Page 83 of His Duchess to Remember

The boy looked up, his eyes bloodshot as if he had not slept in days. He stood quickly and dipped his head in a low bow. “I’m sorry to intrude on ye, Yer Grace. I couldnae think of anywhere else to go.”

“Are ye in some trouble, lad?” Malcolm asked.

Quinn’s throat bobbed, and when he spoke, his voice carried the texture of pain. “I daenae ken what to do, Yer Grace.”

“What do ye mean?”

“It’s me father, Yer Grace. He’s… left us. Nae that he did much to aid us in the first place,” the boy muttered. “Nay one will give me work so I can raise me brothers. They think I’m a bad seed, Yer Grace, because me father was a wretch. I cannae feed ‘em, and… I didnae ken where else to go but here, to beg ye for some work. I ken ye already saved me once, Yer Grace, but might ye help me again?”

Malcolm observed the boy for a moment and saw no deceit upon his face. Here was a lad who was desperate and yet had not given up, setting aside his pride even if it came to nothing.

“I ken about yer father,” Malcolm said.

The wastrel was an infamous drunk and a gambler, which was why Malcolm had always looked the other way when the three brothers went fishing or poaching on his land. He could afford to lose a few fish or rabbits or pheasants, but Quinn and his brothers could not afford to lose another meal.

“I’m a good worker, Yer Grace,” Quinn urged. “I’ll do whatever task ye set me to, and I’ll do it well. I daenae want charity; I want to work for me coin, or for food enough to feed me and me brothers.”

Malcolm had to smile. He could see the fire in Quinn, and knew the boy meant every word of what he said.

“And if I let ye work here, lad, what will ye do when yer brothers are grown and have work of their own? What will ye do when ye don’t need to look after them anymore?” Malcolm asked, curious to hear the boy’s answer.

Quinn puffed his chest. “I’ll work me way up until I’m someone of merit, Yer Grace. I might even be yer butler one day. Or the gamekeeper, chasin’ off the likes of me.”

“Ah, ye ken I wouldn’t let ye do that, if ye were ever to be my gamekeeper,” Malcolm said, his voice softening. “There might be lads in the woods who need a partridge or a rabbit a lot more than I do.”

The boy’s eyes brightened, a slight smile of hope lifting his lips. “Whatever I do with me life, Yer Grace, I mean to be a better man than me father. If I can do that, I’ll be happy.”

“I’d say ye’re already doing that.” A funny lump formed in Malcolm’s throat as he looked at the boy and saw himself reflected back, as if he were having a conversation with his younger self.

Quinn cleared his throat. “I just want me brothers to have full bellies and… if it’s nae too bold of me to ask, a place where they might rest their heads. With me father gone, we’ve lost the room we had. We’ve been on the streets for weeks, and it willnae be summer much longer.”

“Ye want work for yer brothers too?” Malcolm raised a teasing eyebrow that brought out a little more brightness on the boy’s grey face.

“If it’s nae too much to ask, Yer Grace. I mean, ye already kept me alive once, so I hoped ye might do it again for the three of us,” Quinn replied, not pleading, not diminished, but merely trusting that a man who had done something good once before might repeat the favor.

Malcolm cast a glance at the cook, who had clearly been listening. “Give the lad a proper meal,” he said, turning back to Quinn. “Ye can bring yer brothers here. There’s an outbuilding by the stables that isn’t being used. Make it yer own. Once ye’ve slept and eaten and bathed and are strong enough, we’ll find some work for the three of ye.”

“Thank ye,” Quinn gushed, as he ran forward and, to Malcolm’s surprise, threw his arms around him. “Thank ye, Yer Grace. I prayed with all me heart that ye were the man I thought ye were. Thank ye… och, thank ye.”

Malcolm patted him awkwardly on the back. “I trust ye’ll be good lads.”

“We will, Yer Grace,” the boy said, pulling back. “I swear it.”

“Very well, then.” With a smile, Malcolm stepped away and let the cook take over.

Before he departed the kitchens, Malcolm was able to see the boy’s eyes stretch wide in amazement as the cook ladled out a huge bowl of steaming stew. It might not have been as dramatic as riding into a fast-flowing river to rescue Quinn from drowning, but the result was the same: Malcolm had saved a life today. Three, in fact.

Heading back toward the drawing room, words circled around in Malcolm’s head like seagulls over a beached whale: “I mean to be a better man than me father. If I can do that, I’ll be happy.”

The sentiment was simple, and so entirely achievable. Yet, Malcolm had spent so many years of his life believing he was incapable of such a simple task, expecting his father’s cruel ghost to just possess him one day and turn him into that monster.

He had never once stopped to realize that, actually, he too had already achieved the objective. He was a better man than his father, and while he might have been sorry that he had shouted at Simon and accidentally hurt him, he had not shouted out of anger or to make himself feel bigger; he had shouted out of fear that something worse could have happened to his son.

He cared. He was capable of love: a feeling so absent in his father that, perhaps, it had been knocked out of him the same way that Malcolm’s memories had been knocked out of him.

Malcolm would have laid down his life a thousand times if it meant keeping Simon safe, and he would have done the same for his wife too. A woman he could not imagine raising his voice to in anger or contempt. A woman who made his entire being felt lighter. A woman he wished was right there, so that he might earnestly offer his apologies again, and do everything within his power to win back her trust. A woman he longed to cherish for the rest of his life, regardless of how many children she could give him. He would not have cared if it was just the three of them, as long as he could have them both in his life, to love and adore.

When he walked back into the drawing room, where Anthony was gingerly sipping tea as if he feared it might be poisoned, the words spilled from Malcolm’s lips before he could stop them. Not that he wanted to. Not anymore. For he wished to continue being the very opposite of his father.