His Heir, Her Secret

He parked the car and filched a small handful of pea gravel from the nicely landscaped flower beds at the bank. Then he eyed Cate’s bookstore with a frown. The striped burgundy and green awning that covered the front of the shop was going to make this difficult.

Though he had sucked at geometry in school, even he could see that he needed a longer arc. Looking left and right and hoping local law enforcement was asleep, as well, he backed up until he stood in the middle of the street. Feeling like an idiot, he chose a piece of gravel, rotated his shoulders to loosen them up and aimed at Cate’s bedroom window.

Three (#ucbbd8857-d206-52ea-9c1d-de08b3efc14a)

Cate groaned and pulled the quilt up around her ears. That stupid squirrel was scratching around in the attic again.

After Isobel’s birthday dinner on the mountain, Cate had tucked the old woman into bed as she had promised. Back at her own place, she wandered aimlessly in the bookstore for a long time. She plucked a book off the shelf, read a paragraph or two, replaced it and then repeated the restless behavior.

When she finally went upstairs, it took an hour or more of tossing and turning before she was able to fall asleep. Seeing Brody had unsettled her to a disturbing degree. And now this.

Plink. Plink. The distinctive pinging sound came two more times. And then once more. At last, the veils of slumber rolled away and she understood what was really happening. Brody Stewart. She would bet her signed, first-edition copy of Gone with the Wind that it was him.

Grumbling at having to abandon the warm cocoon of covers she had created, she stumbled to the window and looked out. The wavy panes of antique glass were unadorned. There was no one to peek at her from across the street. The owners of the general store used their upstairs square footage for inventory storage. Cate’s modesty was safe from this angle, and she liked waking up with the sun.

The moment she appeared at the window, the barrage of gravel stopped. The man down below gesticulated.

Was he insane? Dawn was still hours away. Frowning—and wishing she was wearing something more alluring than flannel—she lifted the heavy wooden sash, leaned out and glared at him. “What do you want, Brody?” She shuddered as icy air poured into the room.

“Come down and unlock the front door. We need to talk.”

Was that a socially acceptable way of saying he hoped to end up in her bed? Fat chance. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I couldn’t sleep. Please, Cate. It’s important.”

Nothing else he could have said at this hour would have induced her to let the wolf into the henhouse. The truth was, though, they did need to talk. Desperately, and soon. Her secret had been weighing heavily on her, and she was running out of time.

“Fine. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Despite the virtue-protecting properties of flannel, she wasn’t about to meet Brody wearing her nightgown. Grabbing up a pair of jeans and a warm red cashmere sweater, she dressed rapidly and shoved her feet into a pair of fleece-lined slippers. Her hair was a tumbled mess, but she didn’t really care. Making herself appear alluring to Brody Stewart was what had gotten her into this wretched state of affairs to begin with.

She didn’t turn on any lights as she made her way downstairs. If any of her neighbors were awake, she’d just as soon not have them know she had a late-night guest. Gossip was the bread of life in Candlewick. Cate’s personal situation had already edged into the danger zone.

Unlocking the dead bolt and yanking open the door, she shivered and jumped back when Brody burst into the shop. “Damn, it’s cold out there,” he complained.

“Where’s your coat?” In the dark, he was bigger than she remembered from the autumn. More in-your-face masculine.

“I was in a hurry. I forgot it.”

“Come on back to the office,” she muttered, careful not to brush up against him. “I’ll get the fire going.”

He followed her down the narrow hallway without speaking and stood in silence as she lit the pile of kindling and wood chips beneath carefully stacked logs. Cate had a handyman who stopped by whenever she asked him—this time of year usually to clean out the grate and restock her woodpile. The fireplace and chimney had been cleaned and inspected regularly, so she had no qualms about using it. Another hearth upstairs in her tiny living room provided warmth and cheer for her apartment.

