The Bridegroom Wore Plaid

by Grace Burrowes

  Genie blushed. Gil’s hand on her foot hadn’t caused her to color up like that, but Ian’s very gallant offer—if he did say so himself—had her cheeks flaming.

  “Of course we can’t put his lordship to that trouble,” Augusta said. “Gilgallon will carry you back to the house, and Lord Balfour and I will locate the others and inform them of your accident.”

  “You mustn’t cut short the outing.” Looking fragile and brave, Genie pressed Gil’s handkerchief to the corners of her eyes.

  “We won’t.” Hester spoke up from Augusta’s other side. “We’ve a way to go yet before we’re along the Balmoral property line. I’ll tell Her Majesty you were otherwise detained, shall I?”

  “Give her my regrets,” Genie said. “His Highness too.”

  Hester saluted, straightened, and walked off in the direction of the Queen’s holding. And just like that, Gil was hefting Genie into his arms, while the lady—Ian’s intended—looped her arms around Gil’s neck and laid her cheek against his shoulder.

  “Only to the edge of the woods, Gil.” Ian put some sternness in his voice as Augusta tucked the boot into Genie’s lap. “Hail a groundsman to have the pony cart brought along for the sake of the lady’s dignity.”

  “Put ice on that ankle,” Augusta added, looping her hand over Ian’s arm. “White willow bark tea would be a good idea too.” She dropped her voice as Gil moved off with his burden. “Do come away, my lord. Genie is mortified enough.”

  “What about me?” Ian asked, letting himself be marched on down the path. “What about my mortification? I was the lady’s escort, and I was supposed to keep her from harm.”

  “Genie is not at her best just now, and you did keep her from harm. What if she’d pitched to the earth and struck her head on a rock? No, don’t look at them. She would never want you to see your prospective bride so discomposed.”

  Illumination flared in Ian’s brain. Pride he could understand. Genie saw Gil more as a henchman, perhaps, and that was why she’d allowed him to aid her while Ian stood around, surreptitiously stuffing his plain handkerchief back in his pocket.

  “I bungled that,” he said. “We’d just started a real conversation, and I damned near dropped her on her head. Beg pardon for my language.”

  He felt a shiver go through Miss Augusta. Perhaps he’d shocked her.

  Another shivery little tremble, and then he heard her snort.

  “You’re laughing at me, Miss Augusta Merrick. A belted earl on his own demesne, and I am an object of ridicule.”

  “You are pouting,” she said, letting her mirth become audible. “A great, grand, strapping, handsome man, complete with title, gorgeous green eyes, and loyal minions, and you’re pouting because your younger brother stepped into the breach.”

  “Was her ankle really turned?” He’d been too much a gentleman to inspect it himself. Hadn’t even felt an inclination to peek with his gorgeous green eyes, truth be known.

  “Oh, yes. There’s a lovely bruise rising right below her ankle. She wasn’t bamming us, my lord. But if she had been, perhaps it would have been a ploy to find aid and comfort in your arms, had you but offered.”

  Had he but offered? When the lady was cuddled in Gil’s embrace as if a dragon were in pursuit of her virtue? “Let’s find the others. My sister is loose without supervision in the company of a guest far too much a gentleman for his own good.”

  Augusta kept up easily with Ian’s stride. “Matthew is a gentleman, you know. He won’t take liberties with your sister unless invited to do so, widow or not, Englishman or not.”

  “It isn’t my sister I’m worried about.”

  ***

  Augusta closed the door to her bedroom, leaned against it, and smiled broadly.

  Wasn’t it lovely, to go striding through the woods with a handsome man at her side, one who apparently enjoyed his own property and wasn’t bound by the notion that a lady must mince about, clinging helplessly to his arm.

  Though she had clung, just a little. How easily Ian had lifted Genie into his arms. How adorable he’d looked, standing by, wanting to help but letting his brother be the one to aid the lady.

