Chapter Seventeen
“Ihope thisroom will be to your satisfaction,” Barclay said as he pushed open the door to one of Tolton Hall’s guest rooms.
Malcolm glanced at the large bed set against the wall in the center of the room and nodded. As long as he had a comfortable bed, he was good. He looked forward to a good night’s sleep after the past few nights. “This will be fine. I thank ye for your kindness.”
“I shall leave ye to it then. I will see ye in the morn.”
Shutting the door, Malcolm walked around the room. Dark-blue wallpaper covered the walls, decorated in swirls of gold foil.
Several framed portraits hung on the walls. He took some time to study each one. An oil painting of Lizzie’s parents. One of her grandmama. One of her grandmama with whom he assumed was Lizzie’s grandpapa.
There was one of Lizzie as a young lass. She was sitting in a meadow of flowers, a small basket in her pudgy hands, her cherub cheeks aglow with delight. He couldn’t help but smile. She looked so happy.
He wondered if their daughter would look like her.
“Jesus, Kennedy,” he mumbled to the empty room. He was acting like a lovesick lad. Though the image of Lizzie, belly round with his bairn, awakened a yearning in him that he never kenned existed before.
Children were not something he thought about. Not his own anyway. His friends were quite happy with their wee ones running around, and the tots were adorable. But seeing them hadn’t made him want any of his own.
Not until Lizzie. With her, he could picture them. Long for them even. A lass that favored Lizzie’s looks. A lad, strong and determined like him.
Malcolm shook his head as he pushed his hands through his hair. This time he’d spent with Lizzie had surely provided him with the excitement he’d been missing. Even if it was of an entirely different kind that he was looking for.
He moved on to the next hanging portrait and his eyes narrowed as a sliver of recognition slid down his spine. Dropping his gaze to the name, he swore as it confirmed his initial thoughts. Angus Barclay.
Angus.
“Fuck,” he cursed the empty room as memories from the war flooded his brain. The traitor he’d caught and essentially signed his death warrant was Lizzie’s brother.
How the hell could he tell her that? She would never forgive him. Rightly so. It didn’t matter that everything her brother had done was against the crown. Against his country. It didn’t matter that he kenned the risks and consequences when he decided to sell their plans and secrets to the enemy.
He stumbled back and collapsed into a chair, cradling his head in his hands.
“Shite!” He rammed his fist against the arm of the chair. “What do I do? What do I do?” he murmured to no one.
This was the worst of situations. Lizzie loved her brother. She spoke highly of him whenever she’d mentioned him in their conversations. He understood that he had passed, but not once had she ever spoken about how.
Did she truly ken? Surely at least her parents kenned the reason.
He groaned. How did one of the happiest days of his life turn into one of the worst, reminding him of a time in his life he constantly tried to forget. The betrayal he’d felt when he’d uncovered Angus as the traitor was like a knife to the gut.
Discovering that Angus was Lizzie’s brother? That was like a knife to his heart.
He pushed from the chair and paced the floor. The number of times he walked from one side of the room to the other he couldn’t say. But he was surprised that he hadn’t worn a path in the gray rug.
His mind was too busy running through scenarios of how he could explain to Lizzie how he played a part in her brother’s death to be able to sleep.
What a messed-up situation he found himself in. And he wasn’t sure he would be able to talk his way out of it.
Lizzie was understanding, but this was different. This was her family. Her only brother.
He hung his head, his hands dropping to his sides. He needed whisky. Lots of it. It’s the only thing that would quiet all the noise running through his head.
In his search of whisky, Malcolm made his way quietly downstairs. A feat harder than it needed to be considering he just wanted to stomp his boots down the steps. The estate was dark. It matched his mood as he crept along the quiet halls.
It would be considered an intrusion to enter Barclay’s study, even if he kenned that for certain he would find whisky within its walls. Mayhap he would have some luck in the kitchen. He entered the room and found a lit lantern on the countertop and groaned.
At the noise, Lizzie jumped where she stood in front of the stove. “Malcolm. Ye frightened me.”
