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  “Alice?” Vivian prodded.

  A weary sigh heaved her stooped shoulders. “Who’s been filling your ears with nonsense?”

  She watched the older woman and the guarded look on her face. “Madge.”

  “Aye,” she said with a defeated tone. She pointed toward the table, but Vivian noticed her hand trembled. “Sit, lass. I’m sure you have some questions.”

  Did she want answers? She wasn’t sure.

  “Alex was born almost a year ago.” Alice poured tea into frail china cups. Pushing one toward Vivian, she sat and slowly stirred a dollop of honey into hers. “A bonnie lad, he is.”

  She shoved her tea aside, no longer able to stomach the sweetened brew. “How can you allow him to be treated this way?”

  Alice shrugged. “The lad’s loved, donna think otherwise. Madge, young she may be, is a grand mam.”

  Vivian stood, bristling with furious energy. “But what about the father?”

  The older woman looked confused, then resigned. “Can’t be helped, lass.”

  “Can’t be helped!” Vivian threw her arms into the air with quick aggravation. “Galen is neglecting his son just as his father before him.”

  Alice’s eyes widened and her voice rose to an angry pitch. “Galen?” Comprehension shaded her eyes. “I’ll say no more. You should go and talk to m’laird.”

  Vivian sighed with frustration. Approaching Galen was dangerous; he’d surely send Madge to the mainland. And the poor child would be left without a mother.

  Alice’s expression seemed racked with uncertainty as she cleared the tea cups. Vivian hated to unsettle the dear woman with such confrontations so soon after Liam’s death.

  She patted Alice’s shoulder and left the kitchen.

  She had to see the baby, or Alex, as Alice called him. Galen must have named him after his father, a thought which surprised her considering his hatred of the man.

  Heading toward the east wing, Vivian tried to think of what she would do when she happened upon the nursery and how she would explain her appearance? Then she prayed she wouldn’t get lost in the tangle of dark corridors. Just to be sure, she grabbed a lit torch.

  It was as quiet as a tomb, save for her hesitant footsteps. She jumped as wind pounded on a nearby window covered with drooping curtains. The further she walked, the more she thought herself lost.

  She headed toward the end of the hall. Creaks filled the air, mimicking and mocking her footfalls.

  For some inexplicable reason, she opened the last paneled door. It groaned in protest at the disturbance. Brushing a cobweb from her path, she continued into the room, hoping her intrusion wouldn’t lead to trouble. Aye, it most likely would if she were being truthful.

  A feminine perspective touched the contents of the room—lace-edged curtains, stained with age and filth, and gilded ornate mirrors flanked the mantel and long dressing table. She touched the forgotten hand mirror and brush lying on the dark wood. Tracing the monogram scrolled across its tarnished back, she read BLW. Gasping, she spun around and took in the entire room. ’Twas Lady Maclean’s chamber.

  Above a settee blanketed in spider webs hung a picture muted by neglect. Vivian stretched and brushed powdery dust from its surface. A woman sat regally with her head tipped in an indulgent manner. Her hair was a thick waterfall of black and a teasing glint sparked in her green eyes. Vivian searched for a sign of Galen in her lovely face but found little inkling of resemblance. She wondered what Lady Maclean was thinking when she was being painted. Wondered what urged a woman to abandon a needy son. Vivian grudgingly gave Madge credit. Her willingness to keep her child’s existence a secret to stay near him was motherly devotion.

  She walked back to the dressing table. A glass trinket box peeked out from beneath a discarded scarf. Lifting the lid, she fingered the contents. A tiny hank of hair secured in a blue ribbon and an ornate, silver rattle filled the small box.

  The hair was the same black pitch as Galen’s.

  A clink in the distance startled her. Vivian rushed to the door and left the room, excited by her discovery.

  Peeking down the corridor, she sighed in relief. She was still alone. Heading down a small hallway, she found a set of stairs. Vivian mounted the stairs, slowly at first, and then she rushed up the last steps, eager to find Alex.

