Heart in the Highlands by Heidi Kimball
Chapter Twenty-Five
Their first breakfast together was pleasant, if a bit awkward. Charlotte’s chatter had carried them through most of the meal with a bit of stilted conversation between Kate and Callum. Fortunately, Kate hadn’t expected much. The past wouldn’t miraculously disappear just because she had agreed to try.
Their second morning together was a marked improvement, almost like a spring thaw after a long winter. And by breakfast number three, Kate was surprised to find that sitting down together actually felt natural. In fact, she hadn’t felt so at ease since Callum had reentered her life. They had begun to establish a kind of rhythm. Discussions of plans for the day, a balance of questions and answers between bites, and of course, Charlotte’s monologues about animals.
Charlotte was currently in the middle of telling them all about the hawk she’d seen snatch up a rabbit yesterday. She had a habit of swinging her legs as she talked—a habit Kate was trying to break her of. But before Kate could call attention to the matter, a soft thud sounded, and Charlotte’s eyes went wide. “My shoe!” she exclaimed, her tone infused with the horror one might use had they lost their shoe over the side of a steep cliff face.
Kate set down her napkin. “Charlotte, this is why we mustn’t—”
“I’ll retrieve it,” Callum said. He scooted back his chair and disappeared under the table before Kate could protest.
Charlotte smiled at Kate, her dimples showing, and Kate couldn’t help but smile back. But after what felt like a full minute, Charlotte looked down at the table, her brow wrinkled. “Papa? Did you find it?”
“Shhh!” came the reply from under the table. “Your shoe is next tae the sleeping dragon. We must not wake it!” he whispered.
“A dragon!” Charlotte squealed in glee, and in a flash, she’d disappeared under the table.
Kate was now the only one left above the dining room table.
One of the footmen entered the room, carrying a fresh platter of toast.
A low growl—or perhaps a groan—came from beneath the table. Something brushed past Kate’s skirts, followed by a shriek and a giggle.
The footman glanced at the table. “Is there anything at all ye require, my lady?” he asked.
The rigid and straitlaced Kate of a few days ago would have suppressed her smile. But there seemed little point in hiding her amusement. “No, sir. Not unless you have experience in vanquishing dragons.”
A loud roar emanated from somewhere near Kate’s feet, and the table itself began to shake. “Help!” Callum called. “Charlotte, pull harder. He’s got my foot!”
The footman held out the platter. “Errr, that isn’t one of my specialties, I’m afraid, my lady. Would ye like some toast?”
Kate nearly giggled at the perplexed tone of the young man’s voice. “No, thank you. You may leave it on the sideboard.”
He nodded and acquiesced but not before casting another dubious glance toward the table.
Charlotte’s head appeared at Kate’s side, her hair disheveled, her cheeks rosy. “Mama! Mama! Help us, or the dragon will eat Papa! And me too!”
Another long groan from Callum. “I cannae hold on much longer!”
“Hurry!” Charlotte yelled before ducking back under the table.
How could Kate refuse such a request? She scooted back her chair, dropped to her knees, and climbed under the tablecloth into the dragon’s lair.
Charlotte was pulling on Callum’s shoulders. Callum, in turn, was lying on the floor, one leg trying desperately to gain some purchase, the other stretched out as if in the grasp of the imaginary beast. His face contracted in pain, and he let out a wail so convincing Kate’s pulse spiked even though she knew the whole scenario was make-believe.
“Mama, help! I can’t hold on for a long time!”
Kate grabbed Charlotte and tried to pull her and Callum back. She only succeeded in dislodging Charlotte’s grip. “Papa!” Charlotte screamed.
“Back, ye fiend!” Callum kicked at the pretend dragon.
“I think we’ll both have to pull at the same time,” Kate said. “You take one shoulder; I’ll take the other.”
Charlotte nodded gravely. She took hold of one of Callum’s shoulders, and Kate grasped the other. “One, two, three, pull !” They both heaved with all their might, and—with a little help from Callum—succeeded in escaping the clutches of the cave that was the dining room table. They collapsed in a pile of exhaustion, a tangle of limbs, heaving breaths and laughter.
Charlotte held Callum’s face in her hands. “You’re safe now, Papa!”
He let out a long sigh. “Aye. Thanks to the two of ye. And I managed to hold on tae your shoe.” He held the shoe up in triumph.
“Thank you, Papa! You saved my shoe. But did you see how stronged we be, Papa? Me and Mama saved you.”
“Aye, very strong.” He lifted his head. “But now I think I am squashing your mother. That will never do.” He moved off her, bringing Charlotte with him and somehow pulling Kate toward him, easing his arm around her.
