chapter Twenty-Seven
Alec strode up the steps of Ben Westfield’s newly constructed home. Caitrin had called it a monstrosity, and she was not far off. Just outside of Edinburgh proper, Westfield Manor was a sprawling neoclassical home with decorative arches and ornate columns, exuding the feel of an English country estate. In fact, the manor rivaled that of Ben’s oldest brother’s home in Hampshire, both in size and grandness. How very Westfield it was.
Before Alec reached the final step, a man who was too young to be a proper butler opened the door, a cheerful smile upon his youthful face. “Good evenin’, sir.”
“Good evening. I—” Alec began.
“Ye must be Mr. MacQuarrie.” The fellow gestured Alec over the threshold. “His lordship said I should be expectin’ ye.”
“Did he, indeed?” Alec hadn’t decided on this fool’s errand until at least an hour after his old friend had departed. He handed his beaver hat to the butler when the man held out his hand for it.
“Aye. I assume ye are here ta see Miss Ferguson.”
He was there to see Miss Ferguson. He just wished he had some idea what to say to the lass. The ride from MacQuarrie House to Ben’s country manor hadn’t yielded any answers to that problem. “Is she still here?”
“Miss Ferguson?” The man smiled again, and Alec had the sudden urge to send the young butler crashing through the closest door. Clearly the man was besotted with Sorcha, just by the way he said her name. Damn Ben for hiring a mere lad for this position. A butler should be stoic, old, and not so bloody cheerful. “I believe she is in the nursery, sir.” Then the man leaned in conspiratorially. “Lord Benjamin said I shouldna announce ye, or ye’d scare the lass off. Follow me.”
Scare the lass off? Hardly. Sorcha wasn’t afraid of him.
She could blister his ears better than anyone else. Still, she might refuse to see him, which was another thing all together. And if she wouldn’t see him, what then? He still had no idea what he’d say when he did see her; he just needed to lay his eyes on her again.
Alec nodded to the exuberant butler. “Lead on.” Then he followed the young man up a flight of stairs. “Have you worked for the Westfields long?”
The butler glanced back over his shoulder at Alec. “Ever since I arrived from Glasgow. Her ladyship said she liked my outlook on life.”
That explained the man’s employment. Tender-hearted Elspeth had spent most of her life in a tiny cottage. She wouldn’t know the first thing about hiring proper servants.
The enormous house and the comical staff would be wildly amusing any other day. But Alec could only think about seeing Sorcha again.
After a second staircase and what seemed like a labyrinth of corridors, Alec found himself just outside a spacious nursery. Soft, melodic humming filtered into the hallway, and Alec silently nodded for the butler to leave him.
Once alone, he leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb and watched Sorcha fuss over a little red-haired bairn.
God, she was beautiful. So ethereal, so sweet, so wholly deserving of more than he could give her. He should turn on his heel and quietly leave her to live her life with some lad who could share everything with her—heart, body, and soul.
He really, truly should.
The bairn spotted him across the room and reached her pudgy hand in his direction. Sorcha followed the child’s action and gasped when her eyes landed on Alec. He couldn’t leave now. Not now that she’d spotted him. He’d look like a damn fool. “Sorcha,” he mumbled, for lack of anything better to say.
“What are ye doin’ here?” How was it possible for brown eyes to turn cold? And so quickly? Alec nearly shivered.
He took a fortifying breath and stepped into the nursery.
“I, um, heard that all plant life at Westfield Manor was in danger and in need of rescue. So I thought I’d see if there was something I could do.”
Sorcha returned her gaze to the bairn in her arms. “Yer papa is a meddlesome gossip, Rose. Shall we bind him up in ivy and then toss him inta Dunsapie Loch for good measure?”
Little Rose Westfield giggled, though it wasn’t possible she understood a word Sorcha said.
“Oh, I think so,” Sorcha cooed to the child.
“Turning the little one against her father?” Alec asked as he took a few steps closer to her. “Ben will be devastated.”
“Then I suppose Ben should mind his own affairs. I made it very clear I dinna wish ta see ye.”
“Sorch,” Alec lowered his voice. “Allow me to explain. I deserve that much consideration, don’t I?”
Finally her eyes rose to meet his once again. “I canna imagine what ye need ta explain, Alec. I might be young, but I grasped the manner of your relationship with Miss Sewell.”