  A cry sounded from behind a closed door. Vivian pressed her ear against the smooth wood to listen further. Pulled by unparalleled curiosity, she entered the room.

  Madge sat in a rocking chair, nuzzling an infant, grinning a smile that transformed her face into loveliness. She appeared peaceful and happy as she looked at her babe. Vivian brought her hand to her mouth, touched by such a loving sight.

  Not wanting to intrude further, she gazed around the nursery, which had been swept clean of any dreariness. A crib, plump with quilts and knitted blankets, saddled up against one wall. Small toys scattered to and fro made the chamber a child’s room. Vivian chuckled at the downy sheep animal Alex held dear in his chubby arms.

  “Oh, Madge, he’s an angel.”

  The maidservant jumped up from the chair. It rocked violently against the hewn flooring.

  Vivian rushed forward and grabbed the baby, close to spilling from his mother’s arms. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t help searching Alex out.”

  Madge’s gaze darted to the door nervously. She grabbed her son back and tucked a blanket around him. “’Tis time for his nap.”

  “Oh. Could I have just one more look?” When the maid nodded, Vivian wrapped her arms around the precious bundle and kissed his velvety dark hair. He smelled wonderful, all freshly bathed and babyish. At least what she’d expect a baby to be like. She’d never held an infant before, but she supposed the instinct lay deep within her because her arms kenned what to do all on their own.

  Crooning to him, she bounced and walked around the room. Madge followed behind her as if waiting to catch him if he fell.

  “’Tis time for his nap.”

  Vivian recognized desperation in her tightly strung voice. “Time for a rest, little lad.” She placed him in the crib and brought the covers up around his shoulders. Lastly, she snuggled a lamb next to him. “Sleep well.”

  He blinked at her, his deep-blue eyes wide and questioning. She tousled his thick hair, curling adorably around his pudgy cheeks. Vivian kissed her fingertip and lightly pressed it against his perfectly bowed lips. While she watched, his lids eased closed and he fell asleep.

  “We must celebrate Christmas,” she proclaimed to no one in particular. “This dear boy deserves all we can give him.”

  “We? Aren’t you leaving as soon as you’re able?” Madge said crossly.

  Madge spoke the truth of it. But why did the thought of leaving make her feel as if she were drowning in misery? Recovering, she nodded. “He still deserves it.”

  Madge grabbed her apron and began wringing the linen fabric. Worry creased her brow and a mix of desperation and fear glared in her eyes. “You promised you wouldn’t say a word.”

  “Just think of how the castle would come alive with Alex playing about. Laird Maclean would accept it with a little prodding.”

  “Nay! He’ll send me away.” Madge pulled her straight, brown hair away from her face in agitation. “I’ve nowhere to go and the babe wouldn’t be with me.” Tears choked her.

  Vivian went to the maid and grabbed her hands, cracked from the use of harsh lye soap. Sympathy welled in her heart for the lass. Aye, the closer she looked, the more she saw a lass parading as a woman. “I’ll not tell Laird Maclean. I’ve promised you that.” She gave her a quick hug. After another look at the cherub sleeping soundly in his crib, Vivian left the chamber.

  The halls were much less foreboding than before, and she lingered at each piece of art, grotesque sculpture, and pile of rubble. What a magnificent place it would be if they just cleaned a bit. She shook her head, reminding herself she would be leaving.

  Her thoughts had a mind of their own, however, and she kept envis
ioning clean curtains, light, and laughter.

  Madge’s words filtered through her thoughts. “I’ve nowhere to go.” Vivian likened the maidservant’s situation to her own. True, she had the funds, but did she have anywhere to go or anyone to go to? They had traveled for weeks to reach Mac Tìre. Her manor home near Perth seemed at the end of the earth, not just the eastern part of Scotland.

  She grasped and sat in a chair. She didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay and defend poor Alex. She wanted to get to know Alice better and provide a home for Nessa and Bernard. Slowly but surely, the peculiar family of Lomarcan had lured her into their circle—welcoming and, yes, loving her.

