Once again Iain halted in his step, his heart squeezing within his chest. His brows drew together at the simple question, and he swallowed the knob that appeared in his throat, answering honestly. “I dunno, Malcom. I never did hear your minnie sing, at all.”
“Oh.”
There was keen disappointment in the single word. Iain heard it and his heart twisted.
“Da, you’re hurtin’ me leg,” Malcom said, a frown in his voice.
Starting at the complaint, Iain eased his grip upon Malcom’s little legs at once. He sucked in a breath and said, “Forgive me, son.” He swallowed the grief that rose to choke him, though it was no longer grief for himself. “You know what, though, son,” he lied with ease, for Malcom’s sake. “She woulda sung to ye... if she could have..””
“D’ y’ think so, da?”
The note of hope in his voice was like vin aigre spilled into a freshly healing wound. Iain’s eyes stung, though not from the smoke of the raging bonfire. The image of Mairi standing before the window, her eyes burning with hatred, rose up to mock him. There was no doubt in his mind that she had left them both, for she’d left him standing there with their brand-new bairn cradled within his arms. Still, he forced the lie from his lips. Again for Malcom’s sake. “I know so, son,” he swore vehemently. “I know so. Had she been able to see your wee li’l face, she would have sung to you. I know it.”
“I would have liked that, da,” Malcom exclaimed, and Iain could hear the smile in his son’s voice. His jaw clenched, and he closed his eyes, swallowing the curse that rose to his lips.
Damn Mairi’s soul to hell.
“What about you? Did your mammie e’er sing to you, da?”
Iain opened his eyes, watching the gathering at the bonfire as he considered the question, uncertain as to why he hesitated, for the answer could only be no. He closed his eyes once more and contemplated the woman’s voice from his dream—the song, the eyes—and was filled with keen frustration. “Nay,” he answered, confused. He opened his eyes to stare at the bonfire, frowning.
And it occurred to him suddenly that his own mother’s death had gone undiscussed much too long. It was something he and his son shared in common, the lack of a mother from birth, and yet he’d grown so accustomed to it being an unspeakable matter between himself and his own da that he’d never even thought to broach it with his son.
As a boy, Iain had asked questions interminably, only to be turned away at every occasion. And not merely by his father, but by every last clansman who might have known his ma. If your da wants ye to know, they had all persistently told him, he’ll tell ye himself. Och, but his da had never told him a damned thing, and after a while, Iain had quit asking altogether. All he knew of his mother, he’d learned from his aunt Glenna, and even that was precious little.
If Iain hadn’t known better, that his da had loved his mother fiercely, that he’d mourned her death till the day he’d died, he’d have thought her name a blasphemy in his house, for it had surely been unspeakable within his presence... and without.
“Da?” Malcom ventured once more, breaking into his gloom-filled thoughts.
“Aye, Malcom?”
“D’ ye think she would mind if I called her mammy?”
“Who, Malcom?”
“Page.”
Iain went perfectly still at the question.
“I think ye would do better to call her Suisan,” Page heard him tell his son.
She’d overheard enough of their conversation to feel the sting of tears prick her eyes. She hadn’t meant to, but had nevertheless, and now she didn’t know whether to make her presence known, or to turn about and flee.
Drawn by the firelight and the melancholy sound of the reed, she had come upon father and son standing there together in the shadows of the night, speaking softly with each other. A private conversation such as that Page might have longed for as a child. Lord, but she might have... had she known it possible to share such confidences. She stemmed the flood of envy that rose to nag her.
Ahead of them, the fire’s glow was a beacon in the dark of night.
A lone piper stood before it, playing his instrument with such funereal intensity that it seduced her feet to move forward. Curiosity along with the piper’s song drew her to Iain’s side to watch the strange gathering.
It seemed every last clan member was present for the occasion, their silhouettes congregated before the fire like moths before torchlight.
Both father and son turned to peer down at her.
For a long instant, Page couldn’t find her voice to speak, so moved was she by Malcom’s sweet question. Still they stared down at her.