Chapter Seventeen

"And then the fae gifted the little girl with the power to see into the future," Sorcha said.

As both the children burst out with questions for Sorcha, Alasdair leaned back against the wood of the headboard. Contentment gripped him, and he felt the newly familiar sensation of a smile lifting the corner of his lips. He studied Sorcha and Hew and Beatie as they talked of the story she was in the process of weaving for them. The children sat on either side of her, Beatie under her coverlet and Hew on top of it so he could go to his own bedchamber when the story was over. Hew was moving his feet back and forth in obvious excitement, and Beatie reached over and grabbed Sorcha's hand.

Sorcha's eyes widened in surprise, but then she smiled, and Alasdair watched as she squeezed his daughter's hand. She might as well have squeezed his heart, such emotion took hold of him. He didn't just desire Sorcha; he liked her, he admired her, and she had awakened a longing in him he had believed would never stir again. It was inconvenient and troubling, given he was to take her to her brother for coin he needed for his clan.

"Please!" Hew wailed, followed by a similar plea from Beatie.

"Please tell us another!" Beatie added. "We can give ye something for a story!"

"Oh, aye?" Sorcha said, turning and winking at him, and that simple gesture made him hard as stone.

"I've a frog I can give ye," Hew said.

"While that is verra tempting," Sorcha said in a serious tone that made Alasdair smile, "I dunnae have a proper place to keep a pet frog."

Hew nodded in understanding.

"I've a mud pie I made!" Beatie announced with pride.

"Oh! Lovely!" Sorcha said, "but"—she patted her stomach—"I'm full from dinner."

Both the children burst into peals of laughter. "Ye dunnae eat mud pie!" Beatie exclaimed.

"Oh! Nay?" Sorcha asked, all wide-eyed pretend innocence.

The children both shook their heads in emphasis. He had never seen them this happy or animated—or had he simply missed it because of the distance he'd set between them?

"Well then," she continued, "Beatie, ye may trade the mud pie for one story from me tomorrow night—"

"Tonight, tonight!" the children protested.

"Nae tonight," he said, as indecision flickered on Sorcha's face, but he also noted the dark smudges under her eyes. They'd traveled far and fast, and she needed to recuperate.

Sorcha shot him a grateful look before focusing the full force of her lovely gaze on Hew. "And, Hew, ye may teach me to dance at supper tomorrow night in exchange for a story."

"We're nae allowed to dance in the great hall at supper," Beatie announced, making him wince.

"Whyever nae?" she asked, and when both children fell silent, Alasdair braced himself for the wave of grief that had always battered him when the memories of dancing with Mariot would come, but though flashes of memories came, the misery did not. He stilled in shock for a moment, but when Sorcha looked to him and quirked her eyebrows, he cleared his throat.

"'Tis my fault," he said. "Their mama and I loved to dance, and I, well—" He was fumbling to find the right words—that he was unable to face the fact that he'd never dance with her again, but how did he admit such a thing?

"I understand," Sorcha said, and the empathy in her voice told him that she truly did.

"Grandmama decreed we could nae dance," Beatie announced, crossing her arms over her chest and scowling.

"Oh," Sorcha replied, her forehead wrinkling and confusion flooding her gaze as she looked to him.

His neck heated with embarrassment. "I—She decreed it for me, as she could see 'twas painful for me to watch."

Sorcha pursed her lips together. "Avoiding pain does nae make it go away," she muttered.

Slightly disgruntled by what she had said, he got up from the bed and motioned to Hew. "Come on. Time to make yer way to yer own chamber for sleep."

Instead of protesting, Hew gave a big yawn, and then he shocked Alasdair when he wrapped his arms around Sorcha, squeezed her, and gave her a peck on the cheek. "Thank ye for the story."

She turned toward Hew and said, "My pleasure," before giving Hew a peck on the forehead and a hug in return. Regret assaulted him at these little moments he'd been missing. Regret and embarrassment. Hew scrambled toward him and started off the bed, but Alasdair caught his son by the shoulder.

"Do I nae get a hug as ye gave to Sorcha?"

Hew's eyes widened with surprise. "Aye!" he said, eagerness punctuating the one word.

"Me too! Me too!" Beatie cried, running across the bed to launch herself at him. He pulled her to him and gave them both ferocious hugs and kissed them on the forehead, before setting Hew down on the floor.

"Now off to bed with ye both," he said, hoping his voice did not betray the emotion that was clogging his throat.

