Page 77 of His Duchess to Remember

The stark fact kept ambushing Malcolm out of nowhere, stabbing him in the heart. After what had happened, any hope of being a family had evaporated; it was just a matter of when he would be asked to return to Scotland.

“We play again,” Simon said, rushing off the bridge to fetch another stick.

Malcolm looked toward the nursemaid who sat nearby on a tree stump, glancing anxiously toward the manor.

“Not now, laddie,” he said. “Ye have to head back for yer luncheon.”

Millicent’s head snapped around, a look of relief washing over her face. The boy had a somewhat strict schedule which, admittedly, Malcolm had not been following over the past few days.

“Play again!” Simon protested, picking up a stick.

Malcolm sighed. “We can come back and play after ye’ve had yer luncheon.”

“No, now.” The boy gripped his stick, his face a picture of defiance.

“Yer luncheon will get cold, and ye’ll complain about it,” Malcolm warned, his tone even. Patient.

But the child’s lower lip began to tremble, and as Malcolm moved forward, meaning to corral the boy back toward the manor, Simon darted away. The child’s speed was a surprise to Malcolm, and though he was obviously much, much quicker than his son, it took a second for his brain to catch up.

And in that one second, Simon’s foot slipped on the damp wood at the start of the bridge, right beside the muddy slope that would have dropped him straight into the river.

The boy screamed in panic as he began to topple, the nursemaid unleashing a yelp too.

Malcolm covered the distance in a blur, his hand roughly grabbing the back of his son’s collar before the boy could fall into the river. He yanked Simon backward, his heart beating so hard it was a percussion against his ribs.

Crouching down and spinning his son around, Malcolm could not hold back his fear. “What did ye do that for, eh?” he asked, harsher than he had intended. “I told ye that ye were going back for yer luncheon. What did ye run off for? Do ye ken what might have happened if ye’d fallen in? Can ye swim, eh? Nay, ye can’t!”

It was not anger, but it sounded like it. Rather, it was the pure terror of narrowly avoiding catastrophe, narrowly avoiding a terrible accident, rattling out of his mouth before he could stop to think.

“Ow, Papa!” Simon screeched. “You’re hurting me!”

Malcolm realized he was gripping his son a little too tight and relaxed his hold. “That was stupid, Simon. Ye could’ve hurt yerself!”

He thought of Quinn Hunter at the river on the Highcastle estate. That boy had been older, and could swim, and had been familiar with those waters, and yet the river had almost claimed him.

“You hurt me!” Simon raged, his little face turning bright red as his hand touched his throat.

A faint pink line was beginning to show on the boy’s neck, where his collar must have rubbed against his skin when he was yanked back.

“I saved ye,” Malcolm countered, as a sinking dread began to plummet from his chest into his stomach.

This is why I can’t stay.

He had been asking himself why he could not, aside from the matter of Octavia being furious with him, and now he had his answer. Malcolm did not trust himself to be so close to his son, fearful that he might yet prove to be like his own father. He realized that he had been waiting for the moment that a sharp word would leave his lips or he would hurt his son, whether deliberately or not. That moment had arrived, and it chilled him.

“Nasty papa!” Simon barked, tears streaming down his face. “Nasty!”

Malcolm blinked, astonished at how much a child’s words could sting.

“Ye did a very silly thing,” he said sternly. “Ye should have done as ye were told, and then ye wouldn’t have a sore throat. Ye’re very lucky that something worse didn’t happen to ye.”

His stomach churned, for he sounded so much like his father. That beast of a man had never had to raise his voice, not when his contempt had been clear enough. And though Malcolm felt no contempt, he knew how it must sound to Simon’s ears.

Appalled, Malcolm got up and turned to the nursemaid. “Take him back for his luncheon, Millicent.”

“Your Grace, he’s just a child. He—” the nursemaid tried to say, but Malcolm was already walking off, out of the forest and across the emerald lawns to the manor.

In the depths of his heart, he still wanted to stay, still wanted to see his boy grow up, but now he was certain that he could not. He was not gentle and kind like Octavia, and perhaps that meant that Simon would grow up to be soft and sensitive and ill-prepared for life, but if Malcolm’s nature was the alternative, then maybe that was for the best.