Why should the earl care for Dylan, if Dylan wasn’t truly his son?
Natalia glanced back at Mrs. Macpherson, who obviously realized she’d said too much. “Shall I continue to call you Mrs. Macpherson? Or shall I call you Grandmother?”
The old woman’s eyes welled with tears. “Oh, no. You mustn’t. The lad must never know.”
“Why not?” Natalia asked. “I think he’d like to know. I think it would make him very happy.”
“Does it bother you, lass?” Mrs. Macpherson shook her head, as though she couldn’t believe Natalia’s easy acceptance of what she’d learned. “To find the man you married is not the aristocrat he seemed? That he is only a Scottish groom’s son?”
“No,” Natalia whispered. “It doesn’t matter to me. Not at all.”
It was the truth. From the beginning, she had cared for him because he wasn’t like the vain, foppish aristocrats she’d known. And this revelation didn’t change that. If anything, she loved him even more.
How hard it must’ve been for Dylan to believe his own father hated him.
“Patrick has always wanted young Dylan to know the truth. But he couldn’t give the boy the kind of life the earl could.” Mrs. Macpherson rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “But keeping the secret meant losing his only son. It almost killed him when the earl took the lad away.”
“How terrible.” Natalia ached for both men. How lonely they’d both been, when their pain could so easily have been avoided.
“Patrick thought he’d never see Dylan again. That’s why he brought Fiona’s paintings down here. So he could see the lad’s face each night before he fell asleep.”
Tears stung Natalia’s eyes as she looked around at the paintings. Each one was a glimpse into Fiona Blake’s life. She’d told Dylan seeing his mother’s work would be a chance to get to know her, but she hadn’t realized how truthful the statement had been.
She understood Fiona far more than she wanted to.
Fiona had been forced to marry a man she didn’t love. And the man she did love had been forbidden to her. How easily Natalia could have shared her fate.
But Fiona had been strong. She’d found a way to continue to see Patrick. During those months she’d spent at Aldabaran, she’d been free. Her friendship with Patrick flourished, while her marriage fell apart. Apparently, Patrick and Fiona’s passion had gotten away from them, and Dylan had been the result.
Somehow, Warren must’ve found out. No wonder he treated Dylan so poorly. Was that the reason he’d come after Fiona the summer she died? What had he said to make her take her own life? Had he threatened to take her sons away from her?
Natalia realized Mrs. Macpherson was worried Natalia would tell Dylan everything she’d learned here today. Natalia wanted to do exactly that, but it wasn’t her place. If Dylan were to learn the truth, Patrick should be the one to tell him.
“I won’t say anything to Dylan,” she assured the old woman. “And I understand why Patrick wanted her paintings. He must’ve loved her very much.”
“Aye, he did,” Mrs. Macpherson agreed. “He loves her still.”
Was Patrick’s son capable of such love? She hoped so.
With a wistful sigh, Natalia turned her mind back to the matter at hand. Somehow, she had to convince Mrs. Macpherson that Dylan needed to get to know his father.
“Patrick should tell Dylan the truth. It doesn’t matter anymore. Dylan has Aldabaran and my dowry. No one can take those things from him.”
Mrs. Macpherson nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps you’re right, lass. I’ll speak to Patrick.”
“In the meantime, I did promise Dylan I’d find some of these paintings. Do you think we could take a few of them downstairs? Some of the landscapes and maybe the one of Dylan as a boy? I don’t think he should see them all. Not yet anyway.”
Mrs. Macpherson gave her a grateful look. “Yes, I think that’s a fine idea. We’ll take the ones you mentioned down to the laird’s room. It will be a nice surprise for the lad when he returns.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Dylan remained away from the house most of the day. During the morning, he explored his land, his excitement and sense of possibility growing by the moment. For the first time in his life, he could taste happiness.
It tasted wonderful.
Afterward, Patrick talked him into visiting the village pub. They spent a very enjoyable afternoon, drinking fine dark ale and discussing plans for Aldabaran. Nearly every man in the village stopped by to meet him and share a pint. They laughed and joked and welcomed him back. For long moments, he forgot the uneasy memories lurking in the back of his mind.
But the more Dylan drank, the more last night’s revelations plagued him. Was his dream a nightmare or memory?
