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Chapter Nine
Glendarron Castle, Scotland
December 25
“What do youthink of this, Uncle Devon?”
Rowena held up a garland of holly decorated with orange segments.
“Very pretty,” he replied.
She nodded and smiled. Hellion she might be, but she was growing into a lovely young woman—and though not a Hart by birth, she displayed the family characteristics of a strong will and unbreakable loyalty. And, this morning, she had insisted on Devon accompanying her while she finished the decorations for the Yule King party.
The rest of the family were scattered throughout the house—Atalanta was tending to Fraser’s leg, and Delilah was in the kitchen with the children, baking treats for the party. Lord only knew where Thea and Griffin were—though Devon could guess. Having married at thirty, his sister was making up for lost time.
He shivered at the memory of last night—when he’d heard their lovemaking, then tried to make love to his wife. But when she kissed his scar, he’d withdrawn, unable to inflict himself on her. The last thing he wanted was for her to make love to him out of pity.
“Can you help me hang this garland round the window?” Rowena asked. “I’d climb up myself, but Mama Thea asked me not to.”
“She did?”
“She said we have one bad-tempered invalid in the house—it would be bad form to saddle Aunt Attie with another.”
“Bad-tempered?” Devon laughed. “Fraser’s the most jovial man I know.”
“Then you didn’t hear him cursing this morning when Aunt Attie helped him into his chair. Mama Thea said she’d be mortified if I cursed like that.”
He let out a snort. “I thought my sister had long ago resigned herself to having a hellion for a stepdaughter.”
She gave him a playful push. “If you weren’t my favorite uncle, I’d stick this holly down your breeches.”
“It’s a good thing you’re so fond of me, then.”
“Weallare,” she said.
“Perhaps.”
A warm hand slipped into his. “I can see how much Aunt Attie loves you,” she said. “The way she looks at you sometimes! I only hope I’ll find someone to love me as much.”
He picked up the garland and crossed the floor to the window.
Soft footsteps followed.
“Uncle Devon—I meant no offense.”
Ignoring her, he climbed onto the window seat and draped the garland over the top of the curtains. When he finished, he turned to see her gazing up at him, compassion in her eyes.
“I know what you’re feeling,” she said.
“I doubt that.”
She offered her hand, and he took it and jumped off the seat. Rather than release him, she tightened her grip.
“I know what it’s like to think you’re worthless.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Just because I don’t have a scar on my face doesn’t mean I’ve never doubted my value,” she said. “I spent most of my childhood being told I was nothing—that I was a bad person, and nobody could possibly love me. And I believed it.”
