps he was fussing, and Millicent didn’t want to wake you, so she took him to play.”
“Well, she should have woken me!” Octavia rasped, her heart racing so fast she feared it might either burst from her chest or stop altogether.
Where would she take Simon to play at such an hour?
It was a pleasant morning, dry and clear, but not yet too hot from the summer sunshine. She thought of yesterday, and how fervently her son had enjoyed the reflecting pool.
“I must search everywhere,” she said, heading for the front door. “And you must help me.”
The butler followed without question, wearing an expression of concern that Octavia did not like one bit.
What if Malcolm really had taken their son away?
It was not that she did not believe there had been an accident, and that her husband was suffering some malady of the mind, but what if there were other symptoms of the injury?
It had already changed Malcolm’s behavior completely.
What if it could change his behavior again, making him do something rash?
He might think he needs to take his heir to Highcastle. Goodness, he might be mad!
She felt sick just considering it: her son, frightened and alone with that stranger, riding the never-ending journey to Scotland, to the rainy glen where Malcolm had his family seat. A journey she could still remember keenly.
Dew soaked through her stockinged feet, for she had not paused to put on shoes. Half-running across the lawns, she barely winced as she met the white gravel of the ornamental gardens, so fixated upon finding her son that there was no time for pain or discomfort.
Simon was not at the reflecting pool, nor was he at the pavilion where he sometimes liked to play.
He was not in the apple orchard or under the cherry blossom trees.
He could not be found where the roses grew or in the rockery where he liked to lift the stones to see what insects were living beneath.
Where is he? Oh, heavens, where is he?
She pushed through an iron gate into the sheltered realm of the walled gardens, but could not find him there either. Still, she pressed on, until there was no garden left to search… only the beautiful greenhouses that stood across a charming piazza of cool, white marble.
“Oh… oh, thank goodness…” she croaked, her heart leaping into her throat as she spotted a little figure through the glass.
Her heart sank again as she realized her son was not alone.
Not caring that her feet were soaked and dirty, or that she likely looked as if she had been dragged through the rose bushes backward, she tightened her hands into fists and marched across the piazza to the open doors of the greenhouse.
There, seated upon the stone lip of a fishpond, the water stirred up by a fountain in the shape of a cherub, was her son and his father.
The resemblance was even more glaring, seeing them side by side with their dark hair and their green eyes. Neither had noticed her yet, and appeared to be playing with paper boats, sailing them back and forth across the surface of the water.
“Just what do you think you are doing?” Octavia said, shaking.
And where on earth is Millicent?
She would never be so cruel as to remove someone like the nursemaid from her employment, but there would be some very stern words.
Malcolm glanced up, that radiant, breathtaking smile curving his mouth.
You will not disarm me with a smile today.
“Is it nae obvious?” he asked, laughter in his voice. “We made boats together. We’re still trying to see which will sink first. Aren’t we, lad?”
Simon nodded, grinning. “A fishie bit mine!”
“Nay, lad. ‘Twas nae a fishie, ‘twas a whale. A mighty whale that’s been plaguing our ships for weeks, trying to sink us.” Malcolm put on a funny accent, and the little boy laughed heartily; such a sweet, musical sound that it almost took the edge off Octavia’s anger.
Almost.
“I have been worried sick!” she blurted out, her fingernails digging into her palms. “I woke up, and my son was not there! Do you have any idea what that is like? Any idea of how afraid I was? You should not be here alone with my son, when I do not know where he is!”
Malcolm sat back slightly, his eyes narrowing in fresh confusion. His paper boat bumped into the side of the pool, and he made no move to retrieve it; he just stared at Octavia as if seeing her for the first time.
“Why should I nae spend time with my own son?” There was a deeper question in the tone of his voice, as if he was asking himself at the same time.
Perhaps, he was trying to piece a narrative together that might explain why he did not live with his family, why he had never met his son, and why Octavia was utterly furious right now.
Deciding that this was not a conversation she wanted to have in front of Simon, she went to him and scooped him into her arms. She hugged him fiercely, whispering, “You must never do that again, Simon. You must never run off and not tell me where you are.”
“I was with Papa,” he replied, clearly puzzled.
It was a curious sort of blow that struck Octavia squarely beneath the ribs. For so long, it had been just the two of them, and she did not know if she had the strength to share her son with his father. With a man who was not supposed to be anywhere near Huntfield.
“He told you he is your papa?” she asked tightly.
Simon pulled back, smiling. “He’s a nice papa.”
“I am sure he is.” Octavia put on a pretense of sweetness. “But you have to go inside and have your breakfast now, or you will not grow up to be big and strong.”
“Like Papa?”
Another blow to the chest.
“Exactly,” she said, her cheeks aching from the smile she had to force. “Now, can you tell me where Millicent is, so she can take you inside for breakfast?”
