“Why are you arguing?” Philip asked, looking from her to his father. “Both of you are right. Boys, too, can prove worthwhile in a fight. Didn’t I ride to fetch you, Papa, from Edinburgh? Without me, Joan would have been really ill.”
They looked at each other over Philip’s head. Sinjun grinned. Colin said, “You believe every family member should contribute his bit, eh? Everyone should have the chance to be a hero once in a while?”
“That would mean even Dahling would get her chance,” Philip said, frowning. “What do you think, Sinjun?”
“I think your father has finally grasped the right straw.”
“Now, Philip, if you will accept Joan’s apology—”
“Her name is Sinjun, Papa. I accept, Sinjun. You’d do anything for Papa, so I suppose I shouldn’t hold it against you.”
“Thank you,” she said humbly. She watched Colin’s left eyebrow go up a good inch; she watched father and son leave the Laird’s Inbetween Room, Colin leaning down to hear what Philip was saying.
She loved him so much it hurt.
Who the devil had told Robert MacPherson that Colin had murdered his wife?
The late afternoon was cool. The sky was clear—Sherbrooke blue, Sophie had remarked to her husband, then kissed him.
Colin had wanted to be alone, for just a little while. He frowned now at the water stain on the book he held in his hand. He could tell that the book had been carefully cleaned, its binding oiled, but th
e stain had been there a long time and would remain there. She’d cleaned it, of course. And all the other books as well. He’d known that she had, only he hadn’t realized until now that she’d treated each book as a treasure in itself, carefully and with respect. He laid the book down and walked back to his desk. He sat back in his chair, his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes.
He was in his north tower room. He could smell the fresh heather and roses. And the lemon and beeswax. It smelled of his mother, and now he didn’t feel anger at his wife, he felt profound gratitude. He fancied that before long when he smelled lemon and beeswax, it would be his wife he thought of, not his mother.
I love you.
Colin supposed he’d always known she loved him, though the notion of that sort of emotion upon meeting another person he couldn’t easily credit. On the other hand, she’d taken his side from the very beginning. She’d never wavered in her belief in him. Even when they’d argued, he’d known that she’d die for him if it came to it.
It was humbling.
He was so damned lucky he couldn’t believe it. He’d gotten his heiress. He’d also gotten a lady who was a wonderful mother to his children, a lady who was an excellent wife. Albeit stubborn; albeit much too impulsive.
Just when everything seemed at last to be coming out from behind that awful black cloud, there was an enemy still hidden. He wondered if he should have simply beat the name out of MacPherson. Probably. Joan wouldn’t have held him back at the croft. She probably would have argued with him to hit MacPherson herself.
That made him grin. She was bloodthirsty when it came to his safety. He thought of Aunt Arleth, a woman who’d lost her grip on things, only he hadn’t recognized it in time. Because of his blindness, Joan could have died. He clenched his teeth at the thought. It was quite true, Aunt Arleth had even admitted that the little slut would be better off dead. Then things would return to normal; then she would be in charge again.
But she hadn’t told MacPherson anything. Colin sighed and opened his eyes when he heard footsteps coming up the tower stairs. He recognized the light step and leaned forward in his chair, his eyes fixed on the iron-studded door.
It was Joan, pink with exertion, her forehead damp with perspiration.
He rose immediately and went to her. “You’re still not back to your Amazon self. Come and sit down for a moment and regain your breath.”
She did as she was bid. “It’s lowering to be puffing about over some simple stairs. Hello, Colin. I haven’t seen you. Are you all right? I wanted to get away from everyone for a while. Did you, as well?”
“Yes, but I’m glad you’re here.”
She drew a deep breath. “I came for a reason.”
“You want to know about Aunt Arleth.”
“Perhaps, but not really. That is, there’s something else, but I don’t think it was Aunt Arleth or you would have hunted me out immediately. No, it’s about something else entirely, but it can wait. I see you’re holding a book.”
He cocked one of those black eyebrows of his, then handed the book to her. “Thank you for trying to mend this book. It was my grandfather’s. He used to read to me from it. It’s Chesterfield’s Letters to His Son. I was thinking it was time for me to read the letters on mythology and history to Philip, and I was right.”
“Chesterfield’s son was named Philip also. Isn’t that curious? Douglas didn’t introduce me to Chesterfield, but I found him very quickly. He was miserable with his wife and thus has a very low opinion of women, but Douglas said he’d never met me so he’d been deprived, thus I wasn’t to pay him any attention. Ah, this is one of my favorites: ‘Wear your learning, like your watch, in a private pocket . . . . Above all things, avoid speaking of yourself, if it be possible.’ ”
He could but stare at her. He wondered if she would continue to surprise him for the rest of their lives.