“I don’t think you did.”
She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Doona patronize me, Mr. MacQuarrie. I doona appreciate it.”
What he wouldn’t do to grasp her to him and kiss the hurt from her lovely face. “What will you do, Sorch?” He smiled hoping to see her do the same in return. “Bind me up in ivy and drop me into Dunsapie Loch right alongside Benjamin?”
“Nay.” She cocked her head to one side as though she was thinking. “There’s a crumblin’ castle near Strathcarron in the Highlands. It’s the perfect place ta keep a vampyre. I just need ta get the keys from Aiden Lindsay.”
The castle where the previous generation of Còig witches had left Lord Kettering to rot for two decades. The castle where Alec had lost his human life. “I’ve visited there before and would rather not see the place again, if you don’t mind. How about Birks End instead?”
She stared at him quizzically. “Birks End?”
“My home in East Galloway.” He closed the gap between them and ran his finger along her jaw. “We can escape to Birks End and you can bind me up in all the ivy you want, just as long as you’re there with me.”
Her heart pounded so loudly that he could hear it in his ears. Blood coursed through her veins, and the memory of tasting her essence rushed into his mind.
“Ye should take Miss Sewell with ye,” she whispered. But he could tell she was softening toward him because her eyes had warmed a bit and a touch of pink stained her cheeks. Thank God she wasn’t immune to him, even if her words said otherwise.
Little Rose Westfield squirmed in Sorcha’s arms, and she grabbed Alec’s neckcloth with her fist. He looked down at the smiling bairn. Well, at least he had charmed one of the witches in the room, even if Rose was only a few months old. “She really does look like Elspeth, doesn’t she?”
Sorcha tried to pry the child’s fingers from Alec’s cravat.
“She’s the prettiest little witch ever,” she crooned.
“She is adorable, but I wouldn’t say she was the prettiest witch ever.” Alec flashed Sorcha a smile when her eyes rose to meet his. No, the prettiest witch ever had to be Sorcha. It wasn’t just her angelic looks; it was her inner beauty that shone through in everything she did—whether it was gushing over Ben’s bairn or throwing herself on her own sword to save him from the Duchess of Hythe. No one, witch or otherwise, was lovelier than Sorcha Ferguson.
Skittishly, she backed away from Alec, with Rose in her arms. “Ye better no’ let Benjamin hear ye say that. He’ll challenge ye ta duel in Holyrood Park.”
Alec chuckled. “He’s hardly a challenge. But, you… I’m enchanted by the challenge of you, Sorch.”
She shook her head. “Doona say such things, Alec.”
“But it’s true.” He stepped closer to her, this time being careful to avoid Rose Westfield’s clutching fingers.
“But that woman—”
“Means nothing to me,” Alec professed. “She never did, Sorch.”
“She looks like Cait.”
Dear God! “Because they’re both blond? I swear to you, lass, the woman never meant anything to me, other than as a meal. I do have to eat. Surely, you can’t fault me for that.”
She turned away from him and crossed the floor toward a large window. There was nothing but blackness outside, but she stared out as though she could see across the ocean on a clear day. “I canna be Caitrin,” she finally muttered after the longest time. “I can only be me.”
Only Sorcha was more than everything he wanted. Alec was at her back in the blink of an eye, his hand on her waist. He inhaled the apple blossom scent of her and buried his face in her pretty, brown hair. “I don’t want Cait.”
He kissed her shoulder, clutching her back to his front. “I want you, Sorcha.”
She gasped when his lips touched her skin, but she didn’t pull away from him and Alec silently rejoiced.
Rose Westfield chose that moment to cry.
Alec raised his head to look down into the bairn’s scrunched-up face. She was positively enchanting in her own right, all pink flesh and pudgy little rolls. She even smelled like blueberries, if that was possible. Was that possible? Or was his nose playing tricks on him? A small part of him wanted to admit he would miss having children.
He’d always assumed he’d be a father some day. He’d have a little boy who looked like him. Or a little girl he could dote on who looked like Sorcha. He groaned.
“Ye sound like ye have the weight of the world on yer shoulders, Alec,” Sorcha said quietly as she leaned her head back against his chest.