The contact flustered Kate. “You might have warned us such a beast resided beneath the table,” she scolded. “Think of the danger we were all in!”
“I’d no idea the mighty dragon had returned,” he said, turning his warm gray eyes toward her. “I thought the beast had been vanquished long ago.”
Kate laughed, her pulse still thundering as if the threat had been real. Her head had ended up on Callum’s shoulder, and somehow, all she could think of was his assertion that she’d once found his shoulder quite comfortable. In truth, it was more than comfortable. Her head fit the curve of his broad shoulder perfectly. It was strange how she felt safe there and yet . . . unsafe. A frisson of awareness went through her, with the length of her body tucked next to his. She felt the pull of attraction between them, the one that hadn’t ever subsided, even in her moments of greatest anger toward him.
It was dangerous, letting that attraction rear its head. Yet, in this instant, she didn’t care. Callum had a way of making everything . . . fun, of taking something as simple as breakfast and creating a memory. Charlotte would talk about the dragon for the rest of the day or perhaps even the rest of the week, and as for Kate . . . well, she would no doubt be thinking of the man who had created the dragon.
Thinking. Yes, thinking was key. Not allowing his broad shoulder to woo her into some false sense of security. She had promised to give him a chance, but that didn’t mean she would throw caution to the wind.
Kate sat up abruptly. “Come, Charlotte. Your father must get to his study. And you must finish your breakfast.” She tried very hard not to notice the look of surprise and then hurt that flashed across Callum’s face.
“But, Mama! Papa was almost eated by a dragon ! I losed my ap-apppp . . .”
“Your appetite?” Kate filled in for her.
Charlotte nodded emphatically.
Callum laughed, and Kate joined him despite herself. Thankfully, that seemed to diffuse the tension between them as they parted ways. But it did nothing to quell the constancy with which she thought of Callum for the remainder of the day.
Far too often she found herself remembering the feel of his muscled shoulder beneath her head. The brightness in his eyes, the curve of a smile on his lips. Expelling him from her mind completely seemed impossible, so instead she willed herself to think back on their conversation from the day before. When her head had been nowhere in the vicinity of his shoulder.
Love . . . is not something I have much experience with. I’m afraid I won’t be any good at it.Callum’s confession pulsed through her like the relentless lap of waves against the shore. She knew he was being honest with her, that his experience with love bore little resemblance to her own. But even so, Kate had a hard time imagining Callum failing at anything he put his mind to.
I am going to stumble, to fall. I certainly won’t get it right all at once.
He’d been hedging, trying to curb her expectations of him. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he was simply being candid and forthright about the possibility of his own shortcomings. Given his past, it made sense that he would make mistakes as they learned to become a family.
He already had made mistakes. He’d tried to bribe Charlotte out of a tantrum. He’d left Kate feeling rejected after their brief but passionate kiss. And he’d pushed at her boundaries, trying to make Kate break her own rules, one by one. But in each instance, he had acknowledged his mistakes and apologized.
Kate contemplated how he’d tended to her after rescuing her from the unexpected blizzard—feeding her soup, massaging her hands and feet, arranging for Harriet to be Charlotte’s nursemaid to put Kate’s mind at ease. The way he stayed beside their daughter every night in the nursery, sacrificing his own sleep so Charlotte wouldn’t fret. The absolute sainthood with which he’d endured a week of traveling with Cleo, never once complaining. His willingness to share his innermost thoughts through the pages of his journal.
Callum hadn’t been perfect, but he’d put forth tremendous effort. And he never did anything by halves. Indeed, if this was only the beginning, what would Callum be like in a few years, when he’d mastered the art of love and affection? Warmth suffused her at the thought.
As the days passed, Callum continued to surprise her. Some afternoons the three of them took walks together or spent time in the stables, chatting with Archie and searching for Cleo. If the weather was overcast or drizzly—“dreich,” as Callum called it—they’d spend an hour or two in the nursery, where Charlotte would proudly show off her latest drawings, the horn cups she’d stacked, or her favorite, the animal house. It was an old dollhouse Charlotte had claimed for Noah’s animals.
“They cannot live in the ark now that the flood is over, Mama. They need a house. With beds.” Finding a place for all of them to sleep was quite a chore, but Callum usually managed the task to Charlotte’s satisfaction, squeezing the rabbits into a small toy chest and the turtles into a little cupboard under the stairs.
