She laughed. “So did I.” She looked around again. “So rich and large.”
“Aye. So I thought. And when my grandfather died and I realized he had named me his heir”—he shook his head—“it took all I could muster nay to hide under this grand bed, hide from everyone who was now looking to me, to Callum the street brat, to be their laird.”
“There is nay wrong with a street brat. ’Tis just a child tossed aside most times.”
Callum took a deep breath. He had to tell her. She had a right to know what kind of man she was with, he thought as he slowly let that breath out, reaching for calm. There were times when it affected his behavior, though not as often as it used to. There were times when the dreams would come and he would wake to find himself trembling and hiding in some small, dark place. He still checked for places to hide or escape through whenever he visited a place. His rage could sometimes swamp him when he found a broken child, one who had suffered as he had.
Then there were the knives. She had not noticed yet because he was careful to remove them when there was even the smallest chance she would be close enough for her to know he had them. It was not normal to carry so many knives.
He grimaced. The ones who had beaten him had taken his knives but he had gotten most of them back. That was the moment he had started wearing them again.
“Bethoc, ye do ken I was a bit more than just a street rat, aye?” he said.
“I ken something bad happened after the mon ye mentioned, the bad one, took ye in.”
“He liked young boys.” The way she caught her breath, lifting her head even as her eyes widened, told him she had quickly grasped what he meant. “He got them when they were small, from the streets, from some trusting parents who thought to give their bairn a better life, and from an orphanage. Then he trained them to, weel, accept his ways. Punishment was harsh. E’en for his wife. And when they got too old, he often just killed them.”
“That is why ye look hard at any who want one of your ‘lambs’ as Uven called them.”
“Aye, verra hard. Some who come here have already suffered so I have to be verra careful placing them.”
She stroked his cheek. “But ye got away.”
“Aye, thanks to Kirstie and Payton Murray. They fought for us, for me, Robbie, Simon, and the others. It was a long hard fight, too. Then I found my grandfather and all this.”
“Did they kill him?” she asked in a hard voice. “Did they kill the mon who hurt so many children?”
“Aye, we killed him. Actually Simon did. He was only twelve but we dinnae think he suffered much for it. The mon had killed his father, beaten him and threatened his wee sister—Brenda.”
“Your cook?”
He grinned. “Aye. She loves cooking so I let her be ours when the old cook died.”
“I am glad it all turned out weel but I am verra glad Simon killed the mon. I suspicion he would have smelled terrible. Probably like rotting meat.”
“Aye. But, Bethoc, I am telling ye this because ye have the right to ken what kind of mon ye have accepted into your bed.”
“What do ye mean?”
“Weel, I am soiled. I am nay all this but a feral child, abused and . . .” He halted when she clapped her hand over his mouth.
“What ye being right now is an idiot. Ye are Callum. Aye, ye were a street lad and all that other horror, but ye are nay now. Ye have become Callum who rescues the wee ones who need it, some women, too, and tries to find them homes and a good life. Ye are a laird and e’en in this short time I can see that the people here like ye in that place just fine. I grieve for that child ye were but ye are nay him now.”
He moved her hand. “He slips back,” he confessed softly. “I carry a lot of knives on me at all times. I can get blindly angry. I wake from dreams, nightmares of my time with him and am hiding in a small, dark place, trembling like a wee bairn. Not as much as I used to but it could still happen.”
“Then when ye feel those dreams grab ye, ye just grab me and hold on.”
He just stared at her. Her eyes held nothing but softness and, he thought, as much understanding as anyone who had not suffered as he had could have, and acceptance. Callum felt a stinging in his eyes that told him he was close to weeping like a woman and smiled.
“Aye, I will do that,” he said, and hugged her.
Chapter Seventeen
Wiping the sweat from her face, Bethoc studied the garden she and the boys had finally finished. It was too late to plant anything but a good area was ready for the spring. She was just not sure if they would be at Whytemont then, or might be ready to leave it. The chill of fall was already in the air too often.
“’Tis a fine garden,” said Liam as he sat down beside her. “’Tis a shame it cannae be planted yet. I am a wee bit surprised they didnae have one.”
“It fell into disuse when the laird took ill. By the time he died, and the old cook soon followed him, it was gone, and no one had much interest in bringing it back when they could get all they needed in the village.” She frowned. “I didnae think, but this could cost the villagers. They must be making a nice profit from the manor.”