She wiped her hands on a cloth and indicated one of the tapestry wingback chairs in navy and gold. They were ancient and faded, but the twin antiques had come with the store. She loved them. “Have a seat, Brody. And tell me what’s so important it couldn’t wait until morning.” She would let him speak his piece, and then she would find the courage to tell him the secret she had been hiding from everyone, including him.

Brody sat, but his posture indicated unease. She had purposely not turned on the lamps. Firelight was flattering. It also lent a sense of peace and calm to a situation that was anything but. In the flickering glow, Brody’s profile was shadowed. Occasionally, when the flames danced particularly high, a flash of light caught the gold in his hair.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared at her, his expression impossible to read. “I owe you an apology,” he said gruffly.

Her heart thudded. “For what?”

“For what I’m about to say.”

Her stomach cringed. “I don’t understand.”

“Four months ago you and I had something pretty damned wonderful. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to take you upstairs right now and make love to you for three days straight.”

The utter, bald conviction in his words made her light-headed with yearning, but nothing he had said so far erased the certainty of impending doom. “I sense a but coming.” She kept the words light. It took everything she had. Already her heart was freezing, preparing to shatter.

“But I can’t fool around with you and still tend to Granny Isobel at the same time. I have a responsibility to discharge.”

“How very noble,” she mocked, her throat tight with painful tears she couldn’t, wouldn’t, shed.

His jaw tightened. “I never meant to return. My father was in contact with Granny from the moment I left until last week. Every time he spoke with her she told him things were fine. We assumed she had put the business and the house on the market immediately and would come back to Scotland as soon as the transactions were complete.”

“Forgive me for stating the obvious, but I don’t think any of you know her very well. It would take a stick of dynamite to blast her out of this town. If she wants to stay, she’ll stay.”

“Ach, Cate. I ken that very well...now. Do you think you could talk to her? As a favor to me?”

“I could, but I won’t. It’s not my place. She’s my friend. My job is to support her.”

“Surely you can see it’s time for her to go.”

“With you and Duncan...”

“Aye.”

“Why couldn’t one of you stay here?” Cate was fighting for her future. Isobel’s happiness was important, but more was at stake.

Brody shook his head almost violently. “It doesn’t make sense. Granny has lived a full and wonderful life. Seasons change, and now her time in Candlewick is done.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re an arrogant, blind, foolish ass of a Scotsman?”

“Don’t hold back, Cate.”

She leaped to her feet. “Don’t worry. I won’t.” The words she needed to say trembled on her lips. I’m pregnant, Brody. With your baby. She had intended—any day now—to send a registered letter to Scotland. Terse. To the point. Morally correct. Absolving him of any responsibility.

It had seemed like a sound plan until Brody showed up in the flesh. Seeing him again was shocking. She hadn’t expected to feel so giddy with delight. Nor so bleakly sure that this man was neither the answer to her problems nor the knight on the white horse.

She was still trying to come to terms with the news of her pregnancy. Her periods had never been regular, so she had been twelve weeks along before she went to the doctor and confirmed that her fatigue and queasiness were far more than a temporary condition.

The idea of having a baby had come completely out of the blue, but was not entirely unwelcome. She had always loved children. She was warming quickly to the notion of being a mother. She would do her best to be the kind of warm, nurturing parent she herself had never known. Her mother and father had gone through the motions, but their behavior had been motivated by duty, not gut-deep devotion.

Other worries intruded. What if Brody tried to take their child away from her...insisted the baby live in Scotland? Was that why she had struggled so over composing the letter? The Stewart-clan pride ran deep, centuries in the making. The mere thought of losing custody made her maternal instincts, hitherto unknown, scratch their way to the surface. She would fight Brody, if need be. She would fight all of them. This baby was hers.

Brody wouldn’t be sticking around long this time, perhaps far less than the four weeks he devoted to his grandmother when he visited so soon after the funeral. Clearly, he didn’t have any residual feelings for Cate. At least no more than the lust a man feels for a woman he’s bedded. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be making such a point of not resurrecting their affair.

If she could wait him out, avoid him, stay clear of the family drama, Brody would leave again and Cate would never have to tell him the truth.