  Augusta glanced around at the plaid decor surrounding her and decided Scotland was good for her. The MacGregors were good for her, getting her out in company, providing her handsome escorts, putting hearty fare before her at meals… Augusta tried to recall why she’d been so reluctant to join this family journey in the first place.

  Uncle Willard hadn’t urged her to come, but Aunt had—had insisted in fact, and Augusta had sought desperately for some sign from her uncle that he was willing to spend the coin to bring her along. He’d been particularly unforthcoming, his silences considering and unnerving. Julia had asked for her assistance, though, because two girls with one chaperone would always have to be in company, and such an arrangement was not conducive to fostering a betrothal.

  Augusta was pleased to see a tea service waiting for her on the escritoire by the windows. The earl’s staff was very thoughtful. She must compliment Lady Mary Frances on this, and find a way to do it that wouldn’t offend the woman’s pride.

  Mary Fran was also making an effort to bring Matthew out of the grim mood he’d brought back with him from the Crimea. Uncle had prevailed on Matthew to come home before the official fighting was underway, though everybody spoke of war as if it were inevitable.

  Matthew had been smiling at Mary Fran as they’d all wandered back to the house—all save Con and Julia, who’d gotten off to God knew where—and Matthew’s smile had been more like the easy, charming smile he’d sported to such advantage as a younger man.

  All in all, it had been a wonderful outing. Augusta sat on her big, fluffy bed and bent to unlace her old walking boots. She paused to pet her cat, who was motionless on the floor beside her bed, probably exhausted from chasing every mouse in the Balfour stables.

  ***

  Ian knew better than to ask a servant where his sister had gotten off to. They were loyal to her, the lot of them—the grinning footmen, the giggling maids, the cheerful tyrant in the kitchens referred to simply as Cook. The stable lads were the worst, mooning after Mary Fran like a pack of schoolboys, when to a man, they were old enough to be her father, some of them old enough to be her grandfather.

  But Mary Fran was either in hiding or seeing to the guest chambers, so Ian took himself in that direction only to stop abruptly in the corridor.

  Weeping. The sound was quiet but distinct, coming from the other side of… Miss Augusta Merrick’s door. Ian recalled the location of her room because she’d had that great, fat black cat, and had requested access for him to the outdoors.

  He rapped lightly on the door. “Miss Augusta? Shall I send my sister to you?”

  He had to strain to hear her words. “Please just go away.”

  Ian had only the one sister, but she’d trained him properly. That had not been a particularly emphatic command, and in the way of females, it had strongly implied its opposite. Cautiously, he opened the door—the woman hadn’t had time to discard her clothing after their walk, or so he hoped.

  “Miss Merrick?”

  “For pity’s sake, close the door.” Her breathing hitched. Ian heard it, and he saw it in the twitch of her shoulders where she lay curled on her side on the bed. Her back didn’t tell him much, except that she was upset enough to be in tears.

  And she was not a crying type of female. “Was it something I said in the woods?”

  He hadn’t said much really. She was the kind of woman a man didn’t feel the need to chatter with. A restful woman, easy to be with.

  She pushed up and scooted around, cuddling the furry black beast that had taken such exception to being transported in a hatbox.

  “I’m being ridiculous.” She pushed her way o
ne-handed to the edge of the bed, and laid the unmoving cat beside her on the quilt. “He was very old, even for a house cat.”

  “Your cat has gone to his reward?”

  She sniffed and nodded as she stroked a hand over the animal’s fur. “I’m being maudlin. He was happy to be here, and I don’t think he suffered.”

  And then she curled in on herself, losing her composure again. It broke Ian’s heart to see it, to see her struggling against tears when it was just the two of them…

  In her room, behind a closed door. Good God. The ramifications if somebody came upon them were too awful to contemplate.

  His indecision lasted but a moment. If this wasn’t a damsel in distress, then such a lady didn’t exist. He locked the door behind him and crossed the room.

