LITMIR.BIZ

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she said to her da.

      The baron laughed as he hopped up and wheeled her to the pianoforte. She shot Alex a haughty look and put her fingers to the keys. After an ostentatious prelude and an operatic trill, she changed tempo, holding his gaze as she dropped her voice to a sultry contralto and sang.

       “Young Cock Robin rode to Town,

       His one intent to marry.

       When he got there, his friend did swear

       The ladies turned up wary.

       He then commenced to jump a fence

       And seek out one less scary,

       Who gave him drink and with a winnnnkk…

       Invited him to tarry!”

      Alex tried to stifle his laughter as the baron leaped to yank her away from the pianoforte and her mother collapsed in her chair, fanning herself with a handkerchief.

      Amidst their apologies to him and fervent remonstrances to their wayward offspring, Alex heard loudest of all Amalie’s deep frustration and anger.

      He believed her. She had tried. It was not stubbornness that prevented her recovery. It was not her parents’ over-indulgence. Her only weapons against her helpless situation were contrariness and dark humor. He knew, because he used those very weapons himself.

      He wanted to…what? Commiserate with her? But how, so that she wouldn’t see it as sympathy? That was worse than taunting her, wasn’t it? It would be to him. He started to applaud, but the sound of a carriage outside in the dooryard interrupted him.

      The baron ran to the window. “Michael’s back. Everyone stay where it’s warm. I’ll go out to meet him.”

      The wait seemed interminable. Alex kept exchanging looks with Amalie, both ignoring her mother who rattled on endlessly about her daughter’s inappropriate behavior.

      The door to the parlor opened, commanding immediate attention. Michael stood there holding out the new crutches, smiling like a cream-fed cat. And then he stepped aside.

      “Father?” squeaked a small voice.

      Alex’s heart leaped to his throat, choking off any words that might have erupted. The lad who stood there could have been himself at six. Sturdy, auburn haired and round faced with a stubborn chin and large green eyes that widened as they took in the wheeled chair and the one who sat in it.

      Alex cleared his throat and nodded. “Davie?”

      “David, sir,” the boy replied. “Now I’m not a baby, I’m David.”

      “Of course you are.” Alex found himself grinning ear to ear. “Come here then, David. Let me see you better.” He held out a hand, eager as anything to touch the child he hadn’t seen since infancy.

      “Go on, David. Greet your father properly,” a stern voice commanded.

      Alex looked up to see his mother-in-law. “Hello, Mother MacTavish.” He had never called her else since his marriage to Olivia and didn’t think to change it before the words were out.

      “Alexander,” she replied, her lips tightening after the greeting.

      He looked back to the boy who had drawn near and was executing a formal bow. “You’ve become a man since last we met,” Alex said proudly. “Look at you! Your mother would be so—”

      “My mother’s dead,” the lad stated baldly, without inflection.

      “I know.” Alex felt tears welling, but blinked them back, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

      “Are you truly a soldier?”

      He managed a smile and reached out a hand, feeling the lad’s reluctance when he took it. “I was. No more, though.”

      “Did you race into battle, kilt flying and swinging your sword at the enemy?”

      Michael piped in. “He did that, David. Bravest soldier on the field, I swear. Saw him myself!”

      He had done no such thing, Alex thought. They had not even met until both were in hospital trying to survive their wounds. But he didn’t call the lie. David’s first smile was worth saving at any cost.

      Michael was making introductions then and Alex reluctantly took his eyes off the boy to see how they were going. Hilda MacTavish and the baroness were exchanging greetings. He noted for the first time how much older his mother-in-law seemed. She had lost at least a stone in weight and her face was pinched and pale.

      She smiled at Amalie’s mother as they met and Alex felt a pang in his chest. She had her daughter’s smile, not as sweet or sincere, but it brought Olivia to mind. And the guilt.

      He turned back to David. “Has Mr. Michael told you that I am to wed Miss Amalie?”

      The boy nodded and cocked his head. “Is she to be my mother then?”

      Alex hardly knew what to say. David’s grandmother answered for him. “She is to be your stepmother.”

      David’s eyes widened. “Not like the wicked ones in the stories!”

      “Certainly not!” Amalie exclaimed. “I shall only be wicked when we play draughts or war with your little soldiers! Then you must watch out, for I will trounce you soundly! Depend on it!” She grinned at David and winked.

      The boy chewed his lip. “I haven’t any little soldiers.”

      “Oh, but you shall,” she promised. “Michael, you must take David up to the nursery and acquaint him with the troops.” She leaned forward in her chair. “But not before he has his tea and biscuits. Cook Nan makes the best you have ever tasted. Word on it.”

      David had drifted closer to her, assessing her carefully. “Were you a soldier and shot, too? Can ladies be soldiers?”

      “Lands, no! Except in play,” she said. “A clumsy old horse unseated me and I fell right in the dirt! Can you feature that?” Before he could answer, she gestured to her mother. “We should feed our guests, Mother, don’t you think?”

      The baroness was already standing. “Come, Mrs. MacTavish. I’m certain you’d prefer to freshen up whilst I arrange for tea.” Belatedly, she remembered the child. “Uh, David. Would you come, too?”

      “I shall stay here, thank you.”

      Alex marveled at the conviction in his son’s voice, the maturity and swiftness with which he made the decision. Here was no overcoddled lad, but a strongminded young man.

      His chest swelled with pride, no matter that he’d had nothing to do with making the boy so. He guessed he must credit Mother MacTavish.

      Suddenly as that, Alex realized that he, David and Amalie were in the room alone. Michael had propped the new crutches beside the door as he left.

      “Could you bring me those, David?” he asked. “I feel remiss not greeting you on my feet.”

      “Aye, sir.” The boy retrieved the crutches, one by one, handing them to Alex.

      “Now then, grab my knees and give me a shove against that wall to brace the chair.”

      David hesitated only a moment before complying. “I can hold those upright for you, sir, if you like.”

      “Excellent idea. There’s a good man.” He pushed himself up and settled the crutches beneath his arms. “Ah, just right.” He looked down at his son and held out his hand. “How do you do, Master David Napier? It is indeed a pleasure to meet you again.”

      “The pleasure is mine, sir,” the boy replied, grinning up at him and showing the blank space where his front teeth had been. “I have heard so much about you.”

      “All

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