Hew skipped out of the room, and Beatie nestled under her covers once more. He met Sorcha at the bedchamber door, and they walked out together. As he closed the door, it struck him that he'd never put his children to bed. He turned to her. "Thank ye," he said, the two words sounding choked to him. He thought she might ask for what, but she simply nodded, which he was glad for. "I'll show ye to yer bedchamber."

"Ye can point me in the direction," she said. "I'm certain ye're tired."

"Nae too tired to show ye to yer chamber." Plus, he found he was reluctant to part with her.

"All right," she replied, a blush staining her cheeks.

He motioned her ahead, setting a palm to the small of her back to guide her, and he stared in amazement at the gently curved spot. He had forgotten how small things on a woman could be so beguiling. They walked in silence through the corridors, lost in thought. When they reached her bedchamber, that same reluctance to part gripped him, so that when she turned to him, their faces so close he could see how her dark lashes nearly touched her eyebrows, he had a nearly overwhelming urge to kiss her and make this sliver of a moment last.

He was fighting the urge when she quirked her mouth and spoke. "May I be blunt?"

"Aye," he replied, glad her words had quelled the battle within him.

"I ken I dunnae ken ye well, or yer mother-in-law or children, but sometimes people who dunnae ken ye can see things that ye kinnae."

He frowned. "And what is it ye see?"

"Yer mother-in-law has enabled ye to live in yer grief."

"Ye've seen that, have ye, in yer short time here?" he asked, his words snapping.

"Aye," she said and held up her right hand, which was in a fist. She shot up her index finger. "The declaring there is nae to be dancing." She held up another finger. "Always putting yer children to bed and nae persuading ye to help." Unhappiness with himself tangled with irritation at her pointing out his weaknesses and faults. "Allowing ye to withdraw from them."

"Ye have a lot to say for a woman who barely kens me and my children," he growled.

"Aye, but I see what ye either dunnae or have been hiding from."

"Are ye implying I'm fearful?" he demanded.

"Ye are verra braw," she said. "I've seen it with my own two eyes. But when it comes to yer grief, ye have chosen to allow it to conquer ye, and that is cowardly."

He felt his lips twist with annoyance, partly because, he suspected, she might be right and partly because he wanted to deny it all.

"As a woman, I must tell ye, if I died and left children behind, there is nae anything I'd want more than to ken their da was showing them the love I couldn't."

"Ye dunnae have children, so how can ye ken what ye would want?" he bit out, overwhelming defensiveness gripping him.

"Just because I dunnae have bairns of my own, does nae mean my heart kinnae tell me what I would feel," she said, her tone firm and her look disgruntled. He opened his mouth to argue, but she spoke over him. "Ye have amazing children," she said, deflating a measure of his brewing anger. "I feel certain yer wife would be heartbroken to ken ye are nae truly a part of their lives because ye are scairt of losing them."

The words were too close to the truth. He wasn't prepared to face it and fix it, especially now, standing in front of a women he desired. He stepped around her and opened her door, allowing it to swing open and smack the wall behind it. "I think ye should go to bed now."

She pressed her lips together, then narrowed her eyes. "I ken well ye are used to telling everyone what to do, but I'm nae one of yer clan who has to listen to ye."

"I could simply throw ye over my shoulder and toss ye to yer bed."

"Ye would nae dare."

He actually thought he might if he wasn't afraid he would hurt her. He growled and glared at her, but she didn't seem the least bit concerned by his dark mood. Was that because she was used to her father? The thought was sobering. She crossed her arms over her chest, drawing his attention to her high breasts, much to his irritation. He jerked his gaze away and up to her face. "I imagine ye'll say yer peace even if I tossed ye out the window, so go on."

"Yer mother-in-law is little better than my da. She has her own particular cruelty and desires, and I do believe she has kept ye in yer grief longer than ye would have allowed yerself to dwell there."

Anger pounded his temples. He was angry at himself for the walls he'd created, and he was angry at her for saying things aloud that he did not want to face, and he was angry at the gods for taking Mariot. If he replied to what Sorcha had said just now, he wasn't sure he could control the grief he'd managed to keep tamped down for six long years, so he turned on his heels and strode away. But he hadn't reached the end of the hall when she called out to him.

"Ye kinnae outrun grief, Alasdair. It always catches up to ye. Believe me, I ken this well."

He wanted to turn then, to go to her and take her in his arms and comfort her in whatever grief had taught her such a lesson, but he kept walking. It wasn't his place to comfort her, and if let himself touch her, kiss her, he suspected he'd not want to let her go. He'd keep walking, and that way, this one wall, the most important one, would stay firmly in place.