“Not…not
mine?”
said Alasdair. “But she is. Esmée said so. You are mistaken.”
Angus slowly shook his head. “Nay, laddie,” he said. “D’ye not remember? The bairn’s my get, and I’ll not fob her off on you. ‘Twouldn’t be fair.”
Esmée glanced at Alasdair, who had lost all his color. “But—but that’s quite impossible!” she said. “I
know.
I was there.”
“Ah, were ye now, lassie?” asked the captain slyly. “I dinna remember it that way.”
Esmée felt her face flush with heat. “Sorcha is Alasdair’s child,” she insisted. “I was there when my mother confessed it.”
“Och,
confessed it,
did she?” said Angus. “And what were the circumstances?”
Esmée’s blush deepened. “She caught Achanalt in…well, in an embarrassing position with one of the kitchen maids,” she admitted. “One who was especially pretty and flirtatious—we always had to keep an eye on her—and seeing the two of them like that, why, it just set Mamma off. She was livid. We all heard the quarrel.”
“Aye?” said the captain. “In a taking, was she? Go on, then.”
Alasdair crossed his arms over his chest. “Why must the two of you rehash old history?” he demanded. “I’ve no wish to hear it. I don’t care who was swiving the kitchen maids. And by the way, Angus, Sorcha has not been
fobbed off
on anyone.”
But his disputation went unheeded. Esmée’s words were tumbling from her mouth, and she seemed unable to stop them. “I—I rushed into the room,” she said. “To tell them the servants were listening. The girl was still naked, with his bedsheets wrapped round her. I threw her out. They paid me no heed; they were still at one another. I turned round and saw Mamma strike him. It—it went downhill from there.”
Alasdair made a disparaging sound. “How the devil could it?”
“Oh, easily!” said Esmée. “He accused her of carrying a bastard in her belly. He said he’d known it for months. And then she—dear God, she spat in his face and admitted it! She said she was glad, and wished him to the devil.”
Angus nodded at the last. “Aye, angry, and wishful o’ hurting him any way she could, eh?”
“Oh, aye,” admitted Esmée. “Wild with anger.”
“Aye, that sounds like Rosamund,” he says. “And I’m no’ a thing to be jealous of, am I?”
Esmée looked at him oddly. “What do you mean?”
“Why, look at me!” said the captain, pointing at one of his missing teeth. “What manner o’ jealousy would I inspire, eh, with my paunch and my teeth and my grizzled red hair?”
Alasdair gave a bark of bitter laughter. “Oh, I cannot believe this!”
“Aye, believe it, laddie!” said Angus. “She’s caught Achanalt poking a buxom young maid, and she’s tae retaliate with…what? With
me?
An old salt who’s been twenty-five years on the sea and lost what little looks he e’er had? No, better to throw the handsome young laddie here in his face. Besides, Alasdair was aboot seven hundred miles away by then. Me, I like tae go home from time to time, and Rosamund was fond o’ me. She would have hated to see my head on a pike.”
“But how?” cried Esmée. “How in God’s name could she do such a thing to Sorcha?”
Alasdair sat down on the sofa and dropped his head in his hands. “This is not true,” he said. “It is not.”
But Angus was pacing back and forth now and ignored him. “In her mind, lass, Rose wasn’t thinking o’ the child,” he said. “She just wanted revenge. And she dinna expect to die, either. Like all of us, she thought she’d have time to make things right. That’s my guess, anyway.”
Esmée sat down beside Alasdair. “Dear God!”
“No!” said Alasdair sharply. “I—I
remember,
Angus. Why are you saying such things?”
Angus stopped pacing, and looked down at him. “What d’ye remember, laddie?”
Alasdair shrugged. “Well, being pretty well castaway,” he admitted. “And…and doing something I knew I would regret. Something shameful.”
“Aye, laddie, you nearly did!” said Angus, cutting another swift glance at Esmée.
“What?” said Alasdair.
“What?
Was there something worse?”
Angus tilted his head. “Well, not precisely
worse,”
he said. “But are you sure you want me tae tell it?”
“Oh, why the hell not?” said Alasdair, throwing up his hands.
Angus was chuckling to himself. “You tried to take a piss in Lady Morwen’s potted palms.”
Alasdair’s head jerked up. “I
what?”
“Och, sotted as a sow, ye were,” Angus continued. “And desperate to make water. Said you were going to the gents’ room, but I saw you take the wrong door. You staggered through some curtains behind the musicians’ dais, tripped over a violin case, and somehow dropped your drawers, then couldna’ get ‘em up again.”
