Page 72 of The Butterfly
“’Is names’ Gawain,” the woman declared. “And ’e’s my lad. Just who the ’ell are you?”
Before he could open his mouth to reply, Conall left his chair, lumbering across the room toward them. “Devil take ye, idiot woman! Who the hell could ye be talkin’ to—”
He faltered at the door, his eyes going wide as he finally recognized Niall. Time had not done Conall any favors. The man had gotten fat, his belly swollen and his jowls drooping like a dog’s. The whites of his eyes had taken on a yellowish cast, his lips puffy and cracked, his hair thinned away to almost nothing. The change took Niall by surprise, though he realized it ought not have. The man had been drinking himself to death for years. The only wonder was that he’d survived so long … long enough to start an entirely new family.
The boy was looking on from his place on the floor. Gawain … a mirror image of himself at that age. He’d pegged him to be eight, but would venture to guess that he must be younger than that. He’d grow up to be big like Niall.
Conall pushed the woman aside. “Well, I’ll be damned. It’s really you.”
“Aye, Da,” he replied, reaching into his coat pocket to retrieve the gin. “Are ye gonna let me in?”
Conall’s eyes glittered at the sight of the bottle, and he snatched it from Niall’s hand before motioning him in.
He stepped tentatively over the threshold, his eyes darting as he took in the home his father had occupied since being let go from Lord Rowland Callahan’s service. The small, two-room house was serviceable, but had seen better days. Conall’s neglect showed in the threadbare rugs, rough walls, and leaking roof. The bucket near the hearth held very little coal, and the place was just shy of comfortable, the heat of the small fire barely enough to sustain them until morning.
It was a dismal place, worn and neglected. Pity lanced him at the evidence of his father’s lack of care for his wife and child.
“Niall, my wife Evie, and my son, Gawain … Evie, myotherson, Niall.”
By the look on Evie’s face, he assumed she had not known Conall had another son, and probably knew nothing of his life before their marriage. He pitied the woman, who likely hadn’t realized what she was getting herself into with his da until it was too late. Evie reminded him of his maw, with her downtrodden expression and lowered voice—to keep from angering or otherwise irritating her brute of a husband.
Plunking into his chair, Conall opened the bottle of gin while casting his wife a glare.
“Well, dinnae just stand there, nitwit! It’s bloody freezin’ outside! Get the man tea or some such!”
Evie flinched and rushed off to do his bidding, but Niall halted her with an outstretched hand. “Thank ye, but that willnae be necessary. I’ll not be here long.”
Conall shrugged, eying him over the gin bottle as he took a long drink. “Well, look at ye! Ye always did think yerself some sort of fancy gent, didn’t ye? Who’d ye con into giving ye his clothes?”
Niall sighed, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. “I didnae rob anyone, old man. I came to tell ye some news … good news. I’ve gotten married.”
Sputtering as he pulled the bottle away from his lips, Conall coughed and choked, taking him in from head to toe with a curious eye. “And what fine lady did ye trick into marryin’you?”
“Ye know who. Olivia and I have been married nearly two months now. We’ve just arrived back in Edinburgh, and will live in Dunvar House.”
Conall scoffed with a shake of his head, his lips curled in distaste. “Never could be satisfied with yer lot in life, could ye? Ye couldnae have been content with stealin’ my post out from under me … ye had to have the entire house and the girl, too.”
Niall’s hands clenched, his jaw following suit. He’d known the man would still be as mean as a snake, but had hoped … well, it was foolish to hope where Conall was concerned. It had been a mistake coming here, hoping that a decade apart had changed things between them.
“Listen,” he ground out, trying to keep his composure. “I only wanted to tell ye the news, and also … well, if ye need work or anythin’ like that, Dunvar House is always open to ye.”
Conall’s nostrils flared, the redness of his face deepening, crimson splotches appearing on his drooping cheeks. “Ye’ve got some nerve, boy! After what ye did, gettin’ me sacked—”
“Ye got yerself let go when ye did this to my face!” Niall snapped, his nerves now frazzled beyond repair. “Perhaps if ye’d stopped yer bloody drinkin’ and kept yer temper under control, ye might still have yer position!”
“That’d be convenient, eh?” his father groused, slouching in his chair. “For ye to get to lord yer new position over me. Ye can take yer offer and shove it up yer bunghole.Me, work for you? It’d be a cold day in Hell a’fore that happens.”
Niall ran a hand through his hair, his entire being vibrating with frustration and anger, all the hurts of the past rushing upon him at once. He could hardly keep himself in check, the scars crossing his back and the one slashing his face burning and itching with the phantom agony of the abuse he’d suffered at this man’s hand.
“Goddamn it, ye old sod!” he bellowed. “Why d’ye always have to be such a stubborn fool? Ye’ve got yer wife and yer boy livin’ in squalor, and I’m offerin’ to help ye get them out of it!”
Evie shrank into a corner, arms wrapped around herself. She looked frightened half to death, her wide eyes taking in their exchange. Gawain remained in his place on the floor, though he’d ceased playing with his soldiers to look and listen, as well. Conall unfolded his body from the chair, setting the bottle on the mantel with a glare in Niall’s direction.
“I dinnae need a thing from ye. I never asked no one for nothin’ … not you, not the earl, not even my own da!”
Niall clamped his mouth shut around the response that had been sitting on the edge of his tongue. Never in all his life had he heard Conall speak of his sire, except to say that he’d been Stablemaster of Dunvar House before him. The one time Niall had asked about the grandparents he’d never known, the man had cuffed him on the side of the head and told him not to pry into matters that weren’t his concern. What could this sudden mention of his unknown grandsire be about?
“What’s yer da got to do with any of this?” he prodded, his mouth going dry as he anticipated the answer.
