“You do not know that,” he whispered.
“I do know that,” she insisted. “Cruel men do nae fight for a broken woman’s dignity in front of the whole town. Cruel men do nae let their lads hug their knee after a pantomime. Ye are terrified of failure, and so ye hide behind the coldness. But it is just a mask, and we all wear them. Ye are a good man,mo chridhe. And ye are a good faither.”
It was a shocking display of vulnerability she had never expected to witness, bringing a pang to her gut. He leaned down, burying his face in the soft crook of her neck. His arms wrapped around her tightly, a desperate, silent plea for comfort.
“I am so tired of the guilt, Isla,” he confessed, his voice muffled against her skin.
She held him, stroking his soft, black hair, her own heart swelling at the true intimacy of all he had shared, of being so close.
“Let me carry some of your troubles,” she whispered into his ear. “Let it go, Benedict. We are here now. We are safe. We have each other.”
He pulled back slightly, his eyes red-rimmed but clear. His hands slid to her waist, and he pulled her closer still, kissing her not with the passion of possession, but with the tenderness of a man newly found.
We are nae so different. We are just two people, scarred by life and loss, clingin’ to each other in the quiet sanctuary of our home.
Chapter Twenty
It was the day before their anticipated departure for Ealdwick Manor, which was continually delayed by trips to the theatre, business dealings, and other such things, much to the duke’s chagrin.
The morning dawned clear and brisk, a light frost in the air as the December chill had truly set in. Isla insisted over breakfast that they spend their last afternoon in London away from the stifling formality of calls and ledgers. They had spent enough time on such things.
“I think we deserve a proper exploration of the city before we return to the country,” Isla said as she finished the last of her boiled egg, dabbing her lips with her napkin.
“Ooh that sounds so exciting!” Oliver said as he finished his toast. “What do you have in mind, Isla?”
“How about a stroll through London and we can see what we find… what do ye think, Yer Grace?” She said with a smile as he looked at her from behind his newspaper.
“Very well,” Benedict said as he set the paper down and took a sip of coffee. “It will be blizzarding soon enough in England, I am sure. Where would you like to go?”
“I think it is better if I surprise ye,” Isla said with a wry smile, rising from her seat and scurrying to her quarters to get ready.
And so, the trio set off on a walk through the city later that morning. They made their way down the cobblestone streets until they reached the bustling city center. Isla steered Benedict and Oliver toward a lively square known for a colorful riot of handmade quilts and jars of preserves, and street performers. The scents of roasted nuts filled the air.
Oliver, clutching Isla’s hand, was overwhelmed by all the goings-on yet clearly thrilled by the spectacle of it with the grin that took up his face. Benedict stalked beside them, his shoulders taut beneath his coat as he passed through the busy square.
“This is awfully busy,” Benedict said with a huff. “Is there something you were looking for in particular, Your Grace?”
“Nay, it is just for a bit of fun. Lookin’ at all the treats is part of it… although I would love a warm pastry.”
“Oh Isla, do you hear that music?” Oliver yelped with joy. “I have never heard such happy sounds!”
They stopped near a patch of cobbled ground where a small, energetic band was playing a lively reel. Children and young couples had gathered around, laughing as they attempted the complicated steps, their joy infectious.
Benedict looked up and noticed that the streetlamps were adorned with garland and thought for a moment about the holidays and what that may mean for them as a family of three.
“Look, Oliver!” Isla exclaimed, breaking Benedict from his thoughts. Her green eyes were sparkling as she tapped her foot to the music. “A proper Scottish jig! Come on, let’s join in.”
Oliver immediately pulled back, bumping gently into Benedict’s side. His face clouded over, the previous excitement vanishing with the cold winter wind. “Oh, no, Isla. I… I do not think I should.”
Isla knelt immediately, bringing herself to his level. “Nonsense!”
“But… I am clumsy here,” Oliver whispered, looking miserably down at his feet. The limp he tried so hard to hide was always more noticeable when he was tired or trying to move too quickly. “I would only trip over everyone and embarrass Papa.”
Benedict watched as Isla cupped his cheek, her expression warm. “Oliver, every single person out here is a little clumsy.And with some of them with drink I would wager! It is what makes it fun! And if ye trip, ye just laugh and keep on goin’.”
“Perhaps,” Oliver said softly, still not conceding.
“Besides,” she glanced up at Benedict, a glint in her eye. “We will nae be alone in our awkwardness. Yer father will join us.”
