Finn jerked his hand away. “They’re well-behaved enough.”
One fine, coppery brow rose in dubious response. “Are they really?”
With a gruff snort that denoted neither denial nor agreement, he walked away. He hadn’t made it to the first of the statues lining the passage before she caught his arm, forcing the gentleman in him to stop and face her.
“I’m no’ trying to be cruel or overly critical here.” The flickering candlelight played over her features. Shadows prevented him from reading her expression well, though he thought he saw more concern than censure there. “What I saw today are two children who have zero restraint and nae reason to behave themselves. What is the consequence for their errant behavior? They assure me there are nae repercussions when they misbehave.”
They had said that?
A frown tugged at his brow. “Would ye have me take a cane to them?”
Her fine eyes widened then blinked…hard. The warm spot on his arm where her hand had been resting cooled in a flash as she yanked it away. “Ye mean beat them? Gah, nay! I’m nae monster. Geez, mon, I’m talking about structure. They get away with everything because they know they can. They need rules with consequences should they be broken. Withholding a favorite toy or treat, putting them in time out.”
“Time out?”
She shook her head. “My point is, ye need to lay down some rules and challenge them.”
“Challenge them? To what?” He doubted she was talking about a duel.
“To learn. To grow.” She threw up her hands with a huff. “I dinnae ken, I’m nae expert and I’m hardly in the position to tell ye how to parent. But I think deep down they’re bored by days with nae purpose. Get them a tutor who will fill their heads so full of information, they willnae have time to think of new ways to misbehave.”
Staring down the hall, Finn considered her advice. In attempting to protect his children, had he in some way failed them? Truth was, he’d had a tutor for Niall up until just over a year before, and had intended to send him off to school in another year or two as he had been at that age. Things had changed when his wife died.
“In the months following the battle at Culloden, Lobsterbacks raided towns and estates in an attempt to find and punish anyone suspected of Jacobite sympathies. A purification of the Highlands, they called it, to take our way of life from us. Much as ye said last evening.” He paused, wondering at himself for exposing so much. “They came to Rossmore while I was still away. My wife suffered at the hands of one of the officers.”
“Suffered?”
“She soon discovered she carried the bastard’s spawn.” Aila’s eyes widened with understanding. Before she could repeat the sympathies she’d offered before, he continued on to make his point. “My wife killed herself rather than subject our family to that shame. I wisnae there to stop it, nor was I there to comfort my grieving bairns. It would be fair to say that when I had the chance, I overcompensated for my absence and aye, coddled them…perhaps more than necessary.”
“Finn.” Her soothing hand rested on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
The faces of the jury of statuary judged him. And perhaps found him wanting.
For not acting fast enough? For waiting so long to secure vengeance?
God knew, he judged himself often enough for his failure to protect his wife, for his failure to exact his revenge.
And of late, for letting his focus and determination fade away in favor of one particular Titian beauty.
“I dinnae tell ye to gain yer sympathies, lass. I did so to provide an understanding of my bairns’ unbridled behavior,” he told her. “I confess I had come to see the same truths as some ye pointed out, but this has been a long road I dinnae ken how to travel. Perhaps with a proper tutor…”
Finn let the thought trail off and considered Aila in a different light. Niall and Effie had openly enjoyed their day with her. They were the happiest he’d seen them in months.
“I can see where yer mind is going, so before ye even think to ask, dinnae.” She sniffed, a short snort of humor. “I’m nae tutor.”
He arched a brow to deny the accusation. “Who said I was going to ask?”
Another knowing look. “Ye might ask poor Mr. Elliott. He might appreciate being liberated from the oppression of Derne’s rule.”
He offered a soft grunt in response and absently considered the first in the line of statues, a knight of about the thirteenth century, if he placed the style of the armor accurately. “My bairns tell me ye put a name to each of these stone atrocities today.”
She turned to the sculpture with pursed lips. “A perfect example to prove I’m nae scholar. We did nae research to determine who they are. We simply made up silly names to pass the time.”
“And?”
“Meet Sir Clanksalot.”
Silly indeed. A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He gestured to the next in line, this one a heavily robed fellow with a long, reproachful face. “And this one?”
