me and, with intense effort, I smoothed my face into an expression of innocence. Something about his incense was crazily endearing, and mixed as it was with my heady reaction to him, the effect entertained my little devil to no end. I tried to restrain myself, but a small bubble of laughter escaped me.
He contemplated me coolly, clearly annoyed and baffled by my small outburst. “I can’t imagine why you would find humor in any of this,” he seethed, to which I giggled again, lightly clapping a hand over my mouth.
Knox strode toward the door and I pitied whoever it was that had interrupted him— us —in the throes of...whatever it was we’d been in the throes of. One of his underlings would surely be subjected to some unwarranted wrath. But it wasn’t one of his officers or servants at the door. My small nephew darted under Knox Mackenzie’s arm, which was still outstretched and holding the door open, and ran toward me.
“Ami!” Hamish said, reaching me and holding up a small yet very shiny metal sword. My nephew was out of breath but triumphant with his prize. The weapon was well crafted, I noticed, even though I had no experience in the craftsmanship of swords. It looked solid and attractive, as these things go, and was the perfect size for Hamish. A new belt hung around his waist with a leather scabbard attached. This, too, was artfully designed and inlaid with threaded etchings in swirled flame-shaped patterns.
Hamish displayed the sword, held up with both hands for my appreciation. Pride and undiluted excitement were written all over his face and I felt indebted to Knox Mackenzie. For providing such an easy fix. Hamish had not had an easy life, especially recently.
Hamish’s father’s financial struggles were such a constant that they seemed more a part of James’s character than a result of external forces. Unbeknownst to us, his crippling debts had plagued him since well before my sister had married him. Cecelia had married James, who was ten years her senior, because he had offered a refuge for us at a time when we had been utterly desperate. Our parents had died, only a month apart, and left us a surprisingly meager inheritance that had mostly been eaten up by various creditors. My father, despite his respected status as a gifted doctor, was a kind and softhearted man, a truly compassionate practitioner who treated the infirmed whether they could pay him or not. He never turned a patient away. People would knock on our doors in the dark of night. We could hear their pleas from our beds, high above the street. Please, Dr. Taylor. I beg you. Please take pity on my child. Please take pity on my wife, my cousin, my mother. My father might have been a saint, but he died a poor man. In the days before our stately home—almost entirely owned by the bank—had been sold, Cecelia and I huddled together in the candlelight, shivering against the wind at the windows. I remembered it vividly, the sudden emptiness of our lives, and the terrified uncertainty. What will become of us? I remembered asking my sister at the time. Where will we go? James Scott was known to my sister. For a time, he had pursued her. At first she’d brushed off his advances, claiming he was shady. After the death of our parents, however, when the winter grew colder and the money ran out, she gave in to his proposals. And so Cecelia had taken her vows, believing him to be a successful businessman whose assets would shield us from poverty. I don’t know if he lied to her at the time, or embellished the extent of his endowments to lure her. Whatever had taken place, James Scott’s financial situation was far less attractive than it might have first appeared, and only continued to deteriorate. I could no longer go to school to pursue my dream of becoming a teacher. We were forced to live in the gaming club, rather than at a separate, more acceptable residence. And James was forced to turn to the darker side of business, resorting not only
He contemplated me coolly, clearly annoyed and baffled by my small outburst. “I can’t imagine why you would find humor in any of this,” he seethed, to which I giggled again, lightly clapping a hand over my mouth.
Knox strode toward the door and I pitied whoever it was that had interrupted him— us —in the throes of...whatever it was we’d been in the throes of. One of his underlings would surely be subjected to some unwarranted wrath. But it wasn’t one of his officers or servants at the door. My small nephew darted under Knox Mackenzie’s arm, which was still outstretched and holding the door open, and ran toward me.
“Ami!” Hamish said, reaching me and holding up a small yet very shiny metal sword. My nephew was out of breath but triumphant with his prize. The weapon was well crafted, I noticed, even though I had no experience in the craftsmanship of swords. It looked solid and attractive, as these things go, and was the perfect size for Hamish. A new belt hung around his waist with a leather scabbard attached. This, too, was artfully designed and inlaid with threaded etchings in swirled flame-shaped patterns.
Hamish displayed the sword, held up with both hands for my appreciation. Pride and undiluted excitement were written all over his face and I felt indebted to Knox Mackenzie. For providing such an easy fix. Hamish had not had an easy life, especially recently.
Hamish’s father’s financial struggles were such a constant that they seemed more a part of James’s character than a result of external forces. Unbeknownst to us, his crippling debts had plagued him since well before my sister had married him. Cecelia had married James, who was ten years her senior, because he had offered a refuge for us at a time when we had been utterly desperate. Our parents had died, only a month apart, and left us a surprisingly meager inheritance that had mostly been eaten up by various creditors. My father, despite his respected status as a gifted doctor, was a kind and softhearted man, a truly compassionate practitioner who treated the infirmed whether they could pay him or not. He never turned a patient away. People would knock on our doors in the dark of night. We could hear their pleas from our beds, high above the street. Please, Dr. Taylor. I beg you. Please take pity on my child. Please take pity on my wife, my cousin, my mother. My father might have been a saint, but he died a poor man. In the days before our stately home—almost entirely owned by the bank—had been sold, Cecelia and I huddled together in the candlelight, shivering against the wind at the windows. I remembered it vividly, the sudden emptiness of our lives, and the terrified uncertainty. What will become of us? I remembered asking my sister at the time. Where will we go? James Scott was known to my sister. For a time, he had pursued her. At first she’d brushed off his advances, claiming he was shady. After the death of our parents, however, when the winter grew colder and the money ran out, she gave in to his proposals. And so Cecelia had taken her vows, believing him to be a successful businessman whose assets would shield us from poverty. I don’t know if he lied to her at the time, or embellished the extent of his endowments to lure her. Whatever had taken place, James Scott’s financial situation was far less attractive than it might have first appeared, and only continued to deteriorate. I could no longer go to school to pursue my dream of becoming a teacher. We were forced to live in the gaming club, rather than at a separate, more acceptable residence. And James was forced to turn to the darker side of business, resorting not only
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