The butler added another dollop of the spirits, then stepped back, keeping the decanter at the ready.
“Aye, a visit to Broadmere Hall would be just the thing,” Malcolm said as he hopped to his feet and fidgeted in front of the hearth. Mischief rolled off him in waves. “Besides, ye need to return the lady’s wee bag.”
Duncan stared at him. It wasn’t often that Malcolm befuddled him, but this was one of those times. “What wee bag? The ladies lost everything when their carriage washed away.”
Malcolm grinned. “Nay, brother. Both ladies had their purses on their wrists. Did ye not notice?”
“I canna say that I did. Pulling them from the carriage afore they drowned must have distracted me.”
“Malcolm.” Mother handed off her cup and saucer, then gracefully rested her hands on the armrests of her chair as if about to pass judgment on both her sons. “What have ye done?”
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small green velvet bag trimmed in gold—a bag that perfectly matched Lady Merry’s cloak. “I found myself in possession of it, Mother, and thought to keep it safe. After all, the inn was so full, we had to sleep in the common room.”
Duncan groaned and scrubbed his weary eyes. “Ye nicked the woman’s reticule? Feckin’ hell, Malcolm. Ye’re too old for that foolishness.”
As a youth, Malcolm had thought it the greatest sort of dare to pick unsuspecting pockets and make off with things even though he had no need of them. The possibility of getting caught excited him, and he became quite adept at the annoying prank. Poor Duncan was always saddled with dragging him along by the scruff of the neck to return whatever he had stolen, and what made matters worse was that the wee fool always charmed his way back into the good graces of his victims.
“’Tis for yer own good.” Malcolm tossed the purse at Duncan, grinning when he caught it. “Ye can say it somehow got tangled up in the layers of yer greatcoat, so ye thought to return it—and while ye were at it, ye wanted to apologize for yer boorish behavior.”
“Heaven forgive me, ye plot and lie like yer father.” Mother pressed a hand to her head as if suddenly stricken with a pain, then letit drop back to the armrest. “Ye dinna steal to manipulate yer brother, Malcolm. ’Tis most unsavory, and ye should be ashamed.”
“I need another whisky.” Leaving the purse on the settee, Duncan went to the cabinet, grabbed the decanter, and brought it back with him. After refilling his glass, he set it on the small, round table beside him. The way this conversation was going, he was sure to need more.
Unfazed, Malcolm almost danced in place across the hearthstone. “We could leave tomorrow. The horses will be well rested by then, and ye never rest, so that doesn’t really matter.” He bobbed his head faster. “And that way, we could also say we were checking to ensure they made it home safely, ye ken? That should impress her.”
Duncan turned to his mother. “I am going to kill him.”
She shook her head. “Dinna kill him. He is yer only brother.” With a sheepish twitch of her shoulders, she glanced at Malcolm and blew out a heavy sigh. “He means well, son. He merely wishes to see ye happy.” A sad wistfulness fell across her. “Ye so deserve some happiness in yer life, my fine, braw boy. Ye’ve known so little of it through all these years.”
“Ye need Lady Merry,” Malcolm said ever so quietly. Uncharacteristically serious, he suddenly seemed years older. “Her brightness could chase away the accursed darkness that haunts ye.”
Duncan swirled his drink, staring at the golden liquid dancing in the glow of the candlelight. “Lady Merry deserves a whole man.”
“Ye are a whole man, son, if ye’d but allow yerself to be.” His mother set her cat on the floor once again, then rose and joined him on the settee. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “That cruel bastard is dead, my wee boy. The greatest revenge ye could ever know is to live in joy to spite the brutish devil.” A sad smile teased across her thin lips as she tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear. “Make sure Brown trims yer hair before ye visit Lady Merry, aye? We might be descended from wild Scots, but we know how to shine good and proper.” She cupped his chin in her hand as if he were still a smallbairn. “Live, my son. In spite of that bastard. Live for me.”
“Why did he hate me so?” Duncan asked, repeating the question he had asked her so many times as a child.
She flinched as if he had struck her. “He said his father before him did the same to him. To make him stronger. To make ye stronger.” She slowly shook her head. “But I think he behaved the way he did because he enjoyed it.” She pushed up from the settee and returned to her chair, but didn’t sit. Instead, she turned and faced him. “I’ll not speak of the devil again, ye ken? He’s burning in hell, where he belongs.” Pulling in a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. “Dinna give him another moment of yer life, Duncan. ’Tis time to take back yer power.”
Chapter Five
Broadmere Hall echoedwith shrieks of laughter, excited squeals, and babbling toddlers. Merry loved it and couldn’t imagine enjoying her birthday any other way. The entire family always reunited on birthdays, celebrating each other with unfettered chaos and love.
With nannies at the ready to sweep them back up to the nursery, the nieces, nephews, and extended family of Merry’s brother-in-law’s eleven-year-old twin siblings took over the parlor, enjoying treats, toys, and banging on the pianoforte. The family dogs yipped and barked at the din, and every cat disappeared, seeking peace and quiet.
Poor Chance looked ready to seek peace and quiet, too, as he stood off to the side, talking with his brothers-in-law.
Merry held Joy’s nearly two-year-old son, Lion, on her lap, helping him destroy a slice of lemon cake. Tired of patiently waiting for her to feed him the next bite, the lively cherub dove forward and grabbed the treat with both fists.
“You must shovel faster,” Joy said, laughing at her son’s antics. She rose from her chair with the aid of her jeweled cane, a linen ready to help with the mess. “Lion, we must use a fork, or Auntie Merry will be sticky from head to toe.”
“Messy, messy, messy,” said five-year-old Rorie—Merry’s sister, Blessing, and her husband Thorne’s eldest child. “You’re going to get us all sent back to the nursery, Lion.”
“No one is going to the nursery,” Merry assured her young niece. “At least not for a while.”
“I can hold him.” Her brother-in-law Wolfe’s little sister, eleven-year-old Sissy, held out her hands to take him.
Sissy’s twin, Connor, rolled his eyes. The poor boy was obviously quite bored. “I should be with the men. After all, I am eleven now.”