  And Galen, aye, he’d won her heart. If only he returned the sentiment.

  He was an obstacle she was willing to breech. Even if he failed to warm to her presence, she’d force him to accept the lad.

  Chapter 17

  “The blasted simpletons won’t even think of leaving the shore.”

  Donal watched the exquisite woman rant as she paced about his chamber, now crowded with her powerful presence and too many trunks of clothing. His gaze darted between her figure and the recent experimentation he’d left on the table before the window.

  He held his breath each time she strode by it, arms flailing with considerable anger. She turned to him, a hostile expression filling her face as she shook her fist at him. “You must make them understand.”

  Donal nodded and approached her as calmly as possible. Easing her into a chair by the hearth, he assured her he’d convince the fisherman to make the voyage.

  She clenched her fist again. “It needs to be done before the new year. I must have the books.”

  And so must he, Donal thought as he rose to make some tea. Maybe he should add a little brandy to Madame’s, to soften her mood a bit. He needed quiet if he was to complete the distillation he’d started earlier.

  The oddity of the situation amused him. Madame had lured him into this liaison with promises of wealth and notoriety and now he was consoling her.

  He put a cup of tea on a low table. “This should comfort you.”

  She stared blankly into the fire, ignoring him and the tea.

  Donal set about adding sulfur to the experiment. Silently he spoke the words known to few but integral to evoke blessings on his work.

  “We need another plan,” Madame said, interrupting his thoughts.

  He rolled his eyes. He’d never finish at this rate. “Aye. Do you have one in mind?”

  She chuckled, quite uncharacteristically if he recalled correctly. He’d seen her charm the hardest of men, his father to name one, but a smile rarely appeared on her lovely face.

  He listened patiently, knowing in the end he’d be prosperous—or face the consequences.

  Chapter 18

  Galen searched the parlor, kitchen, and library. Vivian was nowhere to be found. He paused at the threshold of her chamber. A fire sizzled in the hearth, books and clothing lay about as if she had left for a moment.

  He expected to find her here, within the cozy haven she had created with an obvious loving touch. He kenned Liam’s death troubled her and perhaps reminded her of her own father’s death, still fresh and painful in her memory.

  Galen walked into the room, ignoring the nagging feeling he was intruding into her life at a most personal level. Bollocks, ‘twas his castle and he’d go where he pleased.

  He no longer breached her privacy at night to pour over the alchemy books she’d kept safely in her chamber. Now, in her innocence, she freely allowed him access.

  “Laird Maclean?”

  Her soft voice interrupted his errant thoughts. “Aye,” he greeted, turning toward her. “I was looking for you.”

  She stayed back, aloof. He felt the distance and the foreign stiffness of her spine. “May I help you?” She briskly strode past him toward the hearth and a stack of books.

  He followed, perplexed by her new attitude, which contradicted all he kenned of her. “I need assistance in the lab.”

  Her brow rose in question, arching high above the mistrusting violet of her eyes. “You are more than capable, m’laird. Surely, you don’t need my assistance.”

  “Your father’s notes are a jumbled mess.” Anger darkened her gaze and he realized he’d hit a mark. “I need you to read them.”

  She inhaled deeply. Haughtiness added to her posture. “I’m tired. Mayhap tomorrow.”

  Her tone left no doubt she was dismissing him. But he refused to allow it. He needed those notes. No peace would come to him until he duplicated the experiment that killed his father. In his mind, he wasn’t worried he’d come to the same fate. Deep down, he kenned there was an error, a miscalculation that caused the fire.

  “Must I remind you that you are a guest here—and that I hold you future in my hands?”

  Galen watched as she clenched her fist. He enjoyed her glare, the emotion of it promising. Since he managed to rile her, the possibility of eliciting other reactions was likely. Hopefully, one of compliance. The ideas of other emotions, those that stirred his loins, were too hopeful.

  “Nay,” she finally spoke. “I’ll do as you bid.”

  He hated the look of anger she foisted upon him, despised the resigned slope of her shoulders.

