Had Kit always been that way, or was his quiet and slightly wary approach to the world a direct response to the trauma of his mother’s death? Kincaid found it difficult to reconcile himself to the idea that he would probably never learn the answer. He’d come too late into his son’s life, and the fact that he hadn’t known Kit was his son until after his ex-wife’s death did nothing to absolve him of his guilt.
“Kidnapped,” Kit answered. “We have to read it for class, but it’s bloody good.”
“Don’t say bloody, ” Kincaid reminded him. “Unless you mean it literally. But I’m glad you like the book.”
Smothering a smile, he reached out to scratch Tess, whose small, pink tongue was lolling in a pant. “Is that why you’re not down helping Wes?”
Looking away, Kit seemed to draw into himself. “I don’t need minding, you know,” he muttered after a moment. “I’m not a child.”
“Did someone say you were?” Kincaid asked, making an effort to conceal his surprise. Kit and Wesley were the best of mates, and Kit usually nagged Wesley to stay longer.
Kit gave a grudging shrug. “Wes and Toby were waiting for me when school let out. Some of the kids said I had a baby-sitter.” He uttered the term with loathing.
Kincaid hesitated a moment, wondering how best to navigate the dangerous waters of a twelve-year-old’s humiliation at the hands of his peers. “Kit, I’m sure Wes and Toby went to meet you after school because Toby was anxious to see you, especially with Gemma gone for the weekend. We can ask Wesley to bring Toby straight home, if you’d rather.” He smiled ruefully. “I suppose having an adoring four-year-old brother doesn’t exactly give you street cred, does it?”
Kit had the grace to blush but still protested. “Why does Wes have to stay, anyway? I can look after Toby—
I’ve done it lots of times. Don’t you trust me?”
“You do a great job with Toby,” Kincaid assured him.
“And we appreciate your looking after him as much as you do. But we also don’t think it’s fair that minding Toby should be your job. What if you needed to stay late for a project at school, or do something with your mates?”
When Kit didn’t answer, it occurred to Kincaid that perhaps it was the other way round, and responsibility for Toby gave Kit a defense against a lack of after-school invitations. While he was still trying to work out how to address the issue, Toby came thundering up the stairs to announce that dinner was ready.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Kincaid said, giving Kit a pat on the shoulder as he stood. “But in the meantime, you might want to compliment Wesley on his chicken.”
He followed the boys downstairs slowly, musing on the conversation. They’d known, when they’d moved Kit to London last Christmas, that it might be a difficult adjust-ment for him. Since his mother’s death the previous spring, Kit had been living near Cambridge with his step-father, Ian McClellan, and spending weekends in London with Duncan and Gemma.
Although Ian had been separated from Vic when she died, he was still Kit’s legal guardian. Kincaid had allowed the arrangement to stand because he’d been unwilling to disrupt his son’s life any more than necessary, and he and Ian had gradually come to amicable terms.
But all that had changed when Ian had decided to take up a teaching post in Canada at the New Year. Kincaid had wanted Kit with him, and Ian had been willing to let him stay. Ian had put the cottage in Grantchester, where Kit had spent his childhood, up for sale, and Kit had come to live with Duncan, Gemma, and Toby.
All very well, but had he fooled himself into thinking Kit had made the transition easily, just because he hadn’t complained? He would do better, Kincaid resolved; spend more time with the boy, find out what was going on at school.
But when Wesley had left for the café, and Toby had been put to bed with a story, Kit refused the much-anticipated action video, saying he wanted to finish his book. Kincaid found himself alone in the kitchen, his good intentions thwarted, and suddenly at a loose end.
Of course, he had novels to read, projects to finish . . .
there was the telly to watch—something of his own choosing, for a change. But without the comfort of Gemma’s presence somewhere in the house, all prospects seemed to pall.
Kincaid snorted at the irony of it: he, who had always been so self-sufficient, reduced to mooning about like a lovesick schoolboy. He’d have to get a grip on himself.
Idly, he picked up the post from the kitchen table and leafed through it. There were bills and credit card applications, the usual circulars, and at the bottom of the stack, a thick, cream-colored envelope. Opening it
curiously, he unfolded a sheaf of legal-looking papers.
He read the document once, then again, the words sinking in.
The letter came from a firm of solicitors representing his former mother-in-law, Eugenia Potts. Kit’s grandmother was suing for custody.
Chapter Three
The hue of Highland rivers
Careering full and cool,
From sable onto golden,
From rapid on to pool.
—robert louis stevenson,
“To You, Let Snow and Roses”
Carnmore, November
Livvy roused her son with a touch on his shoulder.
He came instantly awake, sitting up and groping for his trousers. “What—”
“It’s your father, Will. Come and help me.” Her teeth chattered so hard she could barely speak, and her sodden clothes dripped upon the bed, but Will asked no more questions. Quickly, he pulled on his boots and coat and followed her down the stairs.
The snow had half-buried Charles in the few moments Livvy had been gone, but together she and Will managed to pull him into the kitchen and close the door.
“Blankets,” Livvy gasped. “We’ll need blankets. And
make up the fire in the parlor, Will. That’s the warmest room in the house.”
When Will had gone she knelt over her husband and began trying to remove his wet clothing. Charles roused a bit, pushing himself up and fumbling at the buttons of his overcoat. She stilled his hand, pressing it to her breast to warm it. Relief flooded through her. “Oh, Charles, you’re all right. I thought—”
“Livvy . . .” His voice was a thread. “The storm came on so quickly. I was past Tomintoul. I’d no choice . . . The carriage . . . I had to leave it—”
“Hush. It’s all right, love. Don’t try to talk.” She eased him out of his coat. “We’ll get something warm into ye, as soon as you’re dry.”
Letting his head fall back against her arm, he whispered, “I can’t feel my feet.”
“Hush, now,” she said again, knowing sensation would return soon enough, and that when it did the pain would be intense. “We’ll just get these boots off.”
Will came back into the kitchen, carrying a pile of blankets. Together they stripped Charles of the remainder of his clothing and wrapped him in heavy wool, then they half-carried him into the parlor and installed him on the settee. The peats were blazing in the hearth, and the room had already lost some of its chill.