“Grandfather!” Alice had slipped forward and was facing her muttering grandsire, hands planted on her hips. “You promised!”
Unlike his granddaughters, Sir Reginald Ashe hadn’t changed at all. He was just as elfin, just as hale and hoary as he’d been the day Gareth left. Garbed, much as always, in ancient leather jerkin and buckled knee breeches, he had one hand wrapped tightly around a wooden box, the other waving an ineffectual fist at his escorts.
“I did nothing of the sort, girl! And I’ll say again, let go of me, you hairy behemoths!”
“Just helping you in, sir,” the young man holding his right arm replied jovially. He and his companion lowered their burden to the floor and let go. Sir Reginald stomped into the foyer with a huff. He stopped in front of Alice and glared at her from beneath shrubby brows.
“You’re breaking my heart, you are,” he muttered.
Alice sighed. “That is hardly my intention, Grandfather.”
“Hmph.” He turned his glare to Clarissa. “Get off your feet,” he commanded.
“Yes, Grandfather.” She kissed his cheek and chided, “You did promise.” Then, “Look who’s come home.”
The old man looked at Gareth for the first time. “About time,” he grumbled. “Your grandda would have taken a birch stick to you right sharpish, you know.”
Gareth nodded. “Very likely, sir.”
Sir Reginald huffed. “Should probably do it myself.” He appeared to be gauging the six inches and four stone Gareth had on him. Not to mention the fifty years. “Can’t be bothered tonight. Remind me tomorrow.” With that, he stalked creakily toward the stairs, box still gripped tightly to his chest.
“Grandfather,” Alice called after him. “Your dinner—”
“Send up a tray! And none of that warm milk rubbish. I’ll have a bottle of claret.”
When he’d disappeared into the gallery, Alice turned to the right-hand ox. “Where did you find him?”
“My west field. Knee deep in mud.”
“And Mr. O’Neill?”
“Danny Leary’s seeing him home. No harm done.”
Alice nodded. “Well, thank you, Mr. Sullivan. I . . . we are so very grateful. Will you come in for a glass of something?”
The ox shook his head. “Best not. The missus will be waiting up for me.” The grin he’d clearly been working hard to suppress spread across his face. “He’s determined, he is, Miss Ashe. Nearly curled my ears, cursing at me.”
“Yes, I am sorry—”
“Ah, now, don’t you be apologizing. No blood shed and ’twas as lively a night as I’ve seen this fortnight and more. Eh, Finn?” His companion grinned and nodded. Sullivan bowed awkwardly. “We’ll be off then. M’lady. Miss Ashe.” And, belatedly, to Gareth. “Sir. ’Tis a grand thing to see you’ve come home.” Then, still chuckling faintly, he left.
Gareth had no idea what had just transpired, but he was weary enough from travel and homecoming not to care. Besides, the man’s parting had been as pleasant as Clarissa’s welcome. The number of people glad to see him home had just equaled the contrary, even if one was a stranger . . .
“Was that Tommy Sullivan? That behemoth? But he can’t be more than sixteen . . .”
“More like twenty-four,” Alice said coolly.
“Good God. Amazing what happens when a fellow leaves home.”
“Isn’t it? Years pass, families alter, boys grow to men . . .”
He searched her face for anger. All he saw was cool calm. “Alice . . .” He wasn’t certain what he was meant to say, but decided best to get it out of the way. He had a whiskey decanter nearly in his sights. “Perhaps we—”
“If you will excuse me, sir. I leave you in the lady of the house’s capable hands.” Alice kissed her sister, kissed one of her own fingertips and brushed it over Clarissa’s bump, then headed for the stairs. She paused at the first step. “If you are hungry, I will arrange to have a tray sent up to your room.”
“No,” he replied, a bit sullenly even to his own ears. “Thank you.”
“As you wish. Good night, then. Breakfast is at eight. We don’t keep town hours here.” With that, she turned her back and disappeared up the stairs.
Well, he mused, what had he expected? A feast featuring a fatted calf? Open arms and starry smiles. Perhaps he had, he conceded. Or perhaps he’d known better all along.
He turned to find Clarissa studying him. Or, rather, surveying his attire, her pert nose wrinkled in obvious distaste. Perhaps his coat and breeches were a bit the worse for wear, but it had been a long day in the saddle, after several interminable weeks of travel. Seeing her in stark black, with that disconcerting bulge at her middle tugged at his conscience, though damned if he knew why. He’d come, hadn’t he?