Page 2 of Falling for Her Highland Steward
“You!” He pointed to the boy and jerked his head toward the door. “Go an’ dae some work! Ye should be helpin’ wi’ the harvest, no’ wastin’ your time here.”
The boy glared at the priest, but he had forgotten who he was dealing with.
Father Quinn stood up, squared his shoulders, and strode up to the big man, his eyes blazing with fury. “Get out of this place,” he growled. “This is a house of God, and bullies have no place in it. If you want to throw your weight around, then throw it at me—if you dare!” He stepped up to the man ’til there was only a foot of space between them, then looked down at him, eyebrows raised in a question.
The smaller man stepped back hastily, his eyes wide. “My son doesnae need tae read,” he said defiantly, then he fled with one venomous glance backward. “He is a farm boy. Ye dinnae need books for that!”
The priest watched him with contempt as he rushed away. The boy was too intelligent to be a farmer’s son. Somehow he would find a way to teach him to read and write.
And somehow, he did.
1
Several years later...
“How much longer do you think he will live?” Lady Erin McCaskill asked the monk physician, Father Francis, as they looked down at the sad figure of her husband, Laird Nairn McCaskill, who was lying on his deathbed. Erin could hardly bear to hear the horrible rattle of each breath.
“He has only hours left, milady,” he replied sadly. “But it is for the best. Consumption is a cruel disease, and it will be a relief for him when the end comes, and after all, he is going to a much better place.”
Erin wished she could be sure of that. If human beings had been made by a loving God, then why was the laird dying in such a terrible way? “He looks like a corpse already,” she observed. “I hate seeing him like this.” She smoothed back his sparse white hair, her heart aching for him.
The laird’s skin was gray and as thin as paper, and his eyes were sunken into deep pits in his hollowed-out face. Lips that had once been a healthy pink were now a thin blue slash across his face, and the hands that had held Erin with such gentleness were now nothing more than claws.
“I hope it is not much longer. He is such a good man. He does not deserve this.” Her voice was trembling
He had been a devoted husband, she reflected, although theirs had not been a marriage of love, but of convenience. Nairn McCaskill had needed an heir, and she had fulfilled her duty and given him a son. After that, their relationship had been one of affection rather than passion. She had been more of a daughter than a wife to him since then, but it suited them both that way.
“It does not seem fair that I should live and he should die,” Erin said angrily. She was not suffering from the disease at all, and it made her feel guilty, as well as sad, to see him being hollowed out every day ’til he was almost a skeleton. “How is that fair?”
The monk shrugged. “It is God’s will, milady,” he said sadly.
“Then he is a cruel God,” Erin growled.
Brother Francis said nothing. Such a reaction was perfectly normal at death beds, and he had heard it many times.
Knowing how contagious consumption was, the laird had kept their son Stephen at a distance so that he should not be infected. It was an act of love that had cost him dearly since he had missed most of the rough-and-tumble affection a father and son usually shared. Stephen had also suffered, having grown up without the firm guidance of a man in his life.
Now, Laird Nairn McCaskill was fighting for each breath he took, and the horrible wheezing made Erin wish she could plunge a knife into his chest—not because she hated him, rather the opposite, but because she cared about him and wanted him to be at peace.
Suddenly Nairn opened his eyes and looked straight into Erin’s. They were clear and lucid as he gasped out his last words. “Darling Erin,” he croaked, although there was a beatific smile on his face. “I love you...take care...Stephen...never...forget me. I die happy...not suffer… anymore.” He sucked in a great, wheezing breath that made Erin wince. “Marry again...be happy. Goodbye...my Erin.”
“Goodbye, Nairn,” Erin whispered, kissing his cold lips. She heard his last breath rattle out of his chest, and then he was gone. She closed his eyes and whispered sadly, “You were such a good man.”
For a while, she sat looking down at Nairn’s face. All the lines of care had gone, smoothed away by the gentle touch of death. She knew that most people thought of the Angel of Death as a grim and ugly being, and until a moment ago, so had she, but now she saw him as a benevolent and beautiful spirit who bestowed mercy on the suffering by ending their pain.
She drew a sheet over her husband’s face, then heard Father Francis saying the Last Rites. She stood for a while, mumbling the prayers with him, although they passed through her mind without her really taking in the words.
Erin trembled as she realized that she would have to tell Stephen that his father was dead. Of course, he was only five years old and might not even realize what the word dead meant. It would be hard to make him understand the permanence of it all. She sighed and squared her shoulders. Now was as good a time as any, she reasoned. The longer she put off the evil moment, the more difficult it would be.
She found him in the nursery, giggling and throwing a ball to his nanny, Betty Morrison, a young woman who had no formal training as a nursery maid. Erin had employed her after seeing her with her own brood of brothers and sisters since she had an extraordinary gift of understanding their little minds, and Stephen loved her almost as much as he loved Erin.
Now, as Erin entered the nursery, Betty met her mistress’s gaze, and the look they exchanged said everything. Betty stood up and looked sadly down at Stephen. “Do ye want me tae stay, milady?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you, Betty,” she replied thankfully. She bent down, lifted her son, and put him on her lap. He stared up at her with his trusting green eyes, which were exactly the same shade as her own, and her heart filled with sadness. “There is something I have to tell you, wee man,” she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling.
He frowned. “Go on then,” he said impatiently. “I want to finish my game.”
Erin took a deep breath. “Stephen, your Papa has died.” Her voice was a barely audible whisper.
