Connor reached for her elbow, but she stepped out of reach.
“We need to prepare for the christening,” she reminded him.
“That can wait until John rests.”
“Nay.” Her gaze went to John once more, and the fear there cut deeper than any accusation. “It cannae.” She backed toward the door.
The healer watched her with concern. Lachlan looked down at the floor, his mouth set in the grimace of a man who regretted only that truth had caused distress.
Connor started after her but stopped when John whimpered in Moira’s arms.
Not once did she stop or turn around. Before he could manage to say or even do anything, she had left.
He remained standing in the middle of the room, unsure of what had just happened and wondering what he could do.
Worse, he couldn't get Lachlan's words out of his mind.
26
By the time the priest arrived, John’s fever had gone down enough that the healer allowed him to be carried out of the nursery.
Connor, however, did not mistake that for peace.
The castle moved carefully around the baby. He watched as the maids crossed passages with lowered voices and Moira kept checking the warmed cloth tucked around John’s small body.
Alex stood near the chapel door with his usual stillness, though his eyes moved over every face before returning to Moira.
Violet, on the other hand, stood a few steps away from the baby.
That distance irritated Connor more than it should have. She had spent the morning with John against her chest, handssteady, voice low, taking command of a sickroom as if she had been born beside a cradle.
Now she held herself with both hands folded at her waist. Her gown was proper, her hair pinned, her face pale and composed with too much effort. She looked as if she had built her expression by force.
Connor intended to speak with her before the priest began. He wanted answers about the fainting spells, the angelica, Lachlan’s careful little wound in the nursery. He wanted to put her beside John again until she remembered the baby had gone quiet, not for anyone else but for her.
The priest’s eyes moved towards him as Connors thoughts continued to scramble all over the place.
“Me Laird,” the old man greeted, bowing his head. His gaze went to the baby at once. “Is the bairn well enough?”
“For the christening,” Connor replied.
Violet’s fingers twitched. He saw it from across the small chapel.
There were only a handful present. The priest, Connor, Violet, Moira, Lachlan, Alex, and two witnesses near the back. No crowd or any kind of feast or music. Candlelight danced across the small basin at the front.
Moira held John at first. Her eyes were bright, and she blinked too often. Caring for John had given her hands purpose since the day he had been found at the gate. Now the ceremony made that purpose official, and grief sat close enough on her face that Connor almost looked away.
Alex did not touch her in front of the priest. He only shifted half a step closer, close enough for her to lean against him if she needed to. Lachlan stood apart, watching the entire thing unfold.
Connor studied him for a minute.
He had cleaned himself up since the nursery. His coat sat straight, and his hair had been smoothed back. Connor watched him watch John. Grief was there. Some kind of hunger, too—perhaps the desire to watch over his son himself. When his gaze moved from the child to Violet, something sharper flashed across his face and vanished just as soon.
Connor filed it away.
The priest opened his book while John made a tired sound, small and offended. Moira immediately looked toward Violet.
That look said more than anything could.
