Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“If he thinks that reckless behavior will provoke me into speaking to him, he could not be more wrong,” Octavia muttered to herself as she watched from the window with her heart in her throat.
At least twenty times now, she had forced herself to resist the urge to open the window and scream at her husband for his idiocy.
What was he thinking, riding with Simon in such a dangerous fashion?
Did Malcolm wish to make her even angrier?
He was certainly going the right way about it, even if she would not give him the satisfaction of talking to him.
“I couldn’t do anything to stop it,” Millicent said, standing awkwardly in the bedchamber.
The nursemaid had come directly from the stables to inform Octavia of what Malcolm and Simon were doing. But, by then, it was already too late, and the pair of them were already out there on the lawns, racing back and forth.
“The gall of him!” Octavia seethed as she pressed the heel of her palm to her chest, rubbing slow circles to try and loosen up her tight lungs.
She had not slept a wink last night; she had not even tried.
Instead, she had settled herself into the armchair by the fire and had not moved until dawn.
Frozen in disbelief at the betrayal her husband had enacted.
She would have preferred to find out that he had lovers or that he had lost the entirety of their fortune over being lied to, regardless of whether it was by omission or not.
All night, she had gone over the conversations she had had with Malcolm since he came back from London.
Annoyingly, she could not think of a single instance where he had actively lied.
The same was true of the doctor, who must have known; he, too, had not directly been untruthful, just clever with his words.
Still, that did not lessen the betrayal.
If anything, it made it sting all the more, for Malcolm must have known that what he was doing was wrong.
Yet, he continued the ruse, made her fall in love with him, and dared to kiss her, all while pretending to be someone he was not. Well, someone he was not anymore.
“Millicent?” she said, chewing her lip.
The nursemaid cleared her throat. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“If someone you cared about kept something rather important from you, what would you do?”
Millicent was quiet for a while before replying, “I suppose it would depend on why they kept it from me, Your Grace. Was it to protect me, or was it to protect themselves?”
That was the very question that Octavia had been asking herself, for though Malcolm had said he withheld the truth for her benefit, she could not quite believe it. The trouble was, she could not figure out why he would have kept it to himself if it was for selfish reasons.
Did he think I would ask him to leave? Could it be that he, the real him, wanted to stay?
Frowning, she watched as her husband, her son, and the mighty stallion charged out of view.
For the next few days, Malcolm went down to the breakfast room every morning, hoping it might be the day that Octavia decided to speak to him again. And every morning, he found only Simon there with his nursemaid, the woman having another excuse as to why Octavia was not joining them.
It was the same at luncheon and dinner, and on Malcolm’s daily wanders through the manor, trying to find her ‘by accident.’ The duchess of the house did not want to be found. She either kept to her bedchamber or asked to see Simon in the nursery or the sun room, without Malcolm present.
Of course, he knew he could just go to her bedchamber or the nursery and demand an audience with her, but he did not want to make matters worse. Giving her time seemed to be the wisest thing to do, even if he was becoming impatient, like a prisoner waiting to be given his sentence.
Why hasn’t she told me to leave yet? It puzzled him that he was still at Huntfield, and if he had not known any better, he might have thought that she was punishing him with the not-knowing. The waiting. The uncertainty.
Still, there was one small blessing to be found, and it came in the form of Simon.
“Ready with yer stick?” Malcolm asked, standing on a bridge in the estate woodland with Simon next to him.
The boy waved the stick he had chosen. “Aye, Papa.”
“After three, throw it into the water.” Malcolm paused. “One… Two… Three!”
Both of them threw their sticks and ran to the opposite side of the bridge, their eyes fixed on the quick-moving water below, where small fish darted hither and thither.
Just then, the smaller of the two twigs emerged from beneath the bridge.
“That’s mine!” Simon cried triumphantly. “I win!”
Malcolm laughed and glanced at his son, a moment before his own stick sailed past. “Aye, ye won. Ye must have some winning magic in ye, laddie. I was sure it would be my stick this time.”
Over the past few days, he had spent more time with his son than he ever thought he would.
Mostly, they had ridden horses or walked in the gardens or picked fruit for the kitchen or wandered in the forest for mushrooms. Simple activities, filled with Simon’s lively, never-ending chatter and curiosity.
