Provoked (22 page)

David raised his fingers to his lips, and they came away bloody. He stared at the crimson smears on his fingertips for a long moment, aching for he didn’t know what.

“You’d better go,” Balfour muttered, turning away. “The carriage is waiting.”

Chapter Seventeen

Three months later

“Your turn, Davy,” his mother said, and shoved the bundled-up bairn into his arms.

David startled, making the rest of the small assembled group laugh. He fumbled for a moment before relaxing his arm, creating a secure curve for Drew and Letty’s firstborn, his nephew, Allan David Lauriston.

The baby stared up at him, winsome and oddly grave. His eyes were an extraordinary dark blue, the gold-tipped lashes surprisingly long. He looked absurdly new, this tiny person. Absurdly delicate. The tender folds of his little eyelids made some wall inside David crumble away. The feeling made his eyes smart with hot tears. He disguised them with his bent head, waiting until the unfamiliar burst of emotion had passed before he looked up again.

Everyone was watching him. His mother and father, Drew and Letty. His mother looked fond, Drew and Letty proud, their eyes on the babe. His father seemed sad.

“He’s a bonny lad,” David said, addressing the remark to Letty, who kissed him on the cheek before retrieving the baby. She couldn’t keep her hands off him, David’s mother had complained. A typical new mother, she sniffed, but David could tell she wasn’t really annoyed. The truth was, no one could keep their hands off the baby. They’d been fighting good-naturedly over him all day. Even David’s father, who had dandled him too roughly, as though he was a toddler of two instead of a newborn babe.

They gathered round him again now, debating whether to feed him or put him down to sleep, all except David and his father, who looked at David and said, “Come and have a walk with me, lad.”

David nodded. They both rose and went into the kitchen, shoving on boots and coats before walking out into the cold January day.

“This way,” his father said, setting off for the path to the north field.

For a while, they walked in silence. David’s father wasn’t a great talker. He only spoke when he had something to say. David suspected this might be one of those rare occasions.

It was a miserable day with a heavy, grey sky. The bitter winter wind did nothing to dry out the freezing damp that clung to every tree and rock and every inch of the hard ground. Last week’s drifts of white snow had melted for the most part, leaving only dirty banks of white-and-brown crust on either side of the steep dirt path that led up to the north field. They trudged up, hands deep in their pockets, heads lowered against the wind.

When they got to the top of the hill, David’s father took off his cap and leaned on the wooden gate of the north field, staring out at the valley below them. It was good farming here. Fertile ground and mostly flat with decent soil. Not exactly the most romantic landscape, but a man could make a living here. David joined his father at the gate, resting one booted foot on the lowest rung and leaning his forearms on the topmost one. The familiarity of the gesture made him feel nostalgic, remembering a time when he wasn’t tall enough to see over this old gate.

“You could have what Drew’s got,” his father said, eyes still looking straight ahead. “A wife and bairns. You’d be a good father, David.”

The warm nostalgia dissipated. David paused before replying. “I dearly wish I could, Dad. But I can’t.”

His father’s posture didn’t alter, and after a few moments, he nodded, as though David’s words were no surprise at all. His profile was craggy, the short brush of his salt-and-pepper hair blown back by the biting January wind. “You’ve chosen a hard road,” he said.

“I wouldn’t call it a choice,” David replied.

“There’s always choices. And you always seem to pick the toughest ones.” The old man stuck his cap back on, his mouth twisting into a smile of sorts. “You could’ve taken the apprentice position with Adam Jamieson and got a good trade. But instead you did all that learning with Mr. Odell, and off to university you went to become a fancy lawyer.”

“You encouraged me,” David pointed out, smiling. It was true. His father had groused, but he’d scrimped and saved to help pay David’s tuition. The old man valued education above everything.

“I knew once you set your mind to it you’d be sure to do it. That’s always how you were. Like when you took that whipping for Drew for leaving this very gate open and letting my best ram out.”

“I couldn’t sit down for a week.” David grinned.

“And when I caught you with William Lennox.”

David’s grin died on his face. “Dad—”

The old man’s face was grim, the deep lines at the corners of his eyes, from all those years outdoors, showing his age. He stared straight ahead. “God help me, David, I
wanted
you to lie to me that day. I wanted to believe it was anything but what my eyes told me.”

David’s chest felt tight. “I know,” he said thickly. “I’m so sorry.”

“But you wouldn’t deny it.”

“I…couldn’t. I—”

“Even though he denied it fast enough.”

Christ.

Like a knife in his gut, the memory of that betrayal pierced David all over again. William saying it was a mistake. That David had pushed him; that he’d allowed himself to be persuaded into the embrace despite his unwillingness. David shook his head at the wintry valley in helpless denial.

“How can I be proud of you for
that
?” his father said sadly, shifting his whole body to look at David. David turned his head to meet the old man’s stony gaze. “And how can I not?” he added.

The pain in his father’s eyes wasn’t to be borne.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again, wretchedly.

“You know what, Davy?”

“What?”

“William Lennox—Sir William, as he is now—has married a fine English lady, and they have a wee lassie. Another babe coming, so I hear.”

“Is that so?” David tried to imagine William with a daughter of his own. Would she have the same green-gold eyes as her father? The same dark hair? Or would she look like her mother?

“Aye, it’s so. He’s not got your scruples, lad.” The old man sighed. “But like I said, you never did take the easy road. It makes me want to weep for you sometimes.”

David didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing and the old man turned back to look out over the valley.

After a while, his father said, “I never told your mother. After, I mean. I didn’t want her worrying about you going to hell.”

David swallowed, guilt swamping him. “Thank you,” he muttered.

“And I’ve thought about it a lot since then. I reckon it’s no sin, Davy, if you don’t act on it. God sends strange things to try us. Sometimes they seem awful unfair. Look at Jonah. But we cannot know His purpose for us. All we can do is submit ourselves to His will and do what is right.”

David said nothing to that. He couldn’t. When he swallowed against the hot lump of grief trapped in his throat, it felt like swallowing a piece of his own heart. It was a monumental struggle to bring himself under control and avoid the final shame of giving way to tears.

It seemed, though, that the old man had said all he wanted to say. After that last pronouncement, he fell silent. Now he stared straight ahead, eyes narrowed, as though an answer might be out there, somewhere. A clue that might explain the whimsies of his God.

“It’s cold, Dad,” David said after a little while. “Shall we go back?”

“You go,” his father said without turning his head. “I’m going to bide here a wee bit. I’ll come back by and by.”

He left his father looking over the land he’d farmed his whole life, and trudged back down the hill. Four o’clock, and already it was getting dark. Damn, but these winter days were short.

So William was married, and with children no less. It was hardly a surprise, David supposed.

For some reason, though, the news made him think of Murdo Balfour, of all people. Balfour, whom he’d somehow managed to shove to the back of his mind and not think of for weeks now. He hadn’t seen the man since the night they’d seen off Euan MacLennan. Presumably he was back in London. David knew he’d probably never see him again. It was entirely pointless to waste time wondering about him. But wonder he did.

Angry with himself, David punished himself by imagining the man with Isabella Galbraith, even though he knew she probably wouldn’t be his choice now. It would be someone like her, though. Someone beautiful and accomplished. He imagined Balfour kissing her. Balfour burying himself between her soft white thighs. He imagined them with a clutch of dark-haired children. They’d have beautiful children.

And then he thought of Balfour’s eyes glittering with lust, his hand wrapped round his cock as he stared down at David’s prone, sated body.

He thought of Balfour touching him, more intimately than anyone had before, or probably would again.

“You’re beautiful.”

Christ Jesus.

That night—that
moment—had been the sweetest of all David’s life. And if thinking that made him wicked and bound for hell, he wasn’t sure he had it in him to repent. But Christ, it was bittersweet. More bitter than sweet, truth to tell. Sweet to know that for once in his life, he’d known such tenderness, but oh so bitter to know it would never come again.

For one awful moment, all David’s darkness rose in him: misery, loneliness, envy. It blazed through him like an inferno in his blood. It roared through him and immolated him and left him like a husk. He opened his eyes and realised he was bent over, one arm braced on his thigh, his throat thick with unshed tears.

Then the pain ebbed, and he straightened. He wrapped all those thoughts up in black crepe and moved them to the back of his mind. He forbade himself to think about them anymore.

He took a deep breath and set off down the path again, and when he came round the bend, it was to see the farmhouse, with candles glowing in the windows, like a lighthouse calling him to safety.

When he opened the door, the savoury aroma of beef stew and dumplings assailed him, and his brother called him over to the fire to play a game of dominoes. His father came in a little later, and it seemed he was back to normal again. He joined his sons and accepted a cup of ale from Letty.

They ate a good dinner. Afterwards, David’s father broke open the rarely broached whisky, and the three men settled down to a more earnest game of dominoes while his mother sewed and Letty crooned to the baby.

When the game ended, David stood and went over to his sister-in-law.

“May I sit with you, Letty?”

She smiled. “Of course. Do you want to hold Allan again?”

“All right.”

She shifted up, making room for him, then carefully lifted the sleeping baby and placed him in David’s arms.

He was a warm wee weight, the shape of his little body just made to sit in the crook of an arm. His extravagant lashes kissed cheeks that looked like apricots in the fire’s glow. Like a little prince, he lay, confident of his welcome, helplessly trusting and full of potential.

Would this child be a farmer, like his father and grandfather before him, or would he want to seek out another path, as his uncle had done? Perhaps one day, he would need David’s help. It was a thought that warmed David unexpectedly.

David might never have a wife and children of his own, but he had a family, and more besides. Good health, friends, work that brought him great satisfaction.

And besides all that, he’d tasted, if only once in his life, real, honest passion.

With Murdo Balfour.

How could he regret that? How could he regret the best, and sweetest moment of all his life?

He swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat and looked up to find his mother smiling at him. His father and Drew bent over their game. Letty dozing beside him, an exhausted new mother. The baby in his arms.

This house was full of love. And it was enough.

For now, it was enough.

About the Author

Joanna Chambers always wanted to write love stories but she studied law, became a practising lawyer, married and had two children before she finally got beyond staring at empty notebooks. She thanks the arrival of her children for the discovery of her muse and/or destruction of her social life.

Joanna is a passionate believer in the transformative power of love. She lives in the UK with her family. When not working, looking after children or writing, she can be found with her nose buried in an ebook.

She loves to hear from readers and can be reached at:

Twitter ID: @ChambersJoanna

Website:
www.joannachambers.com

Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/#!/profile.php?id=100002993543568

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© 2013 Joanna Chambers

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