  “You were attached to him,” Ian said, wanting to take the mortal remains from the room, but understanding he couldn’t yet. He shifted to lean against the bedpost. “When my first pony died, I wouldn’t let Grandfather bury him until the parson came from the kirk to bless the ground.” He passed her his handkerchief, somewhat the worse for having been balled up and stowed in his pocket earlier.

  She took the linen from his hand. “Ulysses was my friend. My only…” She fell silent again as weeping overtook her, giving Ian the sense Augusta Merrick would not cry often, but she’d grieve bitterly when tears befell her. She reminded him of Mary Fran in that, so he sat beside her on the bed, the cat between them.

  “You’ll miss him.”

  She nodded. “I live in a modest house, not even a real manor, and my third cousin is elderly and rarely leaves her rooms. Ulysses would not let me be alone. He’d come wherever I was when I was home, and when I was not, he’d wait on the porch for me no matter the hour.”

  “Loyal, then. A good friend.”

  “He would sleep at my feet on the coldest nights. I’d let him have a little cream when I sat down to tea, like a little girl, having a tea p-party.”

  She covered her face with her hands while Ian gently shifted the cat. These were confidences wrested from her because she was upset. He had no business hearing them, and she’d be embarrassed to have shared them unless he somehow conveyed that he understood her misery.

  He moved closer and put an arm around her waist.

  “When I was young, we had a dog. He was my dog, given to me because Asher had been given his own horse, and Grandfather said I wasn’t yet old enough for that honor. I suspect we simply couldn’t afford to feed another mouth in the stable. The dog’s name was MacTavish, and he went everywhere with me, though he’d been pronounced too lame to hunt. Asher offered to trade the horse for him, but I wouldn’t give up my dog.”

  “How did you lose him?”

  Her head rested on his shoulder while Ian’s hand moved slowly over her back. Her bones were more delicate than he’d have thought, and she smelled good, like sweet, new hay and pungent lavender overlaid with lilacs.

  “He lived to be thirteen, and though I was a man well grown by Highland standards, when he died, I cried. He was asleep by the hearth, having pride of place as the oldest hound, and then he was gone. It was winter, but Gil and Con had dug some early graves in the fall before the ground froze.” He fell silent, recalling the sweep of the wind through the pines on that bitter day; feeling again the painful lump in his throat, the hot tears tracking down his cold cheeks. “Con piped him home.”

  And for all that Ian had felt as if his very childhood were going into the ground with the old dog, it was a good memory. A memory of how family could comfort and ease heartbreak just by being family.

  Though Ian sensed Augusta Merrick’s family wouldn’t comfort her over the loss of her pet. Matthew might make some quiet gesture; the women would cluck and murmur, but not enough to matter.

  “I’ll bury him for you. Put him in the ground beside MacTavish and my old pony. I’ll have the priest up from town, too, if you like, to bless the plot again.”

  She was quieter beside him, not giving off so much heat. Ian felt her gathering her dignity and pushed her head to his shoulder lest she move away.

  “I would appreciate that, if you’d give him some sort of burial. The priest won’t be necessary. Ulysses never did have much patience for my outings to church.”

  Humor, a small jest, a sign she was recovering her balance. Ian wondered where his own had gone. She sighed, and he resisted the urge to brush his lips against her temple in a gesture of comfort.

  Surely, it would only have been a gesture of comfort.

  Wouldn’t it?

  Five

  Forever after, Augusta knew she would associate the scent of heather with comfort. Such wonderful, soul-deep comfort, to be held by a man who was easy with the embrace, not stiff and reluctant, not rendered silent and resentful by the prospect of a woman surrendering to her emotions.

  Ulysses deserved tears. For years, he’d been her friend, her only link with a happier time, her only tangible proof those times existed outside her imagination.

  She blotted her eyes with Lord Balfour’s handkerchief, catching another whiff of the clean, outdoor scent of the sachets his sister used to freshen the laundry.

  She should move.

  His hand gently pushed her head to his shoulder, and Augusta allowed it. She stayed right where she was, sitting beside him, letting his heat and strength seep into her bones.

