The MacGregor's Lady

by Burrowes, Grace

  “I had intended to buy myself a few weeks of dithering before committing one way or the other. Where shall we enjoy our meal?”

  She brushed another glance his way and hooked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “A few weeks of dithering won’t change the outcome. Let’s find a place where we won’t be blown into the sea by a strong gust of fresh Scottish air.”

  They chose a spot well back from the precipice, in the lee of a small, stony black bluff and well away from paths few were treading on a weekday afternoon. When the footmen arrived with the hamper, Asher waved them away to eat their own meals in some other sunny spot.

  Hannah dropped to the tartans spread on the sparse grass. “I do like the absence of a chaperone, or the almost-absence. My guess is we’re supposed to conclude, given enough latitude, that the blessings of marriage outweigh our misgivings.”

  He settled himself beside her, prepared to argue with a lady. “They are not our misgivings, Boston.”

  She opened the hamper and peered inside as if a crystal ball or magic carpet might be found therein. “So you’ll move to Boston with me, spend the rest of your days as an earl in absentia? Leave wee John to the epidemics, and have the next earl raised in complete ignorance of his birthright? I am vastly relieved to hear this.”

  Had her voice not held a slight catch, had she not been rummaging blindly in the hamper, Asher might have accused her of meanness.

  She hadn’t a mean bone in her body, more’s the pity. He shifted across the blankets and knelt up so he could wrap his arms around her. “I know, Hannah, in the marrow of my bones and in my soul that you are the woman I should take to wife. I know I am the man whom you should wed. I have no misgivings on that score, and neither do you. We could spend a few years in Boston—”

  Hannah shook her head, her suffering palpable even in so simple a gesture. “And what of my mother? When Grandmother dies and the boys grow up, what of my mother? She is far from elderly. Do we send our firstborn son to Ian and Augusta when he’s eleven years old, part him from all he knows to live with strangers across the sea?”

  He wanted to stop her words, wanted to slip his hand over her mouth, but she would torture herself with these thoughts whether she shared them or not, and if this was all he could bear with her—the doubts and anxieties and regrets—then bear them he would.

  “Asher, I’m sorry. Saying these things solves nothing, but I am so very sorry.”

  Something like anger, though not as corrosive, gave him the strength to turn her loose. “I am not sorry. Not sorry we’ve met, not sorry we’ve had these few weeks, not sorry for any of it.” Not sorry they’d been lovers. He kept that last thought to himself, lest it cause her more torment.

  She sank back on her heels and studied him. “You mean that.”

  He did. Realizing this felt like a shift in the wind from one brisk, challenging direction to another, though the second direction bore the faint, welcome scent of home. Rather than let her see that far into his soul, he took his turn sorting through the hamper. “Would you rather I didn’t? Would you rather I shrugged and said our dealings were of no moment, Hannah?”

  Her brows drew down in the manner that meant she was focusing on a topic inwardly. “No, I would not. You’re right—the things I regret are the factors we do not control. Had I not met you…”

  Had she not met him, she might have ended up married to one of the Malcolms of the world. A man who would take her coin then leave her to fight her own battles. Or she might have been prey to one of her stepfather’s more determined schemes.

  Asher shoved that thought off the edge of the precipice some distance up the path. “There’s cold chicken, fruit, scones, cheese, and—Cook was feeling generous—apple tarts in this hamper. Also a decent bottle of Riesling. Shall I open it?”

  “Please, and let’s start with the apple tarts. I’m in the mood to enjoy my sweets first.”

  The meal marked a turning point, with Asher sensing in Hannah a determination to appreciate the gifts they’d given each other, and to make the best of the time remaining. She had never intended to remain, after all, and he had not seriously intended to marry ever again.

  “What do you make of that cloud?” Hannah had done her part to consume the wine. She lay on her back, Asher’s coat bundled under her head and one knee drawn up. Her posture was improper, but he’d paid good coin to ensure the footmen were waving away any who might stumble in this direction.

