Page 136 of Ghost of the Ton

“Better still, show her,” Iona said, her breathing labored as she limped toward a chair by the fireplace. “Och, that hurts.”

“That’ll teach ye to go carrying on with men such as Murdoch,” Hamish said. “And now yer bairn’s here, I must take him to task—make him face his responsibility, whether he’s in mourning or not.”

“Murdoch?” Iona let out a snort. “Ye think it was Murdoch?”

“Then who was it?”

“It was Robbie, wasnae it, lass?” Ma said quietly, as she rocked the baby in her arms. “I saw the way he looked at ye—heard how ye spoke of his Shona carrying on with others, and Shona never liked ye. Did ye love him, lass?”

Iona bit her lip, then shook her head. “I thought I did, but then he called me a hure when I said I was expecting a bairn—said it could be anyone’s brat.”

She reached toward Ma, who passed the baby back to her. Then she dipped her head and placed a kiss on the child’s cheek.

“She’s nobody’s but mine,” Iona whispered. “My wee Mairi.”

Mairi—it meant beloved.

“Aye, she’ll be beloved, with ye as her ma,” Hamish said. He opened the door and saw his wife’s retreating back at the far end of the passageway. “Mia!”

She stopped and turned, her face streaked with tears, and he held out his hand.

“Do ye not want to see yer niece?”

For a moment, he thought she’d refuse. Then she wiped her eyes and returned, each step seeming to take an age as he waited to touch her again. As she drew near, he took her hand.

“Iona!” she said. “You shouldn’t be up after such a difficult confinement.”

His sister let out a laugh. “We MacLennans are hardy lasses. And I have my doctor to take care of me, do I not?”

“Who?”

“Ye, of course!” Iona laughed.

Hamish’s heart swelled and, to his shame, his groin tightened at his wife’s smile.

Devil’s sweet, hairy arse—how beautiful she looked!

“Ye must come and meet the bairn properly, lass,” he said. “Ye’re not just a doctor who delivers a child and leaves. Ye’re her family. Wee Mairi will love ye as much as the rest of us—save one, whose love for ye nobody can surpass.”

Mia’s eyes flared with hope as if she wished, but could not trust, to understand his meaning. Then she nodded.

“Of course. I’m sorry, Iona, for leaving.”

She approached the fireplace and Iona handed the child over. Hamish held his breath, then his heart began to sing as joy illuminated Mia’s warm hazel eyes.

“Hello, little one,” she said. “Forgive me for being so uncivil as to not greet you properly. I’m Mia, and I am…” She paused and lifted her gaze.

“This is yer aunt, wee Mairi,” Hamish said. “She brought ye into the world and ye owe her yer life—as so many of us do.”

“And this,” Iona said, “is Mairi.” She met Mia’s gaze. “Mairi Euphramia MacLennan.”

Mia drew in a sharp breath, her eyes widening. “Iona, I don’t deserve such—”

“Aye, ye do,” Iona said. “Ye saved her life, so ye’re responsible for her as much as I. I’ll need ye to teach her to be strong, good, and kind—to be a better person than her ma.” She cast a saucy glance at Hamish. “And better than her uncle, though that won’t be difficult.”

Iona tilted her head to one side and regarded Hamish with her clear green eyes, and he smiled at the determined expression in them—and the firm set to her jaw. If wee Mairi took after her ma, she’d be a handful.

Then he saw it once more—the intensity of longing in his wife’s eyes as she smiled down at the little soul in her arms. How might she smile at her own child?