Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 09 - Now May You Weep

perhaps with Alison Grant? But why had Louise seemed surprised when Gemma had mentioned John fishing with Callum and Donald? She couldn’t imagine why John would have neglected to tell his wife such an innocent thing, nor could she see why Callum would have invented it.

When Louise announced, a few minutes later, that she was going up to bed, Gemma bid her good night and wandered into the sitting room. A half-empty bottle of Benvulin stood on the low table between the men, who were sprawled in the tartan chairs in varying degrees of inebriation. John’s glass held a generous measure, and Martin’s face was already flushed from overconsump-tion, but Kincaid, although a bit more bright-eyed than usual, seemed little the worse for wear.

“I’m not giving up until I get Ian on the phone,” Kincaid told Gemma when she perched on the arm of his chair. “His secretary’s promised he’ll be back in his office within the hour. If you want to turn in, I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

“No, stay, have a drink.” John, apparently having recovered enough to play the host, started to get up, but Gemma shook her head. Guessing that Kincaid meant to take advantage of the whisky-induced male bonding, she’d retired gracefully from the field.

But now, as she lay in bed, she realized how much she had missed Duncan, and how much she’d been looking forward to time alone with him.

A wave of homesickness swept over her. Earlier in the

evening, she’d called to talk to Wes and Toby, and Toby, after the momentary excitement of getting a phone call, had begun to cry. As much as he loved Wesley, he missed her and Duncan and Kit, and she was sure he had absorbed Wesley’s anxiety over Kit’s absence that afternoon. She’d done her best to reassure him, but now the sound of his small, tearful voice came back to haunt her.

Then there was Kit—was he all right at Nathan’s? And what could have prompted him to run away? He was ordinarily a thoughtful and considerate boy; he must have been dreadfully upset to do something he knew would make them frantic with worry. She wished she could talk to him, but she’d agreed with Kincaid to wait until they had spoken to Ian.

At some point in her catalog of concerns she must have drifted off to sleep, her worries over her own family mutating into a dream of Holly, calling for her mother, and of Tim, reaching out for the child with bloody hands.

She woke with a gasp to a darkened room, and the feel of Duncan sliding into bed beside her. He smelled faintly of whisky, and his bare skin was cold. “What—what time is it?” she said groggily, trying to sit up.

“Shhh. It’s late. I was trying not to wake you.” He wrapped his arms round her.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” Awareness came flooding back as the nightmare images melted away. “What about Ian? Did you talk to him?”

“I did.” There was an edge of anger in Kincaid’s voice.

He rolled onto his back and stuffed a pillow under his head. “I was going to wait till morning to tell you, as I don’t think it will improve your sleep.”

Ian had never been an ideal parent, even before Vic’s death, and Gemma had learned not to place too much

confidence even in his good intentions. “Oh, no,” she whispered, heart quailing. “What’s he done now?”

“It took me a while to pry it out of him. Apparently, he realized he’d made a royal cock-up of things, after Kit hung up on him. First, he told Kit that the cottage in Grantchester had sold, which I think Kit could have dealt with, given a bit of time. He was expecting it, after all.

“But then Ian dropped the real bomb. He told Kit that he’s getting married again, in July, and he canceled Kit’s visit because he’s going to be on his honeymoon.”

“Married?” repeated Gemma, wondering if she’d heard correctly.

“Married. To a twenty-something Toronto socialite, one of his graduate students. Not that Ian doesn’t have the right to get married again,” Kincaid added, “but he could have broken the news to Kit a little more gently, and taken his feelings into consideration when he made the arrangements.”

Gemma sat up in bed and pushed her hair from her face.

“That’s much too charitable. He’s a bastard. Doesn’t he realize that Kit’s been planning this visit since Ian left for Toronto in December? To snatch that away from him would have been blow enough, after the letter from Eugenia, but to add marriage and a new stepmother on top of that—”

“I asked him if he could rearrange the wedding around Kit’s visit, but he said Melinda’s family had already made their plans.”

“Melinda?” Gemma squeaked. “God, I hate her already. What are we going to do?”

“What can we do? We have no control over Ian—”

“We have to get legal custody of Kit,” interrupted Gemma, with the decisiveness born of fury. “Ian has done enough damage; we have to make sure he can’t suddenly decide he wants to impress this Melinda by moving Kit

to Canada, or something equally daft. We have to insist on the DNA testing. Doesn’t Kit realize we only want what’s best for him?”

“Can you blame Kit for not trusting us, after twelve years with Ian?” Kincaid turned on his side and propped himself on his elbow so that he could look at her.

“Gemma—you don’t have any doubt, do you? That Kit is my son, and not Ian’s?”

The moonlight spilled through the gap in the curtains, illuminating his face clearly and revealing a vulnerability he seldom expressed. His hair fell across his brow in a familiar question mark. Gemma reached up and brushed it back with a fingertip. “No. You can’t see what I see, when the two of you are together. And it’s not just the physical resemblance—it’s in a gesture, a movement, an expression.”

He nodded, once, then frowned. “But why should it make any difference? I don’t mean for the obvious reasons, the custody issue, but in the way I feel. Why does it matter so much to me?”

“Maybe it’s just human nature,” Gemma said softly.

“The desire for connection.”

“Yes.” He reached for her, pressing her back until her head touched the pillow, then rolled over and pinned her beneath him. “I’d agree with that.” There was an unexpected hint of laughter in his voice.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t.” Taking her face in his hands, he brushed his lips down her cheek until he reached the corner of her mouth. “But I do.”

From the Diary of Helen Brodie, Benvulin, November

If I have neglected this journal in these past few weeks, my justification lies in the events that have

overtaken the household. Margaret has once again taken to her bed, although the doctor can find no ailment. When he reproved her for feasting on sweetmeats rather than nourishing foods, she sent him away in a fit of pique, calling him useless—a case, I must say, of the pot calling the kettle black.

It is not so much that Margaret contributes to the household when she is up and about, but that her malingering causes much extra work and disruption for everyone else, particularly the servants.

And then there are the children. Since poor little Miss Andrews left so precipitously for London last summer, they have been without governess or tutor, allowed to run wild about the estate without discipline or routine. Little Robert had begun to show signs of temper, and Meg of aping her mother’s vapors.

At last, I felt compelled to take matters into my own hands, and have hired a governess, a young woman of good family from Edinburgh, with whom I am well pleased. She has instituted a schedule of study for the children, with set times for lessons, music, drawing, and play. The change has been little short of miraculous. Within the space of a fortnight, the children have begun to show an improvement in character.

Rab, of course, seconded my decision, although he could not be pressed into taking the matter in hand himself. To give him his due, he has been much occupied with the distillery. Despite