Page 22 of A Plaid Case of Loving Ye
“Also, he’s hung like a horse,” she noted blandly.
His smile pushed away the last of the lingering headache.
There didn’t seem to be much more to say. What they’d experienced a few hours ago, Lady Helen’s death and accepting responsibility for her son…it was too raw, too uncertain, to discuss.
So, they just stood there, staring up at the tapestry, each one silent.
Until she slipped her hand into his.
She didn’t look at him, but just stood comfortingly beside him, her small hand in his, her lovely eyes locked on another man’s cock—embroidered, though ‘twas—and looking thoughtful.
Ramsay took a deep breath, deciding mayhap hewasready to discuss something. He wanted to ask her about that kiss yesterday. He wanted to tell her that holding her tit in his palm, tasting her tongue, breathing her breath…it had done something to him. He didn’t know who he was, but hedidknow he’d never before felt like that while kissing a woman.
“Nicola…”
“Are ye going to take Relic away from here?” she blurted.
His lips tugged into a frown and he shifted his full attention to her. “What?”
She kept her gaze locked on the tapestry, although he could tell ‘twas just so she didn’t have to meet his eyes. “Ye promised Lady Helen to care for him, to raise him as yer own.”
As if he could forget. “Aye…”
“And now that ye’re healed, are ye going to leave? Go to Scone as we discussed? Are ye going to take him with ye?”
Their hands were still clasped and he felt the tightness of her muscles. He squeezed. “I dinnae have any other options, do I?” he mused sadly. He turned his gaze to their joined hands. “I dinnae ken who I am. How can I care for a bairn if I dinnae ken who I am? I thought mayhap I’d leave Relic here with the nuns until I could figure myself out, but…”
“Nay.” Her shoulders expanded as she inhaled, then seemed to come to a decision. She turned to him. “Nay, ye promised. He must be with ye, and ye must keep him safe.”
“Until I ken who I am—”
“Ye are one of the King’s Hunters.” She held his gaze, her eyes showing a strange mixture of surety and sadness. “Yer name is Ramsay McIlvain.”
His eye widened as he sucked in a breath.
Ramsay McIlvain.
McIlvain.
Slowly, he pulled his hand from hers, clenching and unclenching his fist.
McIlvain. It felt…
Right.
His head wasn’t aching, but he touched his temple to be certain. “McIlvain?” he muttered.
“Aye. Ye recognize it, do ye no’?”
Images…thoughts…fleeting, there and then gone again. “Aye,” he said slowly, his gaze locked on the tapestries which lined the hall, but not really seeing. “Aye, McIlvain. My father…I have a father. He’s the laird—a small sept, but our people are happy. I have siblings.” He remembered laughter, teasing, tests of skill, wee bairns and older children and brothers nearly his age. “So many siblings. My mother fusses over us all.”
Mother. Father. Brothers and sisters. A home.
Ramsay McIlvain had all of that.
And he was Ramsay McIlvain. Heknewit. His heart was pounding, but his head wasn’t. The memories were vague, hidden, as if watching through a thick fog…but they were there.
His name had been what he needed to find them again?
