He’d danced with Rhona at those parties, often enough to bring down his mother’s censure on his head. As the heir, he was meant to partner all the estate’s womenfolk, not just the winsome lass he fancied.
“You were always the belle of Dun Carron.”
She was. Being the laird’s son hadn’t saved him from coming to fisticuffs with the local lads, who resented that bonny Rhona Macleod was so obviously smitten. It wasn’t just his parents who had objected to his partiality for the prettiest girl in the glen. It wasn’t just his parents who had predicted trouble ahead for the laird’s son and the crofter’s daughter.
At the time, neither that jealousy nor those predictions of doom had seemed to matter.
Malcolm should have paid more attention.
Rhona gave a dismissive wave and avoided his eyes. “You were always a flatterer.”
Back then, he had been, in part because he loved to watch her get into a flutter at his extravagant compliments. Now so many years later, that lighthearted lad and lass seemed like characters in a play. Pretty dolls lined up in a nursery.
“Where’s Patrick?” A few gaps in the rows of shortbread indicated the lad had sneaked in to sample his mother’s baking.
“I’m guessing he’s made himself scarce, in case I mean to box his ears for going behind my back and smuggling you into the barn.” Such love weighted her tone that Malcolm suspected ear boxing was a rare occurrence. Whatever other suffering his son may have undergone, it was clear he’d never lacked a mother’s affection.
“You’d have trouble reaching his ears. He must be a foot taller than you.”
It felt strange to tease Rhona. He hadn’t teased anyone since that appalling day when they’d been ripped apart.
“He takes after his father.” She didn’t smile, although he noticed that she, unlike him, had preserved some lightness of spirit. “Please sit down. Are you still hungry?”
To his surprise, he was. For too long, eating had been a habit rather than a pleasure. “That shortbread looks good.”
“Would you like tea? Or there’s brandy in the cupboard if you’d prefer that. I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
He hid a wince at that description. Visitor! It needled that he couldn’t claim a more permanent place in her life. He was determined to change that. At the very least, if Malcolm established a relationship with Patrick, Rhona would see a lot more of him.
“On a cold night so close to Christmas, brandy would be welcome.”
He sat at the table and pulled off his gloves as he watched her bustle around the kitchen. When she took off her gloves, he caught a glint from the band of gold on her fourth finger. Another kick to his gut. Another reminder that he needed to control his more primitive reactions.
She set out a plate of shortbread, before she pulled a bottle of brandy from the cupboard and poured two glasses. He hadn’t expected her to drink with him. Reminder that this was a mature woman who had undergone experiences he didn’t yet understand. That perhaps he’d never understand.
Something he hoped in part to remedy now. “How did you survive in London? I swear I won’t judge you. I’m just glad you stayed alive.”
She looked annoyed as she sat opposite him. “I already told you I didn’t sell myself.”
“You were so pretty, you could have become a rich man’s mistress.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
He ignored her peppery response and sipped his brandy, surprised at the quality. He’d expected something fit only for cooking. Although what he’d most like was a dram of whisky. “Rhona, I’d dearly love to know how you left me as a penniless crofter’s daughter, yet here I find you with a flourishing farm, half of Scotland away from Dun Carron. I assume you married. You’re wearing a wedding ring.”
“I did marry,” she said in a flat voice.
That answer crushed any frail hopes Malcolm had that she wore the ring as a way to preserve appearances. It was a possible explanation. After all, she had a son to protect, as well as her reputation.
Again he told his masculine instincts to behave. They had no right to smart at the thought of her giving herself to another man. If that other man had saved her from poverty and prostitution, Malcolm should instead go on his knees and thank the lucky devil.
Although he wasn’t quite so saintly, he struggled to keep his tone reasonable as he spoke. “Straightaway?”
The ironic glance she sent him indicated he failed. “Not far off. Patrick was born in wedlock, so on paper, he’s no bastard.”
Malcolm supposed that was a good thing, too, although every cell of his body howled in protest at some other man claiming the boy as his son. “Patrick knew about me, even if he didn’t know my name.”
There had been surprise and curiosity on his son’s face when Malcolm turned up out of the snow, but more at the fact of his arrival than his existence.
“Yes, Patrick knew that I carried another man’s child when I married my husband. Or at least I explained as much as I could to him when he was old enough to understand.”
“Did he mind?”
“I think he must always have guessed something of the sort. He was one of those babies who was born wise.”
A new fear gripped Malcolm. “His stepfather was unkind to him?”
Rhona shook her head, and a gentle smile unlike any Malcolm had seen so far tonight curved her lips. Her affection for the man she’d married was clear. Jealousy raked long, bloody marks across his heart.
“No, his stepfather was the best of creatures.”
Malcolm shifted and clenched his fists on his lap under cover of the table. Again he reminded himself that he should be grateful that Rhona had fallen in with a good man.
“Where is this paragon?” He struggled to stifle his sarcasm. Yet again, he failed. “Are you expecting him home for Christmas?”
Sadness deepened Rhona’s eyes to malachite, and Malcolm felt small and unworthy, even before she answered. As he recognized her genuine grief, he squirmed in shame.
“Samuel died five years ago, down in London.” She paused, as if reluctant to share the news with her former suitor. “I’m a widow.”
Chapter 5
Across the table, Rhona watched more of the tension leach from Malcolm’s face as she told him she was a widow. Which troubled her. After all this time, he shouldn’t harbor hopes of making her his. For pity’s sake, they were different people from those wide-eyed, fatally innocent children back in Dun Carron.
She’d grown up fast in London, a process that started even before that, with her cruel ejection from her home. She’d learned to read people, and men in particular. Malcolm was interested in her as a woman, whether out of sentimentality or curiosity to see who she’d become in their years apart. That quality of concentration he focused on her was unmistakable. This was a male setting his sights on a female he desired.
How did she feel about that?
She wasn’t sure. She’d spent most of her adult life hating him with every beat of her heart, even as that same nitwitted heart had missed him to the point of agony. But the lad she missed had been the lad she’d loved at Dun Carron, and she’d convinced herself that he’d never existed outside her girlish fancies. The real Malcolm Innes was a lying, treacherous coward.