  Asher glanced up from repacking the hamper. “It’s white. It’s fluffy. When the proper mood comes upon it, it will go carousing with a few of its mates and dump a cold rain on some undeserving village in the mountains.”

  “Or a deserving village. A village where the gardens are all laid out and the winter stores depend on a good yield.” She held out a hand to him, so he arranged himself beside her on the blanket. “I’ll miss you, Asher MacGregor. I’ll look up at the clouds and wonder if they’ve blown in from Scotland. I’ll think of you.”

  Ah. He put a name to the shift in their dealings, to what had eased: they were to grieve together for what could not be. Nobody else could grieve with them, and when they parted, they’d have grieving confidences to treasure in memory.

  And to torture themselves with in solitude.

  He took her hand. “My favorite fruit is a nice crisp, juicy, sweet red apple. What’s your favorite fruit?”

  The rest of the afternoon went like that, as if they were engaged in truth, sharing secrets, looking forward to a lifetime of intimacy not simply of the body. She favored apples and raspberries; he leaned toward oranges, in addition to apples, provided they were sweet. She much preferred Scott to Dickens, and she did not have a favorite poet, though Tennyson was worth a mention.

  Asher had a fondness for the language of the Old Testament, and as a boy had thought it held some rousing stories. His favorite bird was the hummingbird, for its exotic color, its agility, its ability to draw sweetness from a flower without harming it. Peacocks should be outlawed for the racket they created.

  Hannah had watched his mouth as he delivered that last flight of nonsense, and then she had gone quiet for as long as it took for a cloud to drift by. When he was about to suggest they pack up and head down the hill, she curled close, kissed his cheek, and rested her head on his shoulder.

  “I will not forget this day, Asher MacGregor, not ever. When I am old and bent and slow, when I neither hear nor see well, I will still recall every detail of this day.”

  He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and considered burning the city of Boston to the ground. He did not consider telling her that it had been too long since he’d had any word from his scouts in Boston. Any word at all.

  Nineteen

  In three days, Hannah would have the privilege of once again boarding the trains with Asher, Ian, Augusta, and wee John and heading north. In sixteen days, she would board a ship—Asher’s ship—and sail for Boston.

  Not for home—which was one of the many insights to befall her in the past ten days.

  Another was that when a woman loved a man, intimacy between them could come in many forms. With Asher, all closeness had a sensual thread, though not necessarily erotic. He could touch her with his gaze; he could read her with his body. Even silences across a breakfast table crowded with family could be comforting and speak volumes.

  When that breakfast was concluded and Asher had asked her to meet him prepared to go on an outing, Hannah was all too happy to oblige.

  “Where are we going, Asher?”

  He winged his arm, she curled closer than courtesy required, and they took off across the wide streets of the New Town. “It’s a surprise, but I thought we’d wander toward the harbor and stop for some rum buns.”

  Lovely idea. Lovely day. Lovely man. These few weeks of pleasure were the first superficial, glancing cut of heartbreak, the surprise and instinctive stilling of any response in anticipation of the burn and burden to follow.

  She and Asher could remain in t
his benign state for a few more days, or Hannah could give in to the growing compulsion to hold nothing back, to move closer to the pain that awaited them both.

  She walked along beside Asher for several blocks until he spoke again. “Do you realize your gait is no longer irregular?”

  Hannah bodily inventoried her movement as they strode along. He was… right. “I’ve lost my limp.”

  He smiled down at her. “A combination of putting a lift on your heel and walking you from one end of creation to the other. What was wanted was strengthening and straightening, though I’m sure the occasional dash of whiskey wouldn’t be ill-prescribed either.”

  Now she stopped, trying to pinpoint when, where, how…

  “Does it hurt, Hannah? Your back, your hip, your knee? Anywhere, does it hurt?”

  “No.” Those places didn’t hurt at all. She resumed movement. “No, it does not. I want to kiss you. It doesn’t hurt, and I do not limp.”

