The MacGregor's Lady (30 page)

I can’t do this alone anymore.
He’d seized on those words as an acceptance of a proposal, while Hannah had intended them as an announcement of her departure. And off he’d charged—after swiving her repeatedly—to fetch the special license.

“What are you doing pampering that great hairy beast when he ought by rights to be stuffing his maw with some fat English mousie?”

Ian stood in the doorway in plain shirt, simple black vest, and a black work kilt, hands on hips, regarding the cat.

“I’m exchanging confidences, one peer of the realm to another.”

Ian scratched the cat’s head. “We’ve had a surfeit of titles on hand lately. You missed all the excitement.”

Asher set the cat aside, though the animal bounded right back onto Hannah’s trunk and commenced to wash its paws. “We’ve had callers?”

Vultures, no doubt. Circling the remains of Hannah’s reputation.

“Old Moreland came by with the reigning dowagers. His duchess
and
his sisters. Malcolm didn’t know which one to flirt with first. Even Connor was strolling about the gardens like a besotted spaniel.”

Not
vultures.
Not anything Asher could have predicted, though for Hannah, he was glad. “I see.”

Ian pushed the cat off the trunk and settled beside Asher.

“You stink of the stables, Ian.”

Ian passed him a silver flask. “You stink of the City.” The cat popped onto Ian’s lap, already purring, while Ian mildly cursed the beast in Gaelic.

Asher took a bracing swallow of fine whiskey. “We’re leaving at week’s end.” He passed the flask back.

Ian tipped it up, offered it to the cat, then put the cap back on and tucked it into his sporran. “And where are we off to, now that our resident rebel has become the darling of Polite Society—despite an unfortunate tendency to lace her stays a bit too tightly?”

“Edinburgh. Home eventually.” Where a man could drink himself into oblivion if need be.

“Thank God.”

“You don’t like showing your ladies off, strutting about in your kilt, and flirting with duchesses?”

Ian smacked him on the arm hard enough to hurt, and that felt—good. “I don’t like watching you torture yourself with what you cannot have, and your wee rebel isn’t looking any too pleased with life these days either.”

“She’s not my rebel.”

“You missed your moment, then. Before the angels of social redemption came fluttering around, you could have snatched your lady up and made mad, passionate love to her. She’d be sporting your ring and a smile this morning.”

A smile perhaps, for a time. That was something. Maybe it could be enough. “She would not be sporting my ring.”

Ian paused in mid-scratch, his fingers buried in the cat’s fur. “Do you at least have a plan, Asher?”

“Yes, I have a plan.” He stood and yelled for a groom to get the bloody trunk back to the house, there to await its eventual removal to King’s Cross and a private railcar. “When she’s ready to sail for Boston, I plan to let her go.”

***

Evan Draper attributed his eventual arrival in the great metropolis of London to Saint Louis IX. That holy fellow had sired eleven children, gone on two crusades, and was considered a patron of everything from button makers, to prisoners, to some city in northern Africa, and difficult marriages. This last accounted for Draper’s acquaintance with Louis, a function of Granny Draper’s closet papism and poor luck in husbands.

Louis was also, however, the patron saint of distillers, and indirectly, that lot was responsible for Draper’s peregrinations about the realm by train.

Or perhaps St. Matthias—patron saint of gamblers—had taken a hand in things. Thanks to her second husband, Granny had been on good terms with St. Matthias too.

“Why, Mr. Draper, a pleasure to see you.” The Countess of Spathfoy was short, blond, achingly young, and possessed of very pretty blue eyes, and yet Draper was sure those eyes missed nothing.

“Your ladyship.” He did not dare take her hand. His every pair of gloves had suffered
mal
du
train
, with soot embedded beyond what any mere rinsing would get out.

“His lordship ought to be home momentarily, Mr. Draper. Shall I ring for some sustenance?”

Draper’s hand went to his middle, as if he’d shield his stomach from even the mention of words relating to food.

“No, thank you, your ladyship. All that time aboard the trains has played havoc with my digestion, and I wouldn’t want to trouble you unnecessarily. If Lord Spathfoy is from home, perhaps you’d send a note around to MacGregor House on my behalf?”

Her smile didn’t falter, but she was without doubt noting Draper’s pallor, the wrinkled state of his suit, and perhaps even his bloodshot eyