Page 55 of His Duchess to Remember

Dipping his head to rest his chin on her shoulder, Malcolm whispered back, “I do, lass. He’s got so much strength in him; he’ll be fine. I promise ye, he’ll be fine.”

He’s half mine, after all, he neglected to add.

His brow creased as he gazed down at his firstborn, his heir, his only child, his bloodline, surprised by the powerful swell of protectiveness that crested in his chest. He had never planned to meet his son, for that had been the agreement: he left his wife and child to live as they pleased, while he remained in Scotland to continue his hermit-like existence.

He was never supposed to care. He was never supposed to get attached.

Thinking back to the library, before Simon’s cries had disturbed them, he had had ample time to tell Octavia that his memories had returned. She had asked what was wrong, yet he had not told her the truth. He was tired, but that obviously was not all.

That had been the moment to tell her, but he had let it pass by, and he still did not know why.

Why did I say nothing? Why on earth have I kept it to myself?

His arms shifted to hold his wife and son closer. At least for now, at least for tonight, he would be there for them.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The doctor from the village arrived some forty minutes later, and though she did not want to leave her son’s side, Octavia allowed Malcolm to lead her away. Not far, of course, but to a chair on the other side of the room.

There, with Malcolm’s hand on her shoulder, she watched the physician work.

Is this what it would have been like to have you with me from the beginning? Is this how our life would have been?

She had never wanted it, had never permitted herself to imagine a united marriage, but as she moved her hand to hold onto his, she was not sorry that he was there. Right when she needed him the most.

I wish you could have been there when our son was born…

She would not admit it, but she had been terrified on the night she gave birth to Simon. Although, with Evelyn and Frances there, she, at least, had not been alone.

“Is he all right, Doctor?” Octavia asked tremulously.

The physician turned. “I’m convinced he will be, Your Grace. It seems to be a simple fever. He has no rashes or concerning marks.” He paused. “I’ll give him some medicine to hopefully bring his fever down and, in a day or two, you should see improvement.”

Octavia expelled a small sigh of relief, and observed as the doctor measured medicine from a bottle and carefully spoon-fed Simon.

A squeeze of Malcolm’s hand against her shoulder brought her attention upward.

“Ye should retire to yer rooms and rest,” he said. “I’ll stay with him.”

Octavia shook her head. “I will not be able to have any rest now. I will stay with him.”

“Then, it seems we’re both staying.” He shrugged and sank down onto a chair, pulling it closer to her.

For a while, neither of them said anything, both too focused on what the physician was doing: adding more blankets, refreshing the cloth on Simon’s forehead, applying some manner of balm to the boy’s temples and just below his nose.

“You’ll have to give him two more spoonfuls in… about two hours,” the doctor instructed, rising. “Every two to three hours should suffice after that, although I’ll be back in the afternoon to check on him.”

He left a bottle and a medicine spoon on the side table. With a nod, he gathered up his leather bag and headed out of the room.

Both Octavia and Malcolm moved together, aiming straight for their son. There on the edge of the bed, they both sat down: Octavia took hold of Simon’s warm little hand, while Malcolm leaned against the wooden end of the bed, his hand resting almost tentatively on his son’s blanketed foot.

“He looks like you,” Octavia said, smiling down at her slumbering child.

He did not seem to be in as much pain, his forehead relaxed, though the redness and the perspiration remained. The medicine was probably intended to help him sleep more soundly, though Octavia could not be sure.

“Nay,” Malcolm replied with a half smile. “The laddie’s far more handsome.”

To her surprise, Octavia managed a chuckle. “I must admit, it has been rather annoying that he looks more like you than he does me.” She paused, her laughter fading. “But then I gradually began to forget what you looked like, and I saw only him instead. Until you came back, that is, and I remembered where he gets his hair from, his eyes, his dimples, his frown when he is mad about something.”