Bridegroom Wore Plaid (10 page)

“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 beast’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.

***

Con paused in his mucking to eye his older brother. “What’s that?”

“What does it look like? A dead cat.” Ian laid the animal on a bench then hung his jacket on a bridle hook. “Miss Augusta’s old beast, by whom she set a great deal of store.”

“And the fresh Scottish air did him in?”

“He was old.”

Con considered his brother, who’d buried his share of pets and people. They both had. “Shall I get a shovel?”

“Nah…” Ian eyed the cat. “Well, yes. It will go more quickly with the two of us planting him, and Augusta asked that we mark the spot with a bit of heather.”

“You mean, go pick some heather to lay on the grave?” Their estate boasted showy, expensive gardens full of flowers more impressive than simple, unassuming heather.

“Dig up some heather to plant along with the old bugger.” Ian disappeared into the saddle room and emerged carrying two shovels. “Where did you and the pretty widow get off to this morning, little brother? We had some excitement when Miss Genie wrenched her ankle.”

Con’s brows rose as he realized he’d not gotten his story properly rehearsed in his head before he was supposed to recite his lines. And what popped out of his ignorant gob?

“We got lost.”

Ian passed him the pair of shovels, grinning like an older brother ready to have some fun at a younger sibling’s expense. “You got
lost
. You, who’ve rambled and roamed every acre of the shire and every inch of this estate. You got
lost
.”

As they ambled down the barn aisle, Con carrying two shovels, Ian carrying the cat, Ian went on. “Did you have to look for the way home under the widow’s skirts, Connor?”

“It wasn’t like that.” Though perhaps it might have been, if Con hadn’t gotten so damned angry. Despite her demure and unassuming femininity, Julia Redmond was not a shy woman.

“So she’s making you work for it?” Ian cuffed him good-naturedly on the shoulder. “That’s only fair. They’ve been here all of two days, and ladies like determination in their followers.”

“Would ye shut up?”

“I’ll shut up until we see Gilgallon. He’ll be concerned that a fellow who can track deer through a dense Highland fog can’t find his way home in his own backyard.”

As they crossed to the woods behind the stables, Connor had the sense Ian was just getting started.

“All right,” Con said, eyes resolutely on the woods ahead. “We argued.”

Ian paused, his expression incredulous. “You don’t argue with the guests, me dear. You are Connor MacDean MacGregor, the brooding youngest son. You barely give the ladies the time of day, no matter how fetching they are. Addles them, it does. Your melancholy, hard-to-get posturing drives them to distraction until Gil can step in and apprise them of the alternatives.”

“Gil doesn’t dally with guests either, though thank God the man’s an accomplished flirt.”

“What did you argue about?”

“Argue?” Con blinked. “Argue, yes. About.”

“Connor MacGregor, have you been overimbibing?”

“If the whisky’s decent, there’s no such thing. We argued about money. About how to make money.”

And that gave his grinning, teasing older brother pause. “That’s probably not gentlemanly, Con, though precious little that’s any fun is gentlemanly. This will do.”

Ian had led them to the place they’d reserved as boys for the interment of beloved pets. “This is the family plot, Ian, more or less. You sure Miss Merrick’s old mouser deserves such an honor?”

Ian laid the cat gently on the earth. “I’m not sure he ever exerted himself to catch a mouse, not when he could swill cream and eat cakes with his lady. He caught her heart, though, so yes, he deserves the honor. Find the old boy a healthy bush of heather, why don’t you?”

Connor stalked off, intending to take a good long while to find the perfect bush. Digging a grave for a cat in the high summer was no great exertion, but if Con lingered in Ian’s vicinity, he was certain his brother would start in interrogating him again, and eventually, Connor might be tempted to spill the real reason he’d argued with Mrs. Redmond.

Money, indeed.

***

“I’d say this visit is going fairly well.”

Ian accepted a serving of tea from Mary Fran as he offered that observation, then passed the cup and saucer along to Gil—without taking a sip, for once. Gil concluded his older brother was as distracted as his younger brother, as distracted as Mary Fran.

Hell, they were all distracted.

“What makes you say that, Ian?” In the spirit of the general deception, Gil posed the question as casually as he could.

“I think I made a bit of progress with my intended this morning while we walked in the woods.”

To hide his consternation, Gil took a bracing sip of strong, hot tea.

“That was the purpose of the outing,” Mary Fran said. She held her teacup before her, then lifted it to her nose. “I do so enjoy it when we don’t have to reuse the tea leaves above stairs.”

Con declined a serving of tea and turned to scowl at the cold hearth. “There’s never enough whisky or wool to sell, never enough weeks of summer to sell, never enough of anything to sell.”

“Connor?” Ian regarded Con with an arched brow Gil had long ago learned presaged an interrogation. “I was under the impression we were making slow, steady progress toward better financial health. Is there something you haven’t been telling us?”

Con scrubbed a hand over his face then turned and sat on the raised hearth. “No.”

Mary Fran set her teacup down. “I saw you, Connor MacGregor.”

“Saw me?”

“I thought we didn’t dally with the guests.” Mary Fran let the fuse on that bomb burn down for a few silent moments, while Gil watched Con and Ian clear their throats and look nowhere in particular.