He understood at once and fought the urge to reach for her. “Tell me.”
“I live with
Uncle now, in the old town house.” She paused, the memory of that house and that day hanging between them. “I've been helping tend the children at the Saint Machar poorhouse.” He nodded, even though he already knew where she lived and how she'd been spending her time. She'd been battling her own demons, just as he had.
He wanted to give her some reassurance, but instead he felt his eyes narrow.
He damned himself. Perhaps he'd never remember how regular folk acted, how they comforted, how they smiled.
“I was with Davie—” Her voice caught.
Jealousy spiked his veins with acid. Had Marjorie come to him to discuss another man? Rage overcame him, then disbelief. He waited for Marjorie's explanation in pained silence.
“I was with a boy named Davie,” she began again, “down by the docks. He's a wee lad, just five, and clings to my skirts like a limpet, he does.”
Cormac's chest eased, and he realized he'd been holding his breath.
Marjorie peered at him for a moment, a curious look in her eyes. “I had business in Castlegate,” she continued,
“and so gave him a bawbee for some food. The baker had a pan of rowies hot from the oven… “ Her voice drifted off.
Dread lanced him, and for a moment, Cormac knew what it was to be a feeling man again, instead of the brittle husk he'd become. He hardened his stance. “And?” His voice came out harsher than he'd intended, his battle to remain remote making his voice sound a snarl.
Marjorie looked down. “And he never came back to me,” she finished quietly.
He forced a casual shrug. “Maybe he ran off. He's just a boy after all.” But even as he said it, Cormac knew. No boy in his right mind would tear himself from the skirts of the fine Marjorie Keith.
“No,” she said simply. She collected herself, inhaling deeply. “I know him. He'd not run off. And… there have been rumors… “
Cormac regretted it, but there was nothing for it. Marjorie deserved to hear the truth. “Not rumors, Ree. Fact.
Parliament decreed long ago that able-bodied poor found idling be gathered and claimed as property.”
“Like Aidan?” Her voice was barely a murmur.
He set his jaw. “Aye. Precisely like that.”
She swiped a tear from her cheek, and Cormac fisted his hands at his sides. He would not — could not — comfort her. “'Tis a cruel world, Ree. There are even some who say the poor lads are the better for it, breathing the fresh air of the Indies, or the Americas, rather than—”
“Rather than climbing chimneys?” she asked coldly, putting a fine point on both their pain. At his nod, she blanched and then darted her eyes down to stare at her foot as she toed a rock. “It's horrible. How can men do that, and to children?”
“Aye, man is horrible.” He'd seen it firsthand. He'd done horrible things.
As if she'd read his thoughts, she reached for him. The touch of Marjorie's hand on his arm was light, but it was as though lightning cracked, splitting his heart wide open. Her touch shattered him, exposing the pale, bleak creature hidden at his core.
In that instant, he was vulnerable. Alone, and aching with yearning.
He looked at her fingers wrapped around his forearm, and a lifetime of want burst to the fore. His eyes rose to find her gaze on him. He'd loved her so. The sight of her reminded him of all he'd lost. Of all he was missing.
Cormac stiffened. He let his mind rove to a dangerous place, one where he eased Marjorie down to take her along the rocks, running his hands over her body, through her hair. She'd let him; he saw it in her eyes. He could bury himself in her, forget it all. She'd absolve him of his pain.
His
eyes clenched shut as he let that pain roil through him. He couldn't touch her. He wasn't the man she needed. He could never be good enough for one like Ree.
Cormac pulled away, turning to heave a basket of fish higher up the shore. “Forget the boy, Marjorie.” He set his haul down with force, his eyes shut in a grimace. He'd never used such a tone with her. He hadn't called her by her full name in he knew not how long. But he couldn't help that the world was a cruel place.
“Marjorie!” his youngest sister shouted from up the beach. He told himself he was grateful for the interruption, that the pang in his chest was relief.