Alasdair emitted an awful groan. “Oh, Christ,” he said. “The curtains—were they heavy? Velvet?”
“Aye, mayhap.”
Another groan. “Did—did anyone see—?”
Angus slapped him cheerfully on the shoulder. “No, but ’twould have been quite a shock to the womenfolk if the drapes had been drawn whilst your trews were round your ankles,” he said. “But not tae worry. We hitched everything up again, and ’twas then I realized ’twas time to take our leave of Lord and Lady Morwen before one of us got shot, for I well knew what I’d been aboot.”
The humor of the situation was lost on Esmée. She was half in a panic.
Captain MacGregor was her mother’s lover?
Good Lord. It was beyond belief. Her mother had always preferred handsome, faithless wastrels. A short, squat, grizzled old sea captain with a face like a well-worn saddlebag was inconceivable. And now, what would become of Sorcha? How could this have happened?
Suddenly, she remembered all the callous things she’d thrown at Alasdair. “Oh, Lord!” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “What a bloody awful mess I’ve made of all this!”
“No, lassie, ’twas your mother that made it, God rest her.”
Esmée did not heed him. “Oh, Alasdair! I owe you a most profuse apology.”
Angus looked at her oddly. “Why?” he said. “What did
you
do?”
Esmée stared at the carpet. She felt a little sick. “I—I said some terrible things,” she whispered. “Some things I can’t bear to think back on.”
But Alasdair seemed disinterested in her apology. He was still watching his uncle warily. “Angus, are you sure?” he asked, his voice a little hollow. “I’ve spent these last months coming to grip with what I thought was the truth. That child is precious to me.”
“Aye, laddie,” he said wearily. “I’m sure.”
Esmée set her hand on Alasdair’s arm. “Sorcha does have those MacGregor eyes,” she mused. “And I think your uncle might be right about Mamma, too. It sounds just the sort of overwrought, shortsighted thing she would do. And then there was something Aunt Rowena said—oh, but never mind that! I am just so sorry, Alasdair, for the ugly things I said.”
Alasdair turned to face her and took both her hands in his. “But you weren’t far off the mark, my dear,” he answered. “I suppose I must accept that what my uncle says is true. He has no reason to lie. But the awful truth is, it could just as well have
been
me. Perhaps I’m off the hook—now, the first time I’d as soon not be—but how many other times have I been guilty of just such a thing? How many, Esmée? I can’t even count them.”
Angus was watching them curiously. “What d’ye mean, laddie, ‘as soon
not
be’?”
Alasdair turned to face his uncle and set his jaw in that hard, stubborn line Esmée had come to know too well. “Angus, I want no trouble with you,” he began. “But it is like this: Possession is nine-tenths of the law. I’m not giving her up. Not without a fight.”
Angus drew back in shock. “You’re wishing to
keep
the bairn?” he said. “But I thought Miss Hamilton was raising her.”
Esmée sniffled pathetically. “Well, I was,” she said. “Until my aunt Rowena found out.”
Angus chuckled quietly. “Aye, Rowena!” he said. “I remember
her,
too.”
“Angus, damn it, this is not funny.”
Angus lifted his hands expressively. “Ah, well, laddie! Ye know what your granny MacGregor always says: One way or anither, your chicks will come home to roost. But somehow, this one came to roost with you by mistake.”
Alasdair’s brow drew into a knot. “Did Granny really say that?”
“Oh, aye, a thousand times!” said Angus.
Alasdair fisted both his hands. “Well, she roosted here, and by God, she’s staying here,” he said. “I’ve raised the child as mine. I’m the only father she’s ever known—God knows Achanalt never spared her a thought—and I tell you, I shan’t give her up.”
It was slowly dawning on Esmée that Alasdair was entirely serious. He really did
not
want off the hook. Indeed, he was quite angry. The muscle in his jaw was having spasms now.
Angus sat down and scratched his grizzled head. “Well, well, what’s best done?” he muttered. “God knows a sailor can’t raise a child—I had no intention of it, anyway. And I want the best for the wee thing, o’course. But laddie, the truth is—” Here, he gestured at Esmée again, “—
She’s
got more rights to the bairn than you or I, come to that. And ’tis womenfolk that know what’s best for children.”
“I
know what’s best for Sorcha,” Alasdair snapped, his jaw still firmly set. “I understand her. Esmée and I will raise her together.”
Angus looked befuddled. “Thought Esmée was living with Rowena.”
