“That is not a refusal. He merely told you their habits.”
Merry rolled her eyes. “It was histone, Seri. If you had heard him, you would understand.”
“But he seemed so”—Serendipity flipped her hands as if hoping to pluck the words she needed out of the air—“attentivelast night.”
“One moment, he is attentive. The next, he is aloof.” Merry folded her arms and gave a stubborn nod. “The man is exhausting.”
“Most men are, according to our married sisters.”
“Well, Lord Kirkston can be exhausting with someone else. I am finished swinging back and forth on his pendulum of maddening moodiness.”
“It is not his fault,” Malcolm said as he rejoined them.
“Eavesdropping is very rude, my lord.” Merry was finished with the bubbly, ever-jovial Lord Malcolm as well.
Malcolm shrugged off the scolding. “Maybe so, but ye need to know more about my wee brother before he comes back inside.”
Merry wouldn’t exactly classify Duncan aswee, but perhaps that was a Scottish thing between brothers. “I have not yet had my tea, my lord. Proceed at your own risk.”
He settled in the chair across the table from them. “Tea is coming. Breakfast too. The innkeeper’s wife is seeing to it.” He cast a look back toward the bar, then jerked his thumb in that direction. “See?”
A haggard Meg, a wailing baby swaddled to her waist inside a carrying cloth, appeared with a tray laden with teapots, cups, and breads. As she walked, she gently swayed and bounced, trying to soothe her child without spilling a drop. “Beg pardon, ladies. Wee Ian has the colic this morning, and he yowls even louder if anyone but me holds him. Normally quiet as a lamb, he is, but not today.”
“Bless him. His poor belly.” Merry held out her hands. “Might I have a try with him? My sisters say I have a magical touch with children.”
Meg eyed her for a long moment, then shrugged and lifted the wee one out of the sling and handed him over. “Godspeed to ye and yer ears, my lady. He be clean. I just checked him.”
Little Ian bellowed even louder, making Merry laugh. “My goodness, young man. Is it truly that bad?”
She put him to her shoulder, patting and rubbing his back, as she bounced and walked back and forth in the short space beside the table. Patrons shook their heads and glared at her while covering their ears.
“Belly pains to all of you,” Merry said to them. “Then we’ll seehow loudyouget.”
Meg and the ale wench bobbed their heads in agreement as they laid out the tea and breakfast.
Merry took a seat on the bench, rested Ian lengthwise on his back in her lap with his head at her knees, and started working his little legs and helping him twist and turn at the waist. All the while, she hummed a tuneless song, occasionally leaning forward and babbling nonsense to the unhappy babe.
And then the red-faced wee one cut loose with a rip-roaring rumble that sounded dangerously wet and filled the air with a stench that would make any grown man proud—and then he smiled and cooed.
“That done it!” Meg scooped the child up before the soiled clout breached the wool pilcher covering his bottom. “Did yerself proud, did ye not, my fine lad?” Before taking the baby away, she curtsied to Merry. “Thank ye ever so much, m’lady. My wee bairn’s smiling again. Praise be for a bit o’ quiet.”
“How did ye know what to do?” Malcolm asked as he waved his hands to dissipate the offensive smell.
“Seri and I have many nieces and nephews.” Merry poured the tea, took a sip, then narrowed her eyes at him. “Your brother will return soon, my lord. Might I suggest you speak with haste?”
“Coming upon yer accident yesterday upset Duncan more than ye could possibly know.” Malcolm stared down at his teacup, framing it between his hands.
“Why?” Merry was in no mood for mercy when it came to anyone other than a baby with a bellyache.
“Because three years ago, our sister Catherine, Duncan’s twin, died in a carriage accident much like yer own. He pulled her from the water, but it was too late.”
Merry slowly set her cup back on its saucer, her heart breaking for the pain the family had experienced. “Sorrows and prayers for such a terrible loss.”
Malcolm shook his head. “If that weren’t bad enough, our father died a fortnight later—after using each of those days to berate Duncan and blame him for Catherine’s drowning.”
Serendipity gasped, and Merry felt the same. She had no idea what to say. Watching the door to ensure Duncan was still outside, she leaned forward and asked, “Why would your father say such hurtful things to his own son?”
“Because Duncan was neverenoughfor him. Father put up with me and Catherine well enough, but not Duncan. Maybe because Duncan always took the blame to protect us whenever we did anything that might displease the old devil. He shielded us from Father. Always. And, in turn, Father treated him like the family whipping boy.” His voice fell to a raspy whisper. “Neither Catherine nor I ever understood why Father hated Duncan so.”