The longer Malcolm had spent in the boy’s company, the more he had realized, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he loved his son. The last thing he wanted to do was leave the boy and be denied the privilege of watching him grow up.
But I can’t stay.
The stark fact kept ambushing Malcolm out of nowhere, stabbing him in the heart. After what had happened, any hope of being a family had evaporated; it was just a matter of when he would be asked to return to Scotland.
“We play again,” Simon said, rushing off the bridge to fetch another stick.
Malcolm looked toward the nursemaid who sat nearby on a tree stump, glancing anxiously toward the manor.
“Not now, laddie,” he said. “Ye have to head back for yer luncheon.”
Millicent’s head snapped around, a look of relief washing over her face. The boy had a somewhat strict schedule which, admittedly, Malcolm had not been following over the past few days.
“Play again!” Simon protested, picking up a stick.
Malcolm sighed. “We can come back and play after ye’ve had yer luncheon.”
“No, now.” The boy gripped his stick, his face a picture of defiance.
“Yer luncheon will get cold, and ye’ll complain about it,” Malcolm warned, his tone even. Patient.
But the child’s lower lip began to tremble, and as Malcolm moved forward, meaning to corral the boy back toward the manor, Simon darted away. The child’s speed was a surprise to Malcolm, and though he was obviously much, much quicker than his son, it took a second for his brain to catch up.
And in that one second, Simon’s foot slipped on the damp wood at the start of the bridge, right beside the muddy slope that would have dropped him straight into the river.
The boy screamed in panic as he began to topple, the nursemaid unleashing a yelp too.
Malcolm covered the distance in a blur, his hand roughly grabbing the back of his son’s collar before the boy could fall into the river. He yanked Simon backward, his heart beating so hard it was a percussion against his ribs.
Crouching down and spinning his son around, Malcolm could not hold back his fear.
“What did ye do that for, eh?” he asked, harsher than he had intended.
“I told ye that ye were going back for yer luncheon. What did ye run off for? Do ye ken what might have happened if ye’d fallen in? Can ye swim, eh? Nay, ye can’t!”
It was not anger, but it sounded like it. Rather, it was the pure terror of narrowly avoiding catastrophe, narrowly avoiding a terrible accident, rattling out of his mouth before he could stop to think.
“Ow, Papa!” Simon screeched. “You’re hurting me!”
Malcolm realized he was gripping his son a little too tight and relaxed his hold. “That was stupid, Simon. Ye could’ve hurt yerself!”
He thought of Quinn Hunter at the river on the Highcastle estate. That boy had been older, and could swim, and had been familiar with those waters, and yet the river had almost claimed him.
“You hurt me!” Simon raged, his little face turning bright red as his hand touched his throat.
A faint pink line was beginning to show on the boy’s neck, where his collar must have rubbed against his skin when he was yanked back.
“I saved ye,” Malcolm countered, as a sinking dread began to plummet from his chest into his stomach.
This is why I can’t stay.
He had been asking himself why he could not, aside from the matter of Octavia being furious with him, and now he had his answer.
Malcolm did not trust himself to be so close to his son, fearful that he might yet prove to be like his own father.
He realized that he had been waiting for the moment that a sharp word would leave his lips or he would hurt his son, whether deliberately or not.
That moment had arrived, and it chilled him.
“Nasty papa!” Simon barked, tears streaming down his face. “Nasty!”
Malcolm blinked, astonished at how much a child’s words could sting.
“Ye did a very silly thing,” he said sternly. “Ye should have done as ye were told, and then ye wouldn’t have a sore throat. Ye’re very lucky that something worse didn’t happen to ye.”
His stomach churned, for he sounded so much like his father. That beast of a man had never had to raise his voice, not when his contempt had been clear enough. And though Malcolm felt no contempt, he knew how it must sound to Simon’s ears.
Appalled, Malcolm got up and turned to the nursemaid. “Take him back for his luncheon, Millicent.”
“Your Grace, he’s just a child. He—” the nursemaid tried to say, but Malcolm was already walking off, out of the forest and across the emerald lawns to the manor.
In the depths of his heart, he still wanted to stay, still wanted to see his boy grow up, but now he was certain that he could not.
He was not gentle and kind like Octavia, and perhaps that meant that Simon would grow up to be soft and sensitive and ill-prepared for life, but if Malcolm’s nature was the alternative, then maybe that was for the best.