Page 44 of His Duchess to Remember

In fairness, the cat did look very comfortable in her role as the boy’s neck-warmer, while the tip of her tail wiggled as if in annoyance at Octavia’s protest.

The stablemaster, smothering a chuckle and no doubt deciding that this was not his argument to witness, decided to make himself scarce. Taking his hayfork with him, he headed out of the opposite end of the stables and disappeared from view.

“Put the cat down, Simon,” Octavia urged with a little more firmness in her voice.

“No,” he shot back stubbornly.

“You cannot keep it.”

“I can!”

Octavia took a breath, closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she found Malcolm standing at the stable entrance with his hand on Rogue’s reins. The man and the black stallion looked just as puzzled as each other.

“What’s all this then?” Malcolm asked.

Simon spun around, crying out, “Mama is mean! She not letting me keep my cat!”

All his grievances about being excluded from Malcolm’s ride had clearly vanished, no doubt seeing his hope for an ally in this quarrel.

“Well, that’s a fine wee beastie.” Malcolm reached out and scratched the cat under the chin, the creature opening one eye, the sound of loud, contented purrs filling the stable. “But ye realize she’s a wild one, don’t ye?”

Simon frowned. “What do you mean, Papa?”

“She’s a wild cat. She comes and goes as she pleases,” Malcolm explained. “I’ve seen her around here a few times.”

“She choosed me!” Simon pouted.

“Aye, that she has, and it means ye’re a special soul if a cat chooses ye,” Malcolm replied calmly, amusement in his eyes. “But ye can’t ever truly tame a wild cat. Ye have to keep letting her come to ye when she wants and letting her go off to wander when she wants too. She’s nae an indoor cat, but ye already kenned that, didn’t ye? Ye weren’t going to make her live in the house with ye, were ye?”

The boy considered his father’s words. “Maybe she can sleep in my bed?”

“Och nay, wild cats don’t like beds,” Malcolm said. “But she might like to have a wee house of her own, where she can be warm and comfortable. Out in the gardens, do ye think? I can build one for her, so she can come and go as she pleases, but she’ll be safe from foxes and the like.”

Octavia’s tense muscles relaxed, her confused heart warmed by her husband’s aptitude for fatherhood. He had not told his son no, but nor had he gone against Octavia’s obvious wishes. The compromise was a good one, but it remained to be seen if Simon would take it.

The little boy chewed his lip in thought, a habit he had picked up from his mother, and absently stroked the cat’s furry feet.

Then, with a small nod, he replied, “She will have a house like mine.”

“It will be the grandest cat house anyone has ever seen,” Malcolm agreed, as he glanced up at Octavia and flashed a wink that made her heart stutter. “Now, ye just let me put Rogue away, and then we can pick a spot for the wee beastie.”

Simon’s face cracked into a grin, and he pressed back against Bessie’s stall door as his father led the gigantic, powerful stallion up the center of the stables to his stall.

Octavia also made way for the magnificent horse, but it was the sight of Malcolm in his usual uniform of a flimsy shirt and kilt that held her attention. It had drizzled earlier, and he must have been caught in it, for the fabric of his shirt stuck to his muscular, rippling back: a pleasing display of his masterful strength.

Indeed, she was almost sorry she had been at her brother’s residence, and had missed the sight of her husband on horseback.

Octavia! she scolded herself and looked away.

She was already confused enough after visiting Hugo and Evelyn; she did not need to add to it by letting her wayward thoughts get the better of her.

I am not falling in love with him. I am not falling in love with him, she repeated silently, in the hope that if she believed it enough, it would become the unarguable truth, and no one—not Evelyn, not Malcolm himself—would be able to convince her otherwise.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Are you sure you know what you are doing?” Octavia asked for the tenth time.

Malcolm did not know whether to be insulted or amused by his wife’s lack of confidence in his ability to build a simple structure out of wood. Evidently, she had forgotten that he was not one of the ton’s elegant gentlemen, with hands so smooth and soft they might have been a woman’s, who had never done anything remotely practical in their lives.