Standing to the side, Elise observed the good-natured ribbing among Jack’s siblings. One of the twins, Elise couldn’t tell which, laughed. Their father, an older version of his sons, posed with Baby Richie for a few shots.

“Hey, kid. You want to hold your little brother?” Jack motioned for Thierry to take Baby Richie from her grandfather.

Thierry’s wee face lit up, and she scampered to Jack’s side, taking the baby carefully in her arms. “This is my brother, Richie,” she told the photographer. “Jack’s my dad now. We’re a family.”

The photographer shot several candid photos of Thierry showing off her baby brother.

The fierce pride on Jack’s face as he looked on had Elise pivoting away. The ache she had experienced all weekend burst into full-blown jealousy. The rational part of her brain chided her reaction. She had never wanted a family, at least not the vain and privileged sort she had associated with during her youth.

Jack came up beside her. “We need a picture of you too, Elise.”

“All right.” She could hardly refuse.

Elise stepped off the pavement onto the wet grass, her heels sinking into the soft earth, and positioned herself as far from the baby as possible.

Jack removed Richie from Thierry and extended the infant to Elise. “Why don’t you hold the baby?”

Elise froze, and her arms remained glued to her sides.

“Take him.” Jack insisted.

The blood drained from Elise’s head, and dots danced in front of her eyes. Elise shook her head. “No.” Unable to help herself, she stepped back and put distance between herself and the baby. “No. I-I can’t.”

Chapter 8

Elise shifted the travel cushion underneath her hips to a more comfortable position. Thank goodness Sammy had fallen asleep. He had bounced nonstop on the hour-and-twenty-five-minute flight from London to Edinburgh, then continued his pogo-stick-like behavior in the back seat of Harry’s car hire on the drive south into the Scottish Borders.

Harry took the dual carriageway through the narrow valley’s steep hills surrounding Galashiels and crossed the River Tweed.

“Sorry about Sammy. That was the first time he’s been on a plane.” Harry glanced at her from behind the wheel of the Ford Fiesta, his head brushing the ceiling.

“Trust me. I know what active children are like.” At Sammy’s age, she’d been much the same. Her issue today wasn’t with Sammy’s excitement, just the damage he could cause her by his bouncing.

The parental bond between Harry and his son puzzled her. The man had rarely ventured home in the last few years, but Sammy fairly hero-worshipped his dad. Despite his absences, Harry and his son appeared close.

“You’re sure it’s okay to leave Sammy at the castle?” Harry asked, interrupting her train of thought.

“Of course.” She gave her voice a confident ring.