“Dragged?” Sorcha interrupted, her face implacable.
Reade flicked his eyes from his father to his mother. Her implication at his brash behavior rankled him. “Escorted,” he emphasized. “And at her door, she told me that she’s –”
He paused. It seemed shameful to speak it aloud, and assuredly not his place. How might he speak about Blair with a measure of propriety? His parents looked at him expectantly.
“Told ye what, Reade?” his mother urged.
He dropped his chin. This news was not the sort to be boasted about. This was Blair’s painful admission, and a flare of regret about sharing it surged in his chest.
“She’s barren, mother,” Reade said in a low voice, his attempt to temper both the blow of the news and his inappropriate joy of it. “She admitted it as a blow to my pride, I’m certain. But that surely changes the circumstances of this arrangement.”
Reade expected his father to agree immediately and didn’t know what to make of the glance they shared. What was going on? Did they know this already? What sort of arrangement was this if they did?
“Father? What says ye? ‘Tis enough to call off this absurd arrangement, aye?”
Still nothing. Seamus sat back in his seat and opened his mouth to respond when Sorcha lifted her hand to halt him. She turned her head to Reade, her face soft and her eyes full of care toward him.
“Son, I feel we should speak. Will ye walk the courtyard wi’ me?”
Reade glanced at the window where the rain had increased to a steady drizzle. “Now? In the rain?”
Sorcha shrugged and tugged at her plaid over-skirt, lifting the long, loose edge over her head. “When has a Highlander given a care over a wee bit o’rain?”
Reade’s chest clenched under hisléine. His father’s study suddenly seemed overly warm. Why hadn’t his father immediately called off this foolish wedding business? What could his mother possibly want to say to him, what words could she speak to soothe him – in the rain, no less?
Sorcha reached Reade’s side and threaded her arm through his. “Come along, lad.”
Reade, the obedient son he was, followed, making sure to toss his plaid over his head before they exited the door of the kitchens.
The night rain wasa welcome wash of cool after the stifling heat of his father’s study. Reade walked through the kitchen gardens with his mother at his side, her casual stance disarming him by the moment. Why wasn’t she upset at this news? This was her son, her potential grandchildren they were speaking of!
“Mother –” Reader started, and Sorcha shushed him.
“Enjoy the rain, for a moment.”
Reade’s face twisted up. What was his mother talking about? While his father could be tactless at times, his mother spoke in measured tones, oft implying rather than stating outright. It seemed she was going to play her hinting game now.
“Mother –” Reade tried again. He lacked any patience for her suggestive lessons, but his mother squeezed his arm and stopped him by the line of potatoes. The green sprouts had recently emerged from the black dirt, stark green in the flickering light of the torch set by the kitchen door.
“See how the water runs around the plants? Drips off the leaves?” Sorcha asked in a wistful voice.
Reade wasn’t in the mood to discuss planting. There were other issues of greater importance!
“Mother –”
“What do ye think happens if the plant doesna have enough water or soil?” she interrupted. Reade huffed but answered and kicked his toe into the clumpy mud.
“The plant wouldna thrive. ‘Twould wither.”
“Aye, my lad. And if the plant withers from a lack of tending, will it produce any fruit?”
“Mother –”
“Will it produce fruit?”
“Nay,” Reade finally answered through a clenched jaw.
“Please, Reade. Think. Why does it no’ produce fruit?”
