Ian cut him off. “She claims the child is yours. She is wrong.”
“Of course she’s wrong,” Mac said in astonishment. “I’ve never seen the woman before in my life.”
The young woman watched their conversation with uncomprehending eyes, looking anxiously from one brother to the other.
Mac addressed her in impatient French. “You’ve made a mistake, Madame.”
She gave him an anguished look and started babbling. Of course she had not mistaken Mac Mackenzie, the great Scottish lord who had been her lover for years in France. Mac had left his wife for her, but disappeared a year after their little girl had been born. She’d waited and waited for him to return, then she grew ill and too poor to care for little Aimee. She’d traveled all the way to Scotland to find Mac and give Aimee to him.
Mac listened in growing amazement. Hart’s face was set in anger, and Ian stared at the floor, fist tucked under his chin.
“I swear to you, Hart, I have no idea who she is,” Mac said when the woman’s speech wound down. “I have never bedded her, and this girl not my child.”
“Then why the hell is she saying she is?” Hart demanded.
“How the devil should I know?”
Mac heard a light step behind him and a rustle of silk, and he closed his eyes. Damnation.
He opened them again to see Isabella gliding down the last flight of stairs She was fully dressed, every ribbon tied, every button buttoned. The only sign of dishevelment was her hair, which had been brushed into a ponytail that hung down her back. Isabella didn’t say a word to the brothers but headed straight for the fragile young woman.
Hart stepped in her way. “Isabella, go back upstairs.”
“Do not tell me what to do, Hart Mackenzie,” she said crisply. “She obviously needs to sit down. Can one of you men be prevailed upon to ring for tea?”
“Isabella.” Hart tried his stern tone.
“It is not Mac’s child,” Ian repeated. “Not old enough.”
“I heard you,” Isabella said. “Come with me, petite,” she said to the woman in French. “We will sit, and you will rest.”
The woman stared at Isabella in astonishment as Isabella put a gentle arm around her shoulders. She let Isabella lead her a few steps before she put her hand to her belly and collapsed to the floor.
Mac shouted at Bellamy, who’d been heading for the servants’ hall in response to Isabella’s command. “Never mind the blasted tea, Bellamy. Send for a doctor.”
He helped Isabella lift the woman and get her to a settee. The woman gazed at Mac in terror, but Isabella spoke quietly to her. “It will be all right, Madame,” she said. “A doctor will come. You will rest.”
The woman began to weep. “An angel. You are an angel. My poor baby.”
The child, watching her mother collapse, hearing the men shout, and being no fool, realized that something dreadful was taking place. She did what all children would do in such a situation—she opened her mouth and started to wail.
The woman’s weeping escalated. “My poor baby! What will become of my poor baby?”
Ian turned his back on them all and rushed up the stairs, passing Beth, who was coming down, as though he didn’t see her. Beth blinked at Ian’s retreating back then paused to debate which way to go—up or down.
She decided on down. Beth went to the little girl and lifted her into her arms.
“Hush now,” she said in French. “No one will hurt you. See, here is Maman.”
Beth carried the child to her mother, but the young woman didn’t reach for her baby. She was sitting back against the cushions as though she hadn’t sat on something soft in a long time, if ever.
Beth glanced at Mac, meeting his questioning gaze with a grave look. The child had quieted somewhat, but she sniffled into Beth’s shoulder.
Isabella held the woman’s hand. “The poor thing is exhausted,” she said to Beth in English.
“It’s more than that.” Mac looked at Beth. “Isn’t it?”
Beth nodded. “I’ve seen this before, in the workhouse. A doctor can lessen the pain, but I don’t think he can help for long.”
“That is why she came.” Isabella rubbed the woman’s hand and switched to French. “You came here because you are ill.”
She nodded. “When the lord did not return, I did not know where else to go.”
“We need to get her to bed,” Isabella said.
Hart remained in the middle of the hall like a rigid god. “Wait for Bellamy to carry her.”
“Good God, I’ll do it.” Mac scooped the woman into his arms. She was so light he almost overbalanced; it was like carrying a skeleton in clothing. Mac agreed with Beth’s assessment. The young woman was dying.
The woman studied Mac’s face as he carried her up the stairs, a puzzled pucker between her brows. Beth and Isabella came behind them, Beth still holding the little girl.
“Do you think the child frightened Ian?” Mac heard Beth ask.
“I don’t know,” Isabella answered. “Don’t worry, darling, I’m certain Ian will be fine with your own babies.”
Mac could feel Beth’s worry, but he didn’t know how to comfort her. Ian was by no means a predictable man, and who knew how he’d behave when their child arrived?
Mac carried the woman into a spare bedroom that was kept made up for guests and laid her on the bed. The woman looked around in awe at the elegance, fingering the damask quilt Isabella pulled over her.
Isabella rang for Evans, then took the child from Beth’s arms and shoved her at Mac.
“Do look after her, darling. Out you go.”
The mite took one look at Mac and started howling again. Isabella ruthlessly led Mac to the door and pushed him into the hall just as Evans hurried in with an armful of clothing. Another maid followed with a basin of water, another with towels.
Little Aimee kept shrieking, and the door slammed in Mac’s face.
Ian came toward them down the hall, carrying a stack of boxes. “What are you doing to her?” he asked over Aimee’s wails.
“Nothing. I’m holding her. The womenfolk took over and threw me out. I always thought Scottish women were strong-minded, but they are nothing compared to Sassenachs.”
Ian looked at Mac as though he had no idea what he was talking about. “I found building bricks. In the attic.”
Ian entered the small sitting room across the hall. Mac followed as Ian crouched on the floor and emptied the boxes of building bricks onto the carpet. Aimee looked down at them with interest, and her noise abruptly ceased.
“Set her down,” Ian said.
Mac lowered the girl, who stood unsteadily a moment before sitting down on her little rump and reaching for the bricks. Ian stretched out on the floor next to her and showed her how to stack the bricks one on top of the other.
Mac sank into the nearest chair, letting his hands dangle between his kilted knees. “How did you know to find these in the attic?”
“We played with them as children,” Ian said.
“I know we did, but that was twenty-five years ago. You remembered they were there, and where, after all this time?” Mac held up his hand. “No, wait, of course you remembered.”
Ian wasn’t listening. He taught Aimee how to build a low wall, which Aimee gleefully knocked over. Ian waited until she finished then patiently helped her build the wall again.
Mac rubbed his hands through his hair. What an insane morning. One moment he’d had Isabella in his arms, was a happy man. He’d tasted reconciliation in the air, and he could still feel the heat of her body on his. The next, a crazed Frenchwoman had waltzed in to deposit a child in front of them and declare it was Mac’s. And Isabella, instead of snatching a pistol from the gunroom and shooting Mac dead, had rushed to help the poor woman.
This had to be a nightmare.
Mac rose. He needed to put something besides his kilt and shirt over his nakedness, and he needed to find out who the devil this woman was.