“Yes, and that’s the next problem I mean to fix,” said Alasdair, scrabbling through his pocket and extracting a small velvet box. It was green, just like the one her pearls had come in, only smaller. He slapped it down beside the unused coffee service and shot Esmée a look that dared her to contradict him. “But we’ll be having
that
discussion in private,” he added.
“Ah!” said Angus, slapping his knees and standing up again. “That would be my cue tae get upstairs with my whisky.”
Alasdair waved him toward the door. “Yes, yes,” he said. “By all means, go.”
Angus stopped beside Esmée and laid a gnarled hand on her shoulder. “Now don’t fret, lass,” he said. “I’m a wealthy man, and I’ll do right by the bairn. I needed an heir anyway.”
Esmée just stared at him. “B-But what are we to tell Sorcha?”
Angus gave her an avuncular pat. “Why, when she’s of age, you can tell her whatever you please—or nothing a’tall!” he said. “She can be just Lady Sorcha Guthrie, your dear, wee sister. Achanalt is na’ apt to gainsay that; not publicly, and if he does, I’ll kill ’im. Or you can tell her she had two parents who loved each other very much, but bollixed up their lives, yet still wanted the very best for her. Or if you truly wish it, why, you can just change her name and tell her she’s yours and Alasdair’s—which she will be, aye?”
Esmée opened her mouth, then closed it again. “Well. At least we have…alternatives.”
Angus paused just long enough to give her another wink and snatch the whisky decanter. “Aye, so bide your time,” he advised. “But either way it goes, lassie, a child does need two parents, aye? And parenthood has verra little to do with who begat you and a vast deal to do with who loved and cared for you.”
Slowly, she nodded. “That is very true.”
Then, quietly, Angus left, closing the door behind.
Alasdair watched him go in disbelief. “Well,” he said, reaching for her hand, “this has been one hell of a day, and the morning’s but half-gone. What do you make of it, my girl?”
“I believe, Alasdair, that I am in shock.” Esmée, too, was still staring at the door. “Just imagine! Captain MacGregor
and my mother?
But it does indeed seem that he was her long-lost love. It all quite boggles the mind.”
“Aye, well, my mind’s been boggled for weeks now,” Alasdair returned. “But what’s this lost love business?”
Esmée turned on the sofa, and set her hand against his cheek. “Oh, just a silly, romantic story Aunt Rowena told me,” she murmured. “Something of a cautionary tale.”
Alasdair watched her a little warily. “Ah, I see,” he murmured. “And what was the moral of the story?”
Esmée leaned closer and kissed him lightly on the lips. “That one should always trust one’s heart,” she said. “Because sometimes, the first love you find is the right one, and you should hold on to him with all your strength.”
“Ah!” said Alasdair. “Is that so?”
“It is,” she said certainly. “My mother did not do that, and it may well have been the cause of all her unhappiness. I hope to do better. I hope to seize what is meant for me and hold to it no matter what. Perhaps I shall have a happy life. Perhaps I shan’t turn out like my mother after all.”
Alasdair stroked the back of his hand over her cheek. “My dear girl, you aren’t
like
anyone I’ve ever known,” he whispered. “You are just Esmée. And you are perfect.”
Esmée managed a watery smile. “Well, you are
not,”
she said. “You are hopelessly flawed, and very, very wicked. Unfortunately, I seem to find the combination irresistible.”
Alasdair was holding her gaze gently. “Oh, Esmée, I have been such a fool,” he answered. “And it did not take Angus’s coming here to teach me that.”
Esmée gave him a muted smile. “Yes, ’tis true. You have been a fool.”
A teasing glint flashed in his eye. “But perhaps we should begin at the beginning,” he went on. “Esmée, what are you doing here? You shouldn’t have come alone, you know.”
“Yes, I believe you mentioned that earlier,” she remarked, picking up her newspaper.
“What’s that?” he asked. “Today’s paper? How odd. That’s the same one
I
read before bolting off to Grosvenor Square.”
She shot him a coy look. “Then you will have noticed, I daresay, that my betrothal to Lord Wynwood is at an end?”
His expression saddened. “I saw it and went directly to your aunt’s house, only to find you gone,” he said. “I won’t pretend, Esmée, that I’m not glad. And I shan’t let the opportunity to win you pass me by a second time. I’d hate to saddle you with a rogue like me, but I mean to do it if you’ll let me. I love you, my girl, with all my heart.”
“And I love you,” she said, taking both his hands in hers. “Indeed, I came here with every intention of throwing myself at you most wantonly. I know it’s a dodgy business, MacLachlan, consorting with a man of your ilk, but ’twould be best if you just gave in gracefully. I mean to have you no matter
what
it takes.”