  Nodding, he turned and headed out of the chamber. He heard her light step behind him.

  “I’ll write the code for you. Then you’ll have no need of my help.”

  That wouldn’t do, he decided. “I need you to read the experiments to me.”

  He thought he heard a murmured reply, but he dismissed her obvious ire and continued to the west wing.

  She followed Galen, all the while trying to throw daggers at his back with her eyes. Either he was ignoring her, or he failed to care what she thought. She assumed it was the latter.

  In his lab, she slowly let her guard down. The atmosphere was so calming, as the scents and sight of books and experiments hit on something elemental within her. She promptly sat in the wing chair by the window to soak in the room, allow it to steady the rapid beating of her heart.

  It had begun to rain again. Not the driving icy pellets of the morn, but relentless nonetheless. The bleary vision through the wavy glass added to her uncertainty.

  November was nearly gone and, with its absence, Christmas was soon to come. If she broke her pledge to Madge, she’d most likely earn them both a blistering reprimand and a voyage off the island.

  Worse, Alex would be raised without his mother. A life filled with wonder and questions, sadness and longing.

  She refused to subject him to that. To subject wee Alex to the same life Galen and Vivian had endured, truth be told.

  Vivian stood and pressed close to the window. The raging ocean beat against the shore. Frothy waves devoured the jagged boulders that acted like a stone barrier between Mac Tìre and the rest of Scotland. The rocks reappeared, then were devoured once again.

  Oddly, the powerful water reassured her. Galen wouldn’t be able to toss her from the island and back into the arms of her fiancé. Or perhaps contact her father’s solicitor in order to secure another union for her. A new suitor who’d pledge their love to her inheritance and give little credence to her desire to study alchemy.

  It also meant she would not be able to leave. That left Vivian uncertain as to how she felt. One moment she wanted to linger until the end of her days within the castle, near those who needed her just as she needed them. Other times her heart clenched with a longing to be at Westington, safe in the confines of everything familiar.

  She longed for her freedom. Surely she’d earned it. But the call of her heart for a family and love fought just as fiercely.

  “Vivian. You may begin.”

  And then there was Galen, she thought as she lifted her gaze to him. How did he fit within her life? What a warrior he was. Not in the ordinary sense. But, strong, defiant, ready to attack the latest experiment as one would a plaguing enemy. Her loved for him swelled.

  His hair
fell free of its queue, grazing his shoulders and beckoning her touch with its wildness. She shook the unseemly thoughts from her mind, chastising herself in the process.

  Her stomach quivered. Was it fear or attraction, or an odd mixture of both?

  She inhaled and stepped forward. “Where shall I start?”

  She slipped an apron over her head and fastened it securely. She tried to act detached, but her nature rebelled. She loved alchemy and as much as she tried, she didn’t squelch her enthusiasm.

  “I need you to grind the spirit of hartshorn.” He handed her a mortar and pestle. “Careful. Just make certain they are fine enough.”

  Vivian rolled her eyes heavenward. Did he think she didn’t know how to grind hartshorn? God save her, she wanted to shove the element back to him, and watch it spill on the pristine canvas of his white apron.

  Galen measured magnesium on the balance. With the utmost care, he placed the silver-white metal in a beaker. She watched his deft hands attach a copper tube into the stopper of the vented fermentation chamber. She handed him the hartshorn, crushed in the porcelain crucible. He used wooden tongs to coax the granules into the entfleurage vessel. The narrow glass neck snagged some of the element as the rest tumbled down to the bowled bottom.

  “Pass me a clamp and stirring rod.”

  She bristled at the commanding tone he used. At least her father had the decency to ask nicely.

  She caught him watching her with a cocked brow. “The rod.”

  Passing the rod left her hands with nothing to do. She grabbed some empty vials and began wiping their already clean surfaces. Her nerves jumbled at the base of her neck, urging tension down her spine.

  There was more plaguing her then Galen’s gruff exterior. She wanted to bring baby Alex into the conversation. Biting her tongue was the only way to avoid speaking his name.