A memory sparked at the feel of the cool metal in my palm. Davina, causing havoc at the Grayson wedding, thieving a snuffbox, and the gangly lad I’d been introduced to whose palm I plopped it into. The gangly lad with the pretty Prussian blue eyes and soft palms.
“Christ,” I murmured through a tight throat. “I couldn’t even remember your name.”
Tom’s gasped. “You remember?”
I nodded, then caught his lips with mine again. Tears were slipping down both our cheeks when we broke apart. “You give me this lovely, sentimental gift, and I gave you erotic art of your own arse.”
“I know. I think I got the better end of the deal,” he teased.
A knock echoed throughout. Tom strode to open it and found Missus there, red-cheeked and wringing her hands.
“Sorry to interrupt, lads. But it’s Miss McAllen—the babe is coming. Jamie’s run to fetch the midwife.”
It took no more than a beat before the instinctual terror flooded through my veins. “Fuck, I don’t— Did she want— Is there something we can do?” I babbled.
“I dinnae believe so. She was very explicit when she said not to let either of ye in no matter how much ye fuss.”
“But—”
“I dinnae take orders from ye. Not in this Yer Grace.”
“Bloody hell. You’ll inform us the second we’re needed—for anything?”
“Aye. But try to get some sleep. Bairns come in their own time.”
Tom and I shared a single look before we silently agreed to pace the hall outside Sorcha’s room to absolutely no point or purpose.
It was early morning,Tom and I long having flopped down to sit on the floor outside the room, when Missus finally opened the door and whispered, “She’d like family to support her,” in my direction. I left Tom curled on the floor with a quick glance at his nodding face.
The next two hours were filled with sights and sounds that absolutely affirmed my preference in gender. Fortunately, after the initial horrors, I was able to keep facing the wall and holding her hand. Seeing my brave, bold niece so frightened and in such pain, kept the vomit where it belonged.
I hated the fact that I was Sorcha’s best, only option by way of family. A mother should be here. Or a loving husband. Instead, she was left with her irritating, fussy uncle.
But she was strong and in short order, a pink, wrinkly babe was swaddled in her arms.
A boy.
She traced the lines of his tiny scowling face, complete with a dark brow, her tears mixing with his as she bent to whisper something into his ear.
When she spoke aloud, it was with a strangled voice. “Do ye want to hold your son?”
I met her watery eyes with my matching ones. “You’re certain?”
“Yes. Meet Ewan Thomas Hasket.” She passed him carefully, waiting for me to grip him under the head and back in both hands before wiping away her tears.
“Thomas?” I asked through my own thick, syrupy throat.
“He should carry both of his fathers’ names.”
It was impossible to restrain a sob, but I forged ahead between tears. “And Ewan?”
“That was my pa’s name.”
“Fitting—strong.”
“I thought so.”
“Ewan Thomas Hasket, Marquess of Rycliffe”