  “I’d forgotten how grief makes the body ache,” she said. “It’s curious.”

  “It makes the head ache too, when you try to drink your way through it.”

  He said nothing more, though his words were enough to acknowledge he’d known loss too. Both parents—like Augusta—grandparents, stepparents, and very likely his older brother.

  A trainload of loss. She let out a sigh, feeling the soft wool of his jacket against her cheek. “I will miss him badly.”

  “You will recall him fondly. Mary Fran will make sure the grave is tended.”

  “Can you plant heather over it?”

  “Of course.”

  Just like that, not even a manly sigh of exasperation to be heard. Augusta lost a part of her heart to him for his understanding and his patience. She lifted her head and shifted away, using his handkerchief to dab at her eyes.

  “May I fix you a cup of tea, Miss Augusta?” He didn’t move off, but remained right there on the bed, another sign of the kind of courage that allowed a man to deal with a woman’s upset graciously.

  Augusta glanced over at the service sitting on her desk.

  “No, thank you. It’s likely gotten cold by now, and the kitchen sent up only a few drops of cream. I’m a glutton for cream in my tea, but thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

  She meant to buss his cheek again to emphasize her point, nothing more, but this time, she lingered long enough to notice his skin was a little scratchy with new beard, and cool. The scent of Highland flowers was stronger closer to his person.

  And then she didn’t move away after her little gesture; she lingered, her mouth near his, offering, despite all sense to the contrary, to allow a moment of consolation to slip toward something most unwise. He rewarded her boldness with a kiss so tender as to be chaste—almost chaste—his mouth settling over hers in a soft, unhurried brush of his lips for her comfort. His hand cradled her jaw in the same sort of caress—cherishing and dear without being presumptuous.

  He drew back, resting his cheek against her temple. For a moment they remained on the bed while Augusta considered whether she’d just been rejected, consoled, or gallantly spared following a serious lapse in judgment.

  “May I take him now, Augusta?”

  Oh, how she liked the sound of her name rendered with that masculine burr. Liked it far too well.

  Augusta forced her gaze to the cat. Mercifully, the beas
t’s eyes were closed. Had Ian done that for her?

  She rose and gathered up the mortal remains of her friend. Ian stood, making no move to relieve her of her burden, his gaze on her. He waited until she passed him the cat, then he held Ulysses with as much gentleness as he’d shown her moments earlier.

  “If you’d get the door?” He waited again while Augusta took a step back, a step admitting that her friend was gone and the practicalities needed to be dealt with. A step that also ignored a growing catalogue of kisses shared with a man who would marry her cousin.

  A difficult, painful step.

  She went to the door and found it locked, another subtle consideration from a man who owed her less than her family did. She unlocked the door and reached out a hand to smooth it down Ulysses’s fur one last time.

  “I’ll see to him,” Ian said. “We’ll plant him some heather, and you can visit him before you leave for the South.” He leaned around the burden in his arms and kissed her cheek, a different kind of consolation. In his gaze, Augusta saw no censorship, no prurience, no untoward sentiment at all. She saw understanding and regret, an acknowledgement that he too might be capable of poor judgment in a weak moment. And then he was gone, slipping quietly from her chamber, the cat held against his chest.

  Augusta crossed the room and stood by the terrace doors, which were still cracked out of consideration for her late cat. She remained there, her palm cradling her cheek, until she saw Ian crossing the back gardens on the way to the stables, the cat in his hands.

  What a lovely, lovely man. Kind, patient, considerate, and possessed of a certain knowing quality regarding life and its challenges. Few men had the kind of quiet self-possession Ian MacGregor brought to his earldom. Like Matthew, they could charge off into the heat of battle, guns blazing, sabers at the ready—Augusta had no doubt Ian would acquit himself well in that type of battle too. But how many men could deal with a weeping spinster grieving for her cat, with her clumsy, untoward advances, and neither mock nor take advantage?

  Ian MacGregor was going to make Genie a wonderful, wonderful husband.