Page 69 of My Highland Rogue
She nodded, still studying him.
For a moment he wondered if she could see, then if she could see well enough to recognize him. It seemed as if she could, because she glanced away from him, then back again, and then finally fixed her gaze on the view outside her third-floor window.
“May I speak with you?”
“You’re speaking, aren’t you?”
Her voice was thin, as if the effort to talk took too much of her breath.
“I’m Gordon McDonnell,” he said. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I used to live here a number of years ago.”
She buried her trembling hands beneath the yarn in her lap.
“Do you remember me?”
“If I do or if I don’t, what does it matter?”
She didn’t look at him. Instead, her attention was on a tree not far from the window. A squirrel ran up the branch closest to the sill, almost as if he wanted to come and visit before thinking better of the idea.
Gordon came and sat on the edge of her neatly made bed.
“I heard a story, Miss McBride, about something that happened after the fire. I understand that you helped save the countess and her son.”
She didn’t respond to his comment. Nor did it look like she was paying any attention to what he was saying. Had age addled her wits?
“Do you remember the fire?”
She finally turned to look at him. “Of course I remember the fire. How could I forget it, GordonMcDonnell? A body doesn’t forget something like that.”
“I imagine it was a terrible time, but you were very brave.”
Her eyes narrowed.
He could be charming when he wished, but he doubted if Miss McBride would succumb to blandishments. Perhaps the best approach was to be direct and honest with her.
“There were two babies at Adaire Hall back then, weren’t there? The countess’s child and one born to Betty McDonnell, the wife of the head gardener.”
“What if there were? Are you thinking that it’s unusual for babies to be born?”
“Sean died a few days ago, Miss McBride.”
She simply stared at him. She didn’t offer any condolences. Was the woman as cold and withdrawn as she appeared?
Or had he frightened her?
“He told me a story before he died. I’m trying to discover if it was the truth or not. Can you help me with that?”
She leaned back and closed her eyes. “I’m tired. Go away, Gordon McDonnell.”
He wasn’t going to leave until he got the answers he needed.
“You cared for the countess’s son, did you not? You were one of the few people who knew what the baby looked like, Miss McBride.”
“I’m an old woman and all I want now is a little peace. If you were a decent man, you’d leave now.”
“Betty confessed something on her deathbed. Would you like to know what she said?”
“I’m too old and too tired for stories. Leave me be.”
