“Naturally, whatever you think best,” Boyde said with a nod of his head. They sat in companionable silence for perhaps a minute before his brother asked, “Do you miss Lady Freya’s company?”
“That is an odd question to ask,” Aaran said with a frown. “Why would you think so?”
“I thought you two fond of each other,” Boyde confessed. “Even Lady Rhonda thought so.”
“Lady Freya has developed a friendship with the wives of my brothers from my ‘Duncan family,’” Aaran explained. “However, her father despises me. Cunningham would never countenance our joining. His opinion of me mimics that of Lord Hightower.”
“Nonsense,” Boyde declared. “Our father’s blood runs through your veins. You favor him more than do I.”
“And you possess at least a few memories of him. He was alive for your first few years of life, while I lived the life of a tenant farmer’s child. He never once acknowledged me. Nor held me in his arms. Never spoke to me of the pride he felt with my presence in his life. Basil Lessier said those words to me often, despite my inability to carry the heavy thatch or to guide the oxen without falling over. Lessier, a tenant farmer, held more dignity than did an earl. Duncan told each of those he brought under his roof often of what he termed to be our exceptional skills. Duncan nurtured our interests so we could thrive, as well as prevail.” Aaran shrugged off his embarrassment. “I have prosed too long.”
“I do not mind,” Boyde said softly. “It would be nice to hold such memories. My mother grieved for my father’s presence in her life, but I hold only a few memories, none of them pleasant. It is terrible to say I do not think he liked me very well. Generally, he held me only when my mother placed me in his arms. I often squirmed, and he would complain and have my nurse return me abovestairs.”
Aaran had only seen his father twice, and neither time had Lord Aaran Graham, the Elder, even turned his head to look upon Aaran. “We are quite a pair, are we not?” he suggested with a sad shake of his head.
“I am glad to claim you as my brother,” Boyde said softly.
Aaran chuckled. “So you will not pursue Lady Rhonda, despite your mother’s hopes for a match?”
“I am not prepared to be managed once I leave my mother’s home,” Boyde said with a lift of his brows in a gesture of apparent surprise at admitting his fears aloud.
“Few men are,” Aaran assured, “though many do not recognize their mistake until it is too late.”
“And Lady Freya will not please you?” Boyde asked again.
Aaran believed Lady Freya would please him well, yet, he said, “A Scottish termagant if I ever saw one. Can you imagine the scope of the fights we would have? It would be a contest as to who would kill the other first.”
His brother laughed easily, but the image of Lady Freya and him, arms and legs entangled, followed Aaran all the way back to Thom Manor and throughout the evening.
Even when he retired earlier than usual, he had slept badly. Restless, he woke again and again from dreams of Lady Freya disappearing in a mist before he could reach her, robbing him of the warmth of her body along his front, as well as any memory of her—as if he had never known her—never held her in his arms and kissed her sweet lips. Each time he woke, he reminded himself that it had been his choice to send her away, and how Lady Freya had offered to deny her family and remain with him, but he had been the coward and had refused to believe anyone as spectacular as the lady would place her trust and affections in his fumbling hands. He was not worthy of her bravery.
Chapter Nineteen
The clock onthe mantel struck two in the morning, and Aaran’s thigh protested as he turned over on his back to look up at the bed’s draping. The room was still dark, and his mind reminded him that he had only been asleep for a few hours. Despite his dreams saying otherwise, it was not yet time to bid Lady Freya farewell.
“Soon enough,” he murmured. He looked to the clock to confirm the time, but the room was too dark for him to see it on the mantelpiece. There was a distinct chill in the room. “Perhaps that is what woke me and not the chime,” he mused aloud, though he knew it was the woman in the room at the end of the hall, not the mid-February cold.
Tossing the blanket aside, he tugged his weak leg so he might drape it over the edge of the mattress to match up with his good leg. “Stand on three,” he told himself, but he did not count aloud. “Reminds me of all the counting we did when we returned Duncan to his house after the shooting.”
Aaran had told all his brothers, including Thompson, who had graciously left his wife’s bed to join them, what he had learned of the whereabouts of all staying on the Rayland estate.
“Your stepmother has assuredly cuckolded the baron,” Marksman observed.
Aaran had ignored the obvious. Instead, he had explained to Duncan, “Boyde has asked for my assistance. Lady Rayland will not approve. I had hoped you might consider taking him under your wing. I could and will assist where I might, but I believe Lady Rayland will sabotage my efforts. She still fears you, though. This is the first time my brother has shown any backbone.”
“What of Lady Rhonda?” Orson inquired.
“Boyde quickly became disenchanted by the lady’s so-called charms,” Aaran had explained. “I do not, however, believe he told his mother of his choices.”
Duncan had remarked, “Your stepmother was always manipulative. I held little respect for your father, but even the senior Aaran Graham did not deserve Eímear Boyde. I lost my respect for MacAlasdair when he took up with her.”
Aaran had wanted to ask how Lady Rayland matched up with his own mother, but he held his tongue. Where the others, with the exception of Thompson, had had mothers who disappeared from their lives for one reason or another, none of them had simply walked away from her own child. He knew his mother had never once loved him. According to others, she barely tolerated him. Had actually sold him to the Lessier family and then walked away, despite his cries for her return.
“Quit the pity pleas,” Aaran warned himself as he pushed upward to stand beside the bed and claim his balance, before he considered venturing forward. There was a twinge of pain. “Always the same twinge,” he grumbled, “but as Duncan says, it is better to feel a bit of pain than to feel nothing at all.” He hobbled forward to reach where the wood was stacked in the basket, claimed two cut wedges and set them in the fire. Hewatched as the cut edges caught the flame and finally glowed brighter.
He turned to reclaim his bed when he heard the soft scuff of a footfall. “Does that woman never sleep?” he whispered into the muted light.
Naturally, the sound could be that of a servant, but Aaran’s heart knew otherwise. “Ignore her,” he warned himself, but his feet, as if they had a mind of their own, crossed to the door and quietly opened it to wait for her return. As she approached, he propped a shoulder against the door frame and crossed his arms over his chest. “Fancy meeting you here,” he whispered so as not to wake Hartley and Kepper at the other end of the hall. “I thought they might have changed out your quarters after that last bit of farce regarding your hearth.”
