Page 55 of My Highland Rogue
“I don’t understand,” Gordon said, hearing himself speak. His lips moved. Words flowed out of his mouth, but he was curiously still calm and detached. “Tell me what you meant. About Jennifer being my sister.” The words were wooden and without inflection.
All he had to do was concentrate on one word at a time, one sentence. That and keep breathing, even though he felt more and more like a statue sitting there. He was growing colder, more immobile, frozen into this position of leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees. It was easier to focus on the sheet than his father’s face.
“It was because of the fire,” Sean said.
Sean didn’t speak for several moments. Gordon didn’t prod, simply sat there waiting, his gaze on the bed.
“Betty became Harrison’s wet nurse, since she was also nursing our son as well. He’d been born only days earlier.”
Gordon still didn’t speak.
“Not many people had seen the earl’s son. The only person who could have told Harrison from our son was the countess and she was near death herself. It was put out that she would probably be blind if she did survive. Betty had an idea.”
Sean moaned and clutched his stomach. Gordon stared at him, knowing he should summon compassion from somewhere.
“The tea is cold,” he finally said, “but the whiskey might help.”
Sean shook his head. “No, I’ll get through this.”
He knew what Sean was going to say. Ridiculous as it was, he could almost say the words themselves. It matched perfectly with what he knew of Betty’s character and her antipathy to him.
“Betty had an idea to switch the babies. She saw it as a chance for our son to prosper. She wanted more for him and she got her wish. He became Earl of Burfield.”
Gordon’s fingers were cold, but so were his feet. His heart was beating, but slowly. Perhaps he would die first and leave Sean staring at him in wonder.
“So what you’re saying is that you’re not my father.”
“No.”
“And Betty wasn’t my mother.”
How very placid he sounded, like the words he was speaking didn’t mean anything. Perhaps he didn’t have any emotions. No, that wasn’t right. He could feel the rage building up beneath his skin. It would break free soon enough.
“And I’m the Earl of Burfield.”
“Yes.”
“Not Harrison.”
“You are Harrison Adaire,” Sean said.
“And he’s your son.”
Instead of answering, Sean grabbed at his midsection again. Gordon helped him sit up, then held the cup of whiskey-laced tea to his mouth. After Sean had taken several sips, Gordon lowered the older man back onto his pillows.
It was some time before Sean could talk again.
Gordon sat there, his thoughts congealed, focused on imagining the night when flames had engulfed the north wing. He’d been inches from death, saved because of the actions of his mother. His mother. Because of a tragedy, everything had changed. Someone steeped in venality, hardened by circumstance, had altered the course of his history.
Sean’s words were halting. “I didn’t know what Betty had done until just before she died.”
“You knew,” Gordon said, his tone still calm. “Don’t try to tell me you didn’t. You’ve always known somehow. Maybe it was intuition or maybe it was something Betty said, but you knew.”
“She wanted more for our boy.”
He didn’t have any kind words to say about Betty, even before learning what she did. Nor could he summon up any thoughts of a generous nature now.
“Betty died three years ago,” Gordon said. “You’ve known ever since then.”
