Page 23 of His Duchess to Remember

“How?”

Mr. Lincoln shook his head. “I don’t know, Your Grace. It was the one thing no one at Highcastle ever spoke about. All I understand is that he died rather young, while you were away.”

For the first time since waking up in that place, Malcolm wished he were back at Highcastle where he might find out more from the servants who had been there at the time.

Grief pinched at the muscle between his ribs, and he slammed the ledger shut. He knew, deep down, that he must have grieved his brother already, that the wound was not fresh, but Mr. Lincoln had just taken a knife and reopened it.

Is this why Doctor Stanforth didn’t want to tell me?

He had warned him not to do anything to addle his mind, and there was nothing more addling than grief. It was a dark shadow that could suck the life right out of a person, overwhelming the brain until you could not think clearly.

“Your Grace?” the butler said anxiously. “Did I say something wrong? I did not mean to.”

Malcolm forced a smile and got to his feet. “Nae at all. I’m glad ye told me. But, right now, I need to stop hurting my eyes with these duties and see the family I have left.” He paused. “Do ye ken where my son is?”

Simon would cheer his spirits and help him to push down this rising grief, back to where it belonged.

“I believe he is in the nursery, Your Grace,” the butler said.

With a grateful nod, Malcolm headed out, as far from baffling ledgers and the ghosts of his dead family as possible.

“Papa!” The little boy flew across the airy nursery, straight toward Malcolm.

Immediately lightened, all of his troubles vanishing, Malcolm stooped and swept his son off the ground in one smooth move. With no effort whatsoever, he threw the boy up into the air and caught him, much to the squealing horror of the nursemaid.

She was different to the one who had dozed in the greenhouse, but seemed no less wary of him.

“Again!” Simon cheered, giggling.

With a grin, Malcolm threw the boy upward once more, and caught him with ease.

The poor nursemaid clasped a hand to her chest, looking as if she might faint.

“What would ye like to do this morning?” Malcolm asked, as he settled his son against his side, a strong arm wrapped around him.

“Mama said you were busy,” Simon said, in his sweet, halting voice, thinking of his words before he spoke them.

Malcolm smiled. “I was, but I thought I’d come and see ye instead of doing my work. All of that boring nonsense can wait. So, what shall we do? What shall we play?”

The little boy brightened. “Horsies! We can see the horsies?”

“Ye want to go to the stables?”

Simon nodded eagerly. “Please, Papa.”

“Why then, that’s where we’ll go. I’m sure my horse will be thrilled to meet ye,” Malcolm said and, with a nod to the nursemaid, carried his son right out of the nursery.

A short while later, they found themselves at the paddock beside the stables. Simon sat perched upon the fence, Malcolm holding him to ensure he did not fall, as the great black stallion plodded over to investigate.

“This is Rogue,” Malcolm said, putting out his free hand for the stallion to nose.

Simon grinned. “Good morning, Rogue.”

The horse chuffed and turned his attention toward the boy, sniffing him.

“I love him,” Simon cooed, laughing as the horse nudged him gently in the chest.

Malcolm glanced toward the stables. “I would let ye ride him, laddie, but he’s a wee bit lively. What do ye say we put ye on a gentler mount? Do ye have a pony of yer own?”