Harriet always sat in the rocking chair in the far corner of the nursery, a distrustful eye upon Callum. She knitted and sewed, grumbling about the price of thread in Scotland and Archie’s neglect in sharpening her shears. She pretended not to notice the care Callum took to help Charlotte clean up whatever toys they’d played with, leaving the nursery tidier than when they had come. And she frowned whenever Callum casually mentioned someone who had asked about her gingersnaps. Kate wondered why he made such an effort with her.
On one such afternoon while they were in the nursery together, Charlotte was showing Callum a picture of Cleo she’d drawn. The cat’s neck was so long it looked more like a gray giraffe, and Kate had to turn away to hide her smile. To his credit, Callum somehow managed to keep his countenance.
“Cleo starts with C, Papa,” she said matter-of-factly. “And so does your name. C-allum.” She emphasized the C. “And so does my name, C-Charlotte.” She wrinkled her brow in confusion. “But it doesn’t sound the same. And cat. Cat starts with C,” she went on. Suddenly her eyes went wide, and she skipped across the room toward Harriet. “What letter does your name start with, Harriet?”
Kate watched her go, chest flaring with pride over their daughter’s cleverness. The thing that took her off guard, however, was catching Callum’s eyes. The warmth she saw in their gray depths filled her with exquisite joy. She never thought she’d have someone by her side to watch Charlotte’s curiosity and growth day by day.
“She is remarkable, isn’t she? She picks up on things so quickly,” she said.
He nodded, his gaze growing pensive. “She is. But that isn’t what I was thinking.” He smiled at her, a slow smile that spread through her insides like a hot drink. Her pulse tripped. “Ye are remarkable, Katie. Our daughter is a reflection on ye. Every bit of credit for her wondrous abilities is yours alone.”
The pleasure Callum’s words ignited in Kate stayed with her long after he’d gone back down to his study.
It was a dozen little instances like that that chipped away at the resentment she still held on to, melting the icy exterior of her heart. She felt herself softening toward him, moving toward the forgiveness she’d wondered if she could ever bestow.
And yet she remained troubled. It was hard to extend trust to a man who had broken it so thoroughly. For herself, yes. But more so on Charlotte’s behalf. If Callum shattered Kate’s heart again, she might recover. But what of Charlotte? What if he earned their daughter’s love only to break her fledgling trust?
More concerning was the great chasm between them, one they had only begun to bridge. Could these new and tender feelings survive the endless questions that plagued Kate about their time apart? Could Callum abide the truths she hadn’t yet found the courage to share?
Kate weighed and balanced her concerns in a never-ending loop, every moment of every day. She found herself thinking of Callum while she went to dress fittings in town, while she sketched outdoors on warmer days, and while she took tea in the afternoon with the duchess. In short, he was never far from her mind.
The only time her qualms truly faded away was when she and Callum would climb the stairs to the nursery to put Charlotte to bed. She doubted many fathers took such a personal role in putting their children to bed, but Callum took to it naturally. He always began with a rousing game of “horsey,” galloping through the nursery with Charlotte on his shoulders. Much as she protested, Kate loved watching the two of them together. Callum was giving Charlotte something Kate hadn’t been able to give her; it was only now she could see how desperately her daughter needed her father.
They always ended up at the “watering trough,” where Callum would help Charlotte wash her face. Kate helped her into her nightgown and brushed her hair. They took turns helping her with her prayers. And then, finally, Charlotte would ask for stories, lullabies, or anything else that would put off the inevitable bedtime.
“You’ll spoil the child,” Harriet claimed. “Whoever heard of a marquess and a marchioness who put their own child to bed?”
But Kate didn’t care. They’d been denied this precious togetherness for so long, and it was in these moments they felt almost like a family. As if things had always been like this. As if they might stay this way forever.
Once Charlotte was asleep, Kate and Callum would go downstairs together. Some nights they joined the duchess in the drawing room, playing cards or talking. On others, Callum invited Kate to his study, where he would share a page or two from his journal—his reservations about doing business with slave traders, his loneliness amidst a fervent social scene—or she would show him something from her sketchbook. Her first time seeing Rosemont Cottage. Her finding a family in Harriet and Archie.
Night after firelit night, Kate pulled back the many layers that made up Callum. For years she had judged him on a single decision, but now she was forced to confront a man who was more than the sum of one, albeit large, mistake. He was a good man, a loyal one. One who pursued what he wanted with unmatched determination and held on to what was important to him with a fierceness rivaling Charlotte’s hand-carved lions. He was tender. He was kind. He made her laugh.
And yet, the tender ache inside of Kate persisted. There was still a chasm between them, one she hadn’t yet dared to bridge. The longer she waited, the heavier the burden of the truth weighed upon her. If only there were some way to assure herself that Callum wouldn’t break her heart a second time.