Nightingale's Song by Kathleen Eschenburg

• Read an Excerpt

Read an Excerpt

“She would like you.”

Gordon didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Maggie turned her face to him. She had a way of tilting her head and peering through her long lashes that turned her eyes the deep green of a hemlock forest. Her skin was so translucent he could see the blue vein pulsing in her temple.

“And which of your fine ladies would this be, Dr. Kincaid? For some strange reason I can’t imagine any of them itching to invite me to tea.”
“Stop that.” The words came out harsher than he’d intended. He cleared his throat to try again. “Stop saying that we come from opposite worlds and that mine is somehow better than yours, because it isn’t.”
She had moved ahead of him and now she turned, clasping her hands behind her back. “And sure it is that’s how you’d take my meaning. But maybe it’s my own pride saying my world is better than yours.”
“And which of your worlds would that be?”
The teasing dimple at the corner of her mouth disappeared. She nudged her chin up and began to walk away from him.
He never knew which side she was going to present to him. Maggie, brave Irish lass with dreams in her eyes and memories too painful to share. Or Mary Margaret, quiet convent girl, who behaved as if a man so much as standing next to her endangered all hope of salvation.
And then there was the young woman he thought he was coming to know. That Maggie was generous and kind and loyal, her heart as big and open as her heaven.
He lengthened his stride and came up beside her, careful to maintain a polite distance between them because he wanted to touch her. “I can’t help but think you’d like Annabelle as well. In her world, a tea party is a waste of an afternoon better spent down by the river with a fishing pole, a can of worms and a book under her arm in case the fish aren’t biting.”
“Well, your Miss Annabelle sounds like a most sensible sort, and now I’m wondering why it is you’re not pursuing her as our wee Clare’s mother.”
“Annabelle is my brother’s wife.”
She gave him a long, slow look, as if she were taking his measure. “And do your brother and his most sensible sort of a wife live nearby you?”
“Five-minute walk across the pasture.”
“Well, then,” she said. “I should think that will be good for Clare, to live nearby a sensible lady who might be kind enough to take her fishing of an afternoon.”
His heart did a flip in his chest as her words sent so many confused thoughts reeling through his mind. In spite of the slate of moral flaws she’d tallied against him, Maggie was still willing to aid him in winning his daughter. Good.
But he wanted his own family, himself as father. Try as he might, he couldn’t fit Rebecca into the picture, especially after today, with her nose tilted into the air, so complacent in her superiority to orphaned children, nuns and Irish peasants.
But Annabelle and Royce—no, they fit in the family portrait far too easily, and he saw himself fading in his own mind’s eye back into the shadow father.
“Clare went fishing once ... ” Maggie wrapped her arms around her waist and looked away from him. “Someone will have to put the worms on her line, though, she’s a bit squeamish.”
He wanted to tell her he was desperate to take his daughter fishing, to bait her line with bloodworms. He was so desperate to have a family again, he would have sold whatever he had left of his soul. But he couldn’t seem to get any words past the dryness in his throat.
He turned and walked carefully away, trying hard to hide his limp. He stopped at the pavilion and spread his hand out flat on the wooden railing. Splayed his fingers wide until he could feel the stretch of skin against the nerves and bones of his hand.
He glanced up and saw that she too was looking at his hand. His doctor’s hand which could perform complicated surgeries, but had never baited a fishhook for a son or tied a ribbon in a daughter’s hair.
Her gaze came up, met his, and then jerked away.
She was a study in contrast, in her plain black skirt and long-sleeved white shirtwaist with a stiff, high collar. A grosgrain ribbon the color of pink camellias was tied in a bow just beneath her chin. That tiny, whimsical touch of rebellion made him smile.
“Thank you for the ride on the carousel and the walk in the gardens,” she said. “But it’s time for me to be returning to my duties with the children.” She cast a look over her shoulder. He watched the way the curve of her breasts pushed against the white cotton shirt as she drew in a deep breath.
“It’s been a lovely day,” she said. “For the children, I mean.”
He turned and leaned his elbow on the railing. His smile deepened. “Just for the children?”
“No.” She ducked her head, carefully averting her face. “Not just for the children,” she said softly.
He wished he hadn’t teased her. Those flashes of vulnerability were an almost painful thing to see. Don’t, he wanted to say to her. Don’t give me any more glimpses into your heart, because it scares me. It pulls me into a place I traveled through once, and never want to visit again.
But of course he didn’t say anything because he was as vulnerable as she, and a coward at heart. He wanted to reach out and touch her face, to feel the bone and softness of skin beneath his fingers. But he didn’t do that either. He curled his hand into a loose fist and flashed his best rogue’s smile.
She turned away, but not before he saw the flush stain her cheeks and the sudden sheen in her eyes. He knew she would leave him now for the safety of her children. He had hurt her, and he didn’t like knowing he could do that so easily.
When she disappeared around a bend in the path, he thrust his hands through his hair, then tipped his head back and closed his eyes.
Maybe a man couldn’t prevent the rushing of his blood. Couldn’t stop the desperate need for a woman from coming over him. But he sure as the devil could control his behavior.
He needed Maggie’s help in his campaign to win his daughter. That was all. He didn’t want her in his life.
And yet, and yet .... there was something about her ....