  The moment was a gift, like every moment they’d had together since arriving in Scotland. That she should share this revelation with him, that he should be the one to point it out to her was consolation beyond measure. “I want to skip. I want to ice skate, though it’s nearly summer. I want to run and dance in public. Oh, Asher, I want to dance.”

  He patted her hand; Hannah resented the daylights out of her gloves. “Lady Quinworth’s ball is tomorrow night. We’ll dance, but for now we’ve arrived to our destination.”

  Hannah peered up at the sign hanging over a tidy little shop on a quiet street. The place had a look of age about it, as if its solid granite presence predated the fancy neighborhoods farther back from the water. “This is a jeweler’s, Asher.”

  And abruptly, she no longer wanted to skip and dance or ice skate, though she did still want to run.

  ***

  A ring was a token of eternal regard, and in that sense, Asher was determined that Hannah should have one from him.

  And yet, a ring was risky, and not simply because it announced to the entire world that they intended to marry.

  Behind all of Hannah’s smiles, behind her affection, behind her comfortable silences and insightful observations, even behind the unfathomable pain of their impending separation lurked something, and it tormented Asher with the same sense of frustration as when he’d tried to diagnose a patient whose symptoms did not add up to a known ailment.

  Did Hannah battle the identical feeling regarding him?

  “If we’re to stand up at Lady Quinworth’s ball,” he said, “then all will be expecting you to wear my ring.” Hannah’s brows came down, her chin lifted, her expression shifted in a manner that had him adding, “Please let me do this, Hannah. I want to, badly.”

  The sails of her indignation luffed, then went slack. “An engagement ring, only.” She swept past him into the shop.

  The shop owner, young, blond, natty, and friendly without being in the least obsequious, was a distant relation, which meant the sign was switched to “closed” when Asher and Hannah were through the door. While Hannah had gone for her fittings, Asher had taken one of her rings and spent a morning sorting through settings, gems, and options.

  If all he was permitted to give her was a single piece of jewelry, it had to be right.

  “You should not be doing this,” she muttered as she stripped off her gloves.

  He stuffed her gloves in his pocket as some sort of surety against her departure. “If you raise a fuss before Cousin Alasdair, Lady Quinworth will know of it by luncheon.”

  “But rings are expensive.” She hissed this while Alasdair pretended to root around at the back counters. The shop was small and dark, the better to show off a few gleaming glass-and-brass cases, and a scattering of glittering offerings on jewel-toned velvet cloths. The place was without a discernible scent, as if even smells might dim the brightness of the gems.

  “Don’t turn up Puritan on me now, Boston. If you won’t wear my ring, I’ll pierce my ear and display your stubbornness to all who meet me.”

  He’d do it too, gladly.

  “I’ll wear your ring.” She patted his cravat in a manner that said clearly, for now.

  Alasdair emerged from the back room, bearing a small hinged box of polished maple. He set it on the counter. “If my lord would do the honors?”

  A knowing smile accompanied the question, and yet, as if he’d presided over many such moments, his cousin’s grin held something of a dare, too. Asher regarded the box then regarded the woman who appeared to be studying a case of silver bracelets.

  “Hannah, your hand, if you please.” She straightened and faced him, extending her bare hand.

  Asher opened the box and beheld his first attempt at designing adornment for a lady. A fat, happy emerald sat amid a Celtic knot of worked gold, winking merrily in all directions. He slid the ring onto the fourth finger of Hannah’s left hand, wondering if she heard the same words that rang through his mind: With this ring, I thee wed…

  “Do you like it?” He would not surrender her hand until he had an answer to his question.

  She didn’t even look at the ring, but rather, kept her gaze locked with his. “I love it. I love it with all my heart, and I always will.”

  Damn her, bless her. She was getting even, she was making him want to skip in public, and she was breaking the few pieces of his heart not yet pulverized.

  He brought her knuckles to his lips. “That’s… good. I love it, too. It’s… right, somehow. Perfect. Precious, irreplaceable.”

