“I’d be honored.” He meant that to his marrow. Fergus and Marina were the finest people he knew. Swallowing a lump in his throat, he crossed to kiss Marina’s cheek. “Thank ye.”
“Would you like to hold her?”
“Aye, I would indeed.”
With confident hands, he reached for Eilidh. He was well used to weans. As Laird of Invertavey, he met all his tenants’ babies, and several of his cousins had children.
Eilidh grizzled at the unwarranted jiggling. When she settled, she opened cloudy blue eyes and stared up at his face. He knew it was too early for her to make any sense of what she saw, but he couldn’t help feeling that this moment established a lifelong link.
“She’s beautiful,” he said softly.
Tiny, rosy, and with perfect wee toes and fingers. With a pang, he wondered if he’d ever hold a child of his own like this. Should Fiona agree to his proposal, there was a good chance he wouldn’t.
He’d never much thought about children. He’d never much thought about marriage, except as a duty awaiting him in the distant future. How very sad that only now, cuddling Eilidh, did he realize how much he’d like children. Just at the point when it was likely that he signed away any chance to have them.
“Good morning, wee Eilidh. I’m your godfather, don’t ye know?”
The baby wriggled and made a fearsome face. He laughed and passed her back to her mother. “I think this bonny lassie needs some attention, Marina.”
“Porca miseria, she always needs attention,” Marina said, clearly not minding at all. She rested Eilidh on her shoulder and started to pat her gently on the back.
Diarmid was impressed at her adept handling of the baby. Up until now, those slender olive-skinned hands had been more used to wielding a paint brush than cradling an infant.
When he looked up, he caught Fiona watching him with an arrested expression on her face. He arched a questioning eyebrow at her, and to his surprise, she blushed and fixed her attention on her sewing.
“Fiona, are ye free to speak to me?” If they were to do this mad thing, better they did it quickly, before Fiona’s reputation suffered any more damage.
“I’ll just finish this,” she mumbled, still avoiding his eyes.
“Very well. I’ll meet ye downstairs when you’re ready.”
The hand holding the scissors she used to cut the thread was shaking. He supposed that seeing Marina with Eilidh must remind her of Christina. He said his farewells and headed out the door.
Fiona took longer to arrive than he’d expected. He had time to look around the sunny enclosed garden and wonder if perhaps this wasn’t the most appropriate place for his proposal. The rich scent of roses made his head swim, and while the ancient walls had a practical purpose, built to keep out the persistent winds, they also created an air of privacy that suggested a lovers’ tryst. A small statue of Cupid held court over the scene, and brightly colored butterflies fluttered from flower to flower.
As Diarmid took in the grassy hollow with its neat beds of lushly blossoming rosebushes and fragrant climbing roses nodding against the soft red brick, he couldn’t help noting the romantic picture it made. Definitely not the atmosphere he wanted. What he was about to do held no trace of romance at all, damn it.
Something told him he wa
s no longer alone. He glanced up to see Fiona framed like a painting in one of the lichened stone arches.
“You’ve changed,” he said stupidly, as though it mattered. This drugged air played havoc with his common sense.
She glanced down at the russet muslin gown. Her hair was pinned up in a mass of curls, just untidy enough to summon images of her rising from her bed.
Diarmid looked at her and felt sick with longing. And knew it did him not one ounce of good.
He tried not to think of how bonny she’d looked when she smiled at wee Eilidh.
“Yes, it’s hard to keep neat and tidy around a baby.” With a self-conscious gesture, she smoothed the richly colored skirt. “And Sandra got a maggot in her head, and wouldn’t let me go without doing some titivating.”
“To good effect,” he said with a delayed attempt at gallantry, and made himself smile. “Ye look lovely.”
“Thank you,” she said uncertainly. Around her neck, she wore a small cameo pinned to a black velvet ribbon. One white hand rose to touch it, as if for reassurance.
“Please sit down.” He gestured to one of the stone benches set in alcoves around the garden.
She moved to perch on the seat. As she settled, the soft material drifted around her slender body. Diarmid found himself wishing that this was a real proposal leading to a real marriage, one promising mutual affection and desire.