Page 47 of His Duchess to Remember

She harrumphed and took up her spot again, a look of dismay briefly crossing her face as Simon tugged on her hand and said, “I want to throw!”

“When we play a second round, then you can throw for me,” Octavia urged, but Simon was insistent.

“I throw for you!”

She grimaced, and Malcolm had to smother a laugh. There was no denying that she was an exemplary mother, who cherished and adored their son with all of her heart, but it appeared that love could have its disadvantages. How was she supposed to say ‘no’ to her beloved son, even if it meant risking the loss of her last ball and, as such, the game?

“Very well,” Octavia sighed, handing the ball to Simon.

Gleeful, the little boy stood on the throwing spot and, sticking his tongue out in intent concentration, he hurled the ball with surprising force. It sailed across the grass and shot straight past the jack… but as it did so, it struck Malcolm’s closest ball, knocking it clear away from the target.

“Oh, my boy!” Octavia cried, scooping him up into her arms and swinging him around. “That was perfect!”

Malcolm split his attention between his wife and son and the dislodged ball, unblinking in disbelief.

“I think there must be some sorcery afoot,” he said playfully, as Octavia set Simon down. “My boy, is yer mother a witch? Have ye ever seen her make potions and chant spells?”

Simon laughed. “Mama isn’t a witch.”

“Hmm… I’m nae convinced.” Malcolm approached his wife and took her by the hand.

He had meant to pretend to check her palms for some sign of witchery, but the second his skin touched hers, the second his hand closed around hers, the gardens disappeared. The game vanished. His wife and son too.

He was in the parlor of the townhouse in Edinburgh where he had been raised, the room so smoky he could not breathe. The reek of incense stung his nostrils, though his streaming eyes had nothing to do with the potent smoke.

He wept because of the young man in his arms. A young man with bloodless lips and waxy skin, devoid of life and vitality, drained of all of his color. A young man who lay limp in that strange embrace, as Malcolm rocked back and forth, holding the body tightly, weeping into dark hair that smelled of lavender and decay.

“What did ye expect?” His father’s voice hissing from the doorway. “If it had been up to me, I’d have thrown him in the Leith with the rest of the city’s rot.”

“Barnaby… What did ye do, Barnaby?” Malcolm heard himself say, though he was not sure if it was just in his head or if he had spoken it aloud.

But he knew the body in his arms was his brother. His younger brother, whom he had failed to protect.

I thought ye’d be safe if I left. I thought it would all stop if I wasn’t there anymore, but I was wrong. I should have taken ye with me.

“Malcolm?” Octavia’s sharp voice cut through the vision. “Malcolm, let go of me!”

All at once, he was back among the pristine greenery of the bowling lawn, his hand so tight around his wife’s hand that the ends of her fingers were turning white. Simon seemed worried, his eyes wide in a way that made him look exactly like Barnaby as a little boy.

Malcolm released Octavia’s hand at once, and when he met her gaze, she was staring at him strangely. Not in anger, not in fear, but in confusion. Or suspicion, perhaps.

“Apologies,” he said quickly. “It was… a headache. The doctor warned me they might happen. I should… go and speak with him, see if he can’t give me a remedy for it.”

Still holding his last ball in his other hand, Malcolm turned and strode back through the gardens as swiftly as his unsteady legs would carry him.

For it seemed that something else was happening that the doctor had warned him about: his memories were coming back.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Upon the discovery that Doctor Stanforth had gone to London for a couple of days, Malcolm had not known where else to turn. He was not even sure what he needed: medicine could not undo his situation, his wife and son could not help, nor could he think of anyone who might be able to offer him advice, for who else had suffered from amnesia? It was not exactly commonplace.

So, he had taken himself to the stables, thinking he might like to ride to clear his head.

Before he knew it, he was not merely riding aimlessly across the estate, as he had done earlier that day; instead, he found himself following now-familiar roads toward London, remembering the way as if he had a map etched into his head. The journey was not far, a matter of no more than two hours, and the stallion did not seem to mind the additional exercise.

But he was not going to the city in search of the doctor.

Hooves clattering on the cobblestones of Mayfair, the late afternoon replaced by hazy, golden early evening, Malcolm and Rogue came to a halt outside an elegant white townhouse. Flowers bloomed in window-boxes, adding a splash of color.