Page 107 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
She’d remembered.
His chest felt tight as he lifted the lumpy orange thing and shoved it over his ears. “What do ye think?” He twisted right, then left. “Dashing?”
“No’ so muchdashing,” mused Merida, peering up at him, “as running.”
“Limping,” called out Ellie, still laughing.
“Hobbling,” corrected Merida.
“I think you look verra handsome, dear,” his mother said firmly. “Ellie, it’s a lovely hat. Thank ye for caring for my son’s ears.”
Merida patted his hand. “They’re very nice ears.”
“Yes.” Ellie’s smile was bright as she dropped her hand, still half-giggling. “They are quite nice. I did not want them to fall off.”
God, he could watch her laughter, herjoy,for the rest of eternity.
“You know what, Fawkes?” Merida rolled off his lap. “We should try it out! Do you want to build a snowman?”
Fawkes glanced around the cozy room, hat still crammed over his ears, and shook his head truthfully. He had no interest in venturing out today. “Perhaps tomorrow?”
“It doesn’t have to be a snowman!”
Mother spoke up. “Merida, dear, there’s a few more presents. None for ye, since ye opened yers first, but I have a few for Fawkes.”
It was a good deflection; the little girl took her role as thepresent fairyvery seriously, handing out each gift, although most were modest. When she brought him a bundle carefully wrapped in brown paper, Fawkes smiled.
Although he knew what to expect—Mother gave it to him each year—he still carefully opened the package to reveal a series of smaller wrapped bundles, each labeled neatly.
“Pennyroyal, foxglove, motherwort, nightshade, rue…is there any—och, excellent. Black haw.”
Merida was leaning over his shoulder. “What’sthat?”
“This, sprite, is my mother’s talent. If ye were here in the spring or summer, ye’d see her extensive gardens out behind the kitchen. She grows every herb ye could ever imagine in the world, and she collects and dries them for me to use.”
“When ye help people?”
The Duke of Death.
“Aye, sprite,” he managed, past a lump in his throat. “When I help people.”
Mother drew attention when she proudly announced, “I have what are perhaps the only Black Haw shrubs in Britain. It is native to North America, ye ken, and takes a lot of pampering to stay alive here in our northern climate.”
“What do you do with it, Estella?” Ellie asked, leaning forward. “Or rather, what is it used for?”
“It’s the bark, dear, that’s most important. I harvest it in small batches, and dry it, then grind it for Fawkes. He uses it—along with some of those other herbs, and who kens what else—to make tinctures and decoctions, mainly for women. Black Haw is the main ingredient in the tincture he used to make for me, when my monthly became so painful.”
Ellie had made a little noise of understanding and glanced at Fawkes. “I am…familiar with that tincture. It works wonders.”
“Och, aye,” Mother agreed, as Fawkes found himself flushing in embarrassment. Or perhaps he was overheating from the hat. “My Fawkes is a brilliant chemist. He tinkers and experiments, and reads every book he can get his hands on. His concoctions help so many women—those who dinnae want to worry about a bairn, if ye ken my meaning, and those who already are. He has an understanding of what our natural world can do, medically, and he cares so much.”
Once, he’d been the man she was currently bragging about. Now he wasn’t.
Was he? Could he be that man again?
Nay, ye’re the Duke of Death.
Ellie was smiling at him. “I can attest to the remarkability of Fawkes’s laboratory. I had no idea so much went into a simple tincture, so we are lucky to have your Black Haw. Can a similar tincture be made to help with childbirth?”
