fell, pinning him underneath. A searing pain arced up his thigh, his head hit the floor, and everything went black.
He woke up in the grass to Patrick screaming in his face and slapping him. And shaking him….
“Marcus! Marcus!”
Marcus straightened up and stared into Patrick’s deep blue eyes. Bannon was there too, staring at him and biting his bottom lip.
“Marcus.” Patrick shook his shoulder.
“I’m fine. I….” He glanced up at Bannon. “How can Jeremy be alive?”
Bannon shook his head. “I don’t know, but it’s him. King Steven had his DNA tested against the DNA on file for you and Patrick.”
Bannon disappeared from view, and Patrick was in Marcus’s face again, frowning.
Marcus smoothed the lines on Patrick’s forehead and dragged his finger down Patrick’s nose. He marveled at the handsome, beloved face in front of him. At least I still have him. He read the same in Patrick’s gaze. In the soft, sad smile Patrick offered him.
“I love you,” Patrick whispered.
“And I you.”
“Here! Look. I did this from memory, and I didn’t have the best tools. I had to use ink, which is not a medium I’m used to, but this looks like Trouble.” Bannon held out a piece of paper, thrusting it between them.
Marcus looked down and gasped. A pang hit him square in the chest as he looked at the beautiful face captured on the paper. It was nearly like a photo. Bannon was very talented, but that wasn’t what captivated Marcus so. The cherub face peering back at him was so pure and innocent. He had Patrick’s nose and Marcus’s chin. And those eyes! He didn’t know what color they were now—they’d been blue last time Marcus had seen them, as many babies’ were—but the shape… the intensity…. He knew that gaze.
With a shaking hand, Patrick reached out and touched the portrait. “Jeremy.”
Nodding through his tears, Marcus smiled. He didn’t know how it was possible, but he knew Bannon was telling the truth. His infant son had survived; Jeremy was alive.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“The word love should be changed to stress. It’s a much more apt description.”
—Timothy on personal relationships.
When Bannon finally went downstairs two hours later, he was completely drained. Marcus and Patrick hadn’t been mad at him, but they’d dragged him right along in the wake of their emotional journey. They’d had him recount everything he knew about Trouble… and Nate. They were still not confident in Nate’s loyalty—because he remained in the IN—and not at all happy with the fact that he was Trouble’s legal guardian, but they were relieved that Trouble was safe and cared for. Sadly, Bannon suspected this was only the beginning of their emotional ride, assuming they could all get home.
With a yawn, Bannon stopped at the foot of the stairwell, feeling like someone had mentally beaten him with a stick. When he’d gone up to the guest room, there’d been several men drinking in front of each of the fireplaces. Now the only fireplace still lit was the one directly behind the laird’s table, so the room was mostly dark.
Unless, of course, there’s not really a fire. Maybe it’s the bogle?
Damn you, Timothy! Bannon’s spine stiffened at the thought. He couldn’t actually see the fireplace from where he stood, only the light. The glow cast eerie shadows along the floor, broken up by the trestle tables, and looked like undulating tentacles. The only sounds were crackling wood and the whistling wind outside.
A shiver raced up Bannon’s back. This was silly. He was a grown man, and there was no such thing as….
Thud.
“Ack!” Startled, he jumped and fell right off the bottom step.
Flailing his arms, he managed to catch his balance somewhat but careened into the wall beside the stairwell. His elbow connected with stone, and pain exploded up his arm. “Blast, blast, blast.” Clutching his elbow, he stomped his feet, trying to distract himself from the pain.
“Red?”
“Bloody hell!” Bannon jumped again and forgot all about his elbow. His heart thudded against his chest as he searched the great hall, then calmed when he spotted Ciaran.
Ciaran sat on top of the laird’s table, turned so he could look over his shoulder at Bannon. His feet were on the bench closest to the fireplace, and there was a goblet next to him. That must have been the thud, because in all honesty the thud hadn’t been very loud, more of a soft click. And yes, thankfully, there was a fire in the grate. The hall still gave him the goose bumps, though.
Heat raced up Bannon’s