Simon pointed to the other end of the greenhouse, where the nursemaid lay fast asleep in a garden chair.
I suppose I kept her awake with all of my pacing, Octavia reasoned, not wanting to be too hard on the lovely nursemaid, whom Simon adored.
After all, how was Millicent supposed to remove Simon if she had crossed paths with Malcolm by chance?
The woman could not very well refuse the duke’s request to spend time with his son, could she?
Holding back her temper, Octavia carried the boy over to the nursemaid and gently woke her.
Millicent’s eyes snapped open, an expression of pure horror falling across her face as she saw Octavia standing there.
“Your Grace, forgive me. I only meant to rest my eyes for a moment.” She paused, glancing down the greenhouse to where Malcolm still sat by the fishpond.
“I couldn’t say no, Your Grace. He… was most insistent.
We were just seeing if any strawberries had fruited yet, and… there he was.”
“It is quite all right,” Octavia said, handing her son over. “But, right now, I need you to take Simon for his breakfast. I must have a word with my husband.”
The nursemaid held Simon close and, with a hasty nod, headed out of the greenhouse by the rear exit.
In their absence, Octavia took a moment to draw in a steadying breath before she turned and marched back to where her husband sat. The boats were out of the fishpond now, drying on the ledge. His fingertips traced the edges of one, his gaze intent, as if he were mesmerized by the paper creation.
“You are not to do that again. Am I understood?” she rasped.
It was the strangest thing, how motherhood could change a woman. She was not the scared bride she had been on their belated wedding night, fearful of Malcolm’s strength and whether his coldness also meant cruelty.
She was not afraid to speak to him as an equal. Although that might have had something to do with the fact that he was not himself, too. This version of him was someone she had no qualms about scolding.
Malcolm looked up at her slowly. “I am his father, lass.” He paused, cocking his head to one side. “I don’t understand why ye’re so angry. I don’t… remember what I’ve done to make ye look at me like that.”
Her ire faltered slightly, uncertain of how she was looking at him.
But then it rose again, that frustration, that anger, that fear that had struck her when she had seen her son’s bed empty. “I do not care if you remember or not,” she said, trembling a little. “You made a promise to me, to stay away from us.”
“I don’t remember,” he repeated quietly, his face pained.
“I know.” She puffed out a breath. “I know, but… I am telling you now that you made a promise to me. But I am not unsympathetic, Your Grace; I realize you are only here because you do not remember, because of your injury. That is why I am not asking you to leave.”
There was such sadness in his green eyes that she had to struggle to continue, “That being said, I do not want you close to my son. It will only hurt and confuse him when you leave again, when you are better.”
Malcolm rose from the edge of the fishpond, and Octavia’s neck tilted back to follow his towering height.
It was then that she noticed his shirt, sticking to the sculpted muscle of his chest where the water had splashed him. Quite a lot of it, in truth, her gaze drawn to the suggestion of his body, conjuring up old memories that brought a feverish flush to her skin.
“What did I to ye, eh?” he asked quietly. “Why do ye nae want Simon to have both of his parents with him? I want to be here with my family, and I don’t like nae understanding. I don’t like nae remembering either of ye.”
She heard a thickness in his voice, but there was a determination in it too: the strength and authority she remembered, albeit less intimidating.
“I’m nae the kind of man who’d leave his family behind, so I want ye to explain to me,” he added firmly.
Not angry, not confrontational, but rather serious. His easy smiles were gone, yet warmth remained in his beautiful eyes. Even when they first met, she had marveled at the beauty of those eyes: such an unusual shade of green, like summer leaves or forest moss.
She was so transfixed, so caught up in the novelty of how he was looking at her, that she forgot why she had been so angry in the first place.
“It was… what we agreed,” she said, a little dazed, though perhaps that was because she was craning her neck to hold his gaze.
“When?” His voice was patient. Compelling.
“When we married,” she replied. “Before we married, I suppose. We were both looking for the same thing.”
“And that thing was distance?”
She nodded.
He drew in a breath, his teeth grazing his lower lip in thought. “It just doesn’t sound like me,” he told her. “I’m nae calling ye a liar or saying ye’re mistaken, but the me I ken, right now… the me with a decade missing from his mind wouldn’t want what ye say I agreed to.”
“But it is what you agreed to,” she urged, frustration flaring again.
He moved a step closer to her, her senses infiltrated by a familiar scent: lavender soap and something darker, richer, spicier. A fragrance so unique to him that she had never forgotten it.
“Ye’re the only familiar thing to me, right now, even though I don’t ken ye,” he explained, his hand coming up…
but stopping short of touching her face.
“I sense ye’re familiar, and I want to ken my son.
So, while I understand what I agreed to, until I remember why I made that deal with ye, why I would ever make such an agreement, I will nae be staying away from either of ye. ”