Page 17 of When the Laird Conquers

It was not really a question, as she removed Lizzy from the loose wrap and put her straight into Gordon’s arms. Instinct prompted him to cradle the baby against his chest.

Satisfied that Lizzy would continue to nap and not get jiggled from side to side during a sprint down the stairs, Agnes took off, followed by the astonishingly swift Marcus.

Indeed, if the staircase was not so terribly narrow, the housekeeper’s husband would certainly have overtaken her.

6

This lass is madder than I have ever been.

Gordon stared down at the baby that had been thrust into his arms. He worried he might be crushing her, for her body was so impossibly small against the bulk of his chest. Fragile. He wasn’t even sure he was holding her right. He knew there was a certain way that babies were meant to be held, but this was his first time. And there was no one around to teach him how.

“Iona?” he called in a harsh whisper.

The baby’s eyes flickered open. Not the sleepy stare of a little one that had just woken up from a nap, but a surprisingly hard stare. A searching stare that seemed to bore into him.

He’d had other lairds and his own people assess him with less intense scrutiny.

“Am I hurting ye?” he asked, and cursed himself. It wasn’t as if she could answer him.

Convinced that he was causing her harm, he hooked his hands under her armpits and held her away from his body. The baby dangled there like laundry drying on a line, not looking the least bit impressed by the indignity.

“I’m sorry, lassie,” he told her. “I daenae ken what I’m doin’. That aunt of yers isnae very responsible, leavin’ ye with me.”

The baby began to babble, and though it wasn’t possible, it almost sounded like she was telling him off.

“She only ran away like that because she didnae like the conversation,” he explained. “Yer aunt is really somethin’, is she nae?”

He scowled, and to his dismay, the baby began to pout, her lower lip quavering. He might not have held a baby, but he knew what that meant: he had exactly ten seconds before Lizzy erupted into deafening screams. And, once again, there was no one around to help him. Iona had either gone out of earshot, or she was ignoring him, and it would be a while before Agnes came back from her oh-so-important errand.

“Och, nay,” he urged, softening his voice and bringing Lizzy closer again. “Nay, lassie, daenae cry. Daenae cry. Did yer aunt nae tell ye that I daenae like tears?”

He remembered seeing Agnes bounce the baby gently. So, glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he got up and emulated what he had seen. Carefully, he bounced Lizzy and swayed from side to side, as if he were dancing.

“Aye, that’s better,” he soothed, hoping he was past the point of danger. “Aye, there ye go. That’s nae so bad, is it?”

He adjusted his hold, feeling as if he were trying to shift an ignited bomb without it exploding. Propping her up, her head settled against his shoulder, fitting perfectly in the groove of his collarbone. But as he began to gently bounce her again, something set her off, a pitiful cry leaving her trembling mouth.

“What is it, lassie?” he asked, tilting his head at an uncomfortable angle to look down at her.

At the same moment, her cries grew louder… and he realized the problem. His coarse beard was scratching her face, and she obviously didn’t like the feeling.

“Och, sorry,” he said.

He tipped her carefully onto her back and cradled her in his arms, far away from the offense of his beard.

“There, there,” he murmured, rocking her. “Ye’re all right now. I willnae scratch ye again.”

Tucked up in his arms, Lizzy began to chew on her tiny fist with her toothless gums. Soon, her eyelids fluttered shut, and she settled back into a peaceful slumber against the warmth of his chest.

He had faced countless foes in battle, protected his clan from skirmishes and robbers, defended himself from assassins and traitors, yet nothing had ever scared him more than holding that tiny person in his arms. He was terrified that she might suddenly slip out of his grasp.

Carefully, he backed up to the nearest chair and sat down so slowly that he felt every muscle in his thighs contract and protest.

“Aye,” he whispered, “ye get yerself some rest, lassie. Save yer best cryin’ for when yer aunt gets back. Really let her have it, eh?”

He smiled and wondered if he was ever that small, that perfect, that innocent, with all of life ahead of him. A new sapling, not yet twisted and gnarled by the world, still blessed with the potential to grow however it pleased toward the sunshine.

“I truly am sorry about that, Miss Agnes,” Marcus said sheepishly, the ‘missing’ letter held safely in his hand. “I didnae see it.”