Page 70 of When the Laird Conquers

“I’m fine,” he insisted, his gaze fixed on the picture of the boy he had never met.

Agnes cleared her throat awkwardly. “It is just that… you seemed… I don’t know, affected by Lizzy and⁠—”

“Daenae pretend to ken me, Agnes,” he interrupted, turning to face her.

He towered over her, his exhaustion giving way to a last burst of anger, though not at her. She was merely the one who had dredged it all up from the deepest recesses of his mind. Yet he could not keep the anger from bleeding into his voice, not when it burned through his veins like wildfire.

“I wasn’t. I just…” she trailed off, her brow furrowing, her expression wounded.

“Ye just what? Ye just thought ye’d see if there was a softer side to me?” he asked coldly, his lip curling. “Ye thought I’d be affected by the babblin’ of a wee lassie?”

Her gaze hardened. “Yes, actually. I saw your face, Gordon. I saw how it moved you, and… perhaps it is no business of mine, but I am curious to know why. I care about the reason why.”

An invisible fist gripped his heart in a vise as he stared back at her, suspicious of her words. Had someone informed her about his son? Had Iona chattered away about it, spilling all of his secrets?

“Why would ye care?”

She shrugged. “At this very moment, I am not sure, but I do.”

“Well, there’s nothin’ to be told, and there’s nothin’ amiss, so there’s nothin’ for ye to be curious about,” he replied, too quickly. “Ye have terrible instincts, Sunshine, and a terrible disregard for rules.”

“Says the man who told me he should stay away from me and not touch me,” she pointed out defiantly. “You didn’t seem too concerned about your silly rules, either. And, frankly, I do not think there is anything amiss with my instincts. I think you don’t know how to speak about how you feel, and now you are cross with me because I have asked, because I have told you that I care and want to know what is wrong.”

He wished with every fiber of his being that he could tell her that she was wrong on all counts, but her perception was sharp as a blade. And he really didn’t want to lie to her.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she pressed, her gaze flitting to the painting of him and his son, as if she already had some of the pieces and just needed to slot them together.

“Talk about what?”

“Whatever it is about the paintings in this room that have made you so angry that you would destroy them,” she replied evenly. “All except this one. Is there something in particular about this painting that you cannot bring yourself to ruin? The child, perhaps?”

He bristled, his defensive walls shooting up once more.

Was it not clear enough to her that he was in no mood to discuss anything? Maybe she wasn’t quite as perceptive as he had thought if she could not see that now was definitely not the time.

“Ye have no cause to ask me that,” he said roughly, his throat tight. “Ye daenae need to ken anythin’ about me. Ye’re askin’ too much from a fake betrothal, Sunshine.”

“It didn’t feel fake when you touched me,” she shot back, her hands balled into fists at her sides. “It didn’t feel fake when you tended to me after we returned from the village. And it doesn’t feel fake now, and I think that is why you are acting this way.”

He took a half step closer, putting himself in infinitely more dangerous territory. “But it is fake, lass. No weddin’ will take place, and we’ll nae live here as husband and wife. A fake bride doesnae need to ken about me son. A fake bride shouldnae ask nor care about him or me. A fake bride shouldnae⁠—”

“Your son?” Agnes breathed, her eyes wide.

“Fake?” a surprised, none-too-pleased voice gasped from behind them.

28

Agnes was still reeling, shocked by the admission that Gordon had a son. Where was the boy? Had something happened to him? Was that why Lizzy’s babbling had bothered him so much?

At the same time, a second jolt of shock struck her, hearing a voice she had not heard in months. In truth, she hadn’t known if she would ever hear it again.

“Father?” she rasped, whirling around.

He was not such a terribly old man at fifty-one, but years of grief and isolation had aged him. His sandy hair was now streaked with white, his hazel eyes sunken, his complexion sallow and drawn, his body fixed in a perpetual stoop from endless days of sitting in the dark, in his armchair, doing nothing.

He had been handsome once. There were portraits to prove it, and her mother had always cooed at how breathtaking he was to behold, especially when he swept her into his arms to dance in the hallway or the drawing room with her. For no reason at all.

Agnes ran to him but stopped short of embracing him. After her mother died, he had ceased to be affectionate to his daughters. She doubted her absence had changed that.