“When I have you in my arms, all is right with the world, Sorch.” He squeezed her gently. “Your father is going to worry if I don’t deposit you into his loving care very soon,” Alec reminded her. He didn’t want to give her up, but they couldn’t stay in Westfield’s nursery all night.
The Lycan’s voice rang out from the corridor. “Everything all right in here?” Ben asked, his voice full of playful suspicion. As always, he was as subtle as a rock. “I was beginning to think you’d have him tied up in vines and be dangling his sorry hide out the window by now.”
“So sorry to disappoint you,” Alec replied.
“I did think about it,” Sorcha interjected. “But the window seemed so very ordinary. I’d prefer a tree. Or the side of a cliff.”
“Or the top of Arthur’s Seat.” Ben winked at her.
“Exactly.” Sorcha sighed with feigned contentment. Little witch.
Ben sobered and leaned closer to Sorcha to whisper dramatically, “Your father sent a coach to collect you, lass. It appears as though he knows you’ve returned and that you haven’t come to greet him.”
“Oh, dear,” Sorcha cried as she passed the bairn over to Ben. “If he’s gone so far as ta send a carriage, I had better hurry.” She started from the room. But then she turned back and looked over her shoulder. “Are ye comin’, Alec?”
Of course, he was. Wild dragons couldn’t pull her from his side, not now that he had her back.
~*~
It seemed like forever since Sorcha had been home. A month or so with Blaire and Lord Kettering in Derbyshire. A couple weeks with Rhiannon and Lord Blodswell in London.
A month with Maddie and the Duchess of Hythe in Kent.
Then more than a fortnight on the North Road with Alec, Cait, and Eynsford. But now that she was home, it didn’t quite feel right. Everything sounded the same, and the slight hum of activity was comforting. Home looked the same with its brightly colored walls and gleaming gold accents. It even smelled the same, like sandalwood shaving lotion and like the cinnamon biscuits Papa and Wallace devoured on a regular basis. Yet it wasn’t the same at all, not that Sorcha could name what exactly was different.
Before she could say as much to Alec, her father’s voice boomed from the opposite end of the corridor. “Did ye forget yer way home, lass?” An instant later, she found herself wrapped in his arms and the air nearly squeezed from her lungs.
“Let go, Papa,” she giggled.
But he didn’t. He only held her tighter. “I missed ye so much. I thought it was some kind of mistake when Eynsford sent a note this evenin’, makin’ sure ye made it home all right.”
Behind them, Alec ground his teeth together, which only made Sorcha laugh harder. “Please, Papa! I need ta breathe.”
Slowly he released her. He beamed down at her as he took a step back. Pride and love shone in his gaze, and Sorcha couldn’t help but smile back at him. Whatever was different about home, it certainly wasn’t Papa. The size of a small ogre, he still had a full head of dark hair and hazel eyes that twinkled with happiness. “Ye are a sight for sore eyes, but I thought ye were goin’ ta stay with that duchess a while longer.”
That had been the plan, but Sorcha shook her head.
“Papa, I have somethin’ ta tell ye.”
But his gaze had found Alec before she could say more.
“Alec MacQuarrie! Havers, it’s been ages! I thought ye left us for good last year.”
“Well, sir, I—”
“Come in, come in. Have ye had dinner, lad?”
“I—um…” Alec struggled.
“Ye must join us.” Sorcha’s father gestured down the corridor. “I’m sure Wallace will love ta see ye.”
“Thank you, sir, but—”
“No buts. I want ta hear what ye’ve been up ta, lad.” Then he began to lead Sorcha toward the dining hall. “Come along, MacQuarrie.”
Sorcha glanced back over her shoulder at the vampyre she loved. He trailed behind them, a look of pure amusement on his face. At least he wasn’t put out with Papa’s heavy-handed ways. There would be time for them to share their news after dinner, when her father wasn’t so excitable and was actually able to listen instead of gushing.
“Crivens!” Wallace Ferguson leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over in the process. “Sorcha! I thought Eynsford was daft, sayin’ ye were home.” Her giant half brother rushed forward and drew her into an embrace just as tightly as their father had.
“Watch your strength, Ferguson,” Alec said. “You don’t want to break the lass in two.”
Wallace released his hold on Sorcha and gaped at Alec.
“Good God! Alec MacQuarrie! I thought ye were dead.”