“I don’t want him to die,” Emma argued. “I care very much for your brother.”
Her words slipped within his heart, and when Cormac studied her, he saw the shadow of emotion in her eyes. If he were a better man, he would try to keep more distance to avoid breaking her heart. Already the boundaries of friendship were shifting. And God help him, he didn’t know if he had the willpower to keep his own feelings at bay.
“I don’t believe you,” Nora said. “You don’t even know him. And if you did, you would find himterriblyannoying.”
He almost smiled at his sister’s obvious attempt to dissuade Emma from wanting to remain married to him. When he glanced over at his wife, he saw that she was hiding her own amusement.
“We are getting to know each other better,” she said simply, refusing to take the bait.
“He leaves cups everywhere,” Nora insisted. “If you walk into a room, you can be sure that if you find a cup of tea, it was Cormac’s. And he forgets everything. He’ll forget your birthday,” she predicted.
He decided to tease Nora. To Emma, he said, “I’m sorry,a stór.Whenisyour birthday?”
“December,” she answered. “You haven’t missed it yet.”
“But he will forget,” Nora insisted. “One year, he forgot his own birthday.”
“How awful,” Emma said, but he could see the sparkle in her eyes. “When isyourbirthday, my lord? I don’t think you ever told me.”
“I don’t remember,” he teased. “I suppose we’ll have to simply choose a date.”
Nora grimaced and rolled her eyes, as if she couldn’t stand listening to them. But he had to admit, he was rather enjoying himself. He was reminded of more playful times with Emma in London and at the seaside.
His bedroom door swung open at that moment, and Maire returned. “I’ve brought paper, a pen, and ink. Shall we begin?”
“Yes, let’s,” Emma answered. “We’ll start with what you remember of your father’s illness.”
Though Cormac doubted they would come to any sort of conclusion, he was glad to see his younger sister trying to help. But Nora rose from his beside and turned away. It was clear that she wanted no part of their discussion. Instead, she shook her head and walked to the door, closing it behind her.
He caught Emma’s look of disappointment, but then she listened to Maire as his sister started writing down her memories. His wife also offered her own thoughts as Maire wrote, and as they spoke, it occurred to Cormac that Emma truly needed someone trustworthy to help her write letters and read correspondence back to her. He’d forgotten about it since he’d become ill again, but now, it could not wait.
He’d initially planned to hire someone in his household or perhaps someone from the village. But the more he thought of it, the more he wondered if he could hire his secretary Hawkins to come and live in Ireland—particularly since the man did not have a wife or children of his own. Hawkins could handle Emma’s correspondence, and he believed his wife needed an ally—especially since his mother seemed unwilling to help.
He decided to write the letter today. And with any luck, Hawkins would arrive within a few weeks.
*
After a fewhours, Emma left Cormac to rest. She kept a warm smile on her face, but the truth was, the façade was beginning to exhaust her. It was clear enough that the dowager didn’t want her here, and Josephine had refused to even speak with her since their conversation in the drawing room.
Although Maire might become an ally, she was still so very young. The girl had pressed her list into Emma’s hands eagerly, promising to add more to it later. A list that Emma couldn’t read. She let out a sigh and decided to take it to the study where it could remain on Cormac’s desk.
Before she got very far down the hallway, she heard an unfamiliar woman’s voice ahead of her saying, “Thank you, Stephens.”
The footman must have taken the woman’s bonnet and cloak, Emma guessed. Then he asked, “Are you here to pay a call upon the dowager Lady Dunmeath, Mrs. MacPherson?”
“Actually, I am here to meet Lord Dunmeath’s new countess.”
Emma barely had time to turn around before the woman hurried forward. “Oh, you must be Cormac’s bride, aren’t you?” she gushed. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Moreen MacPherson. It’s pleased I am to meet you at last. I’ve been asking Lorcan to bring me to the castle, but you know men. Always too busy, they are.”
She extended a gloved hand, and Emma took it, feeling rather bewildered. “Good afternoon, Mrs. MacPherson.”
“Oh, you simply must call me Moreen.” Her laughter tinkled, and she drew Emma’s hand to her arm. “I’ve come for tea and to get acquainted with you. I know we will be wonderful friends, Lady Dunmeath.”
The woman reminded her of Lady Persephone with her false enthusiasm, but Emma tried not to make too swift a judgment. It was entirely possible that Nuala or Josephine had not been fair in their view of Moreen.
“I will ring for tea,” she said.
“Oh, you needn’t bother. I told Stephens to make the arrangements.” Moreen guided her down the hall to the drawing room. Maire and Nora were already there. The younger sister was writing a letter—Emma could hear the scratching of her pen—while Nora seemed to be reading a book. “Hello, there,” Moreen greeted the girls. “I heard the two of you were back from school.”