  They stood like that, her hand in his, profound sentiments lingering in the air, while Alasdair started chattering about God knew what. No coin was to be exchanged—Asher had made damned sure of that—and Alasdair likely knew better than to try hawking more wares while two hearts broke right before his eyes.

  Hannah stepped closer and tucked her arm through Asher’s. “Shall we be going? I recall somebody mentioning a rum bun and a tot of grog.” She smiled up at him, a credible smile of infatuation, while her eyes held a desperate plea.

  Take me away from this place and this moment.

  They gained the street, the bright sunshine making Asher blink and hang onto Hannah’s arm more tightly. A coach-and-four clip-clopped past, the sound serving as a pretext to put off conversation for a procession of seconds.

  “It’s a beautiful ring, Asher.” Hannah spoke softly. “Should we put it back in its box? My gloves aren’t fitted enough that I could wear them and the ring both.”

  The courage of women, as Ian had said, was different from the courage of men.

  “Keep the ring on, Hannah. I’ll carry your gloves.”

  The weather was fine; they were newly engaged. All manner of lapses and indulgences would be tolerated—provided they eventually wed. Asher felt bile rising beneath his heart.

  “The grog shop is this way.” And when they got to the grog shop, he would pry from her what the something was that lurked behind her smiles, the something that prodded her to make a rash declaration over a simple ring.

  Or maybe he’d share with her the news brought by courier two days past, news he’d hoped not to have to burden her with.

  “You’re very quiet, Asher, and it doesn’t strike me as a happy quiet. The ring is spectacular, and you’re right: it’s perfect.”

  She was fishing; he wasn’t taking the bait. They wandered through the foot traffic of a weekday morning, moving generally in the direction of his town house, until Hannah stopped him.

  “Is that the bench we sat on the day I slipped?”

  Across the street, on a wider patch of sidewalk, the bench, empty of custom, appeared to enjoy the morning sunshine. Somebody had set a half-barrel of pansies at each end, violet and yellow intermixed. “Shall we sit?”

  “Please, let’s.” They had to wait until a beer wagon rattled past, then ducked across the street, arm in arm.

  When she tipped her face up to the sun, eyes closed, Asher wanted to tell her to remain exactly thus until he could memorize the image of her
amid the flowers and friendly breezes, his ring winking on her finger in the sunshine.

  “What did you bring me here to say, Hannah? I do love you, you know.”

  She opened her eyes and turned to regard him, probably wondering if he’d left his reason back at the jeweler’s shop. “Thank you, though if you’re going to inflict such a recitation on me, I’m entitled to reciprocate. I love you, Asher MacGregor. I love you until I’m drunk and sick and crazy with it. Your love makes me wise and foolish and”—she looked him up and down—“and very affectionate. I’ll miss that in ways I can’t even imagine yet. I already do miss it. I miss you.”

  She fell silent, allowing him a moment against the emotional ropes to regain his breath. He slipped his fingers through hers where their hands rested on the bench between them. The ring was sharp, warm, and different beneath his hand, a bit loose on her finger. The addition of a wedding ring would steady it.

  “What else, love?”

  She tipped her face up again, a goddess accepting her due from the elements. “My monthly is late.”

  Four words that held a universe of conflicting feelings—for them both. There were so many wrong things to say, so many ways a man in all good conscience could blunder past redemption. He closed his fingers more snugly around hers, the emerald cutting into his flesh.

  “Then perhaps it’s a good thing Fenimore has been having the banns read up in Aberdeenshire.”

  She gave him a smile that said he hadn’t blundered, though possibly they had blundered, and she gave him a few more words: “Perhaps it is.”

  ***

  Hannah hadn’t known what to expect when she’d confessed to her fiancé that a child might already be growing in her womb.

  Would he be pleased, thinking it made marriage a certainty, though it did not?

  Would he resent a marriage based on necessity rather than sentiment?

  Would he take the child from her to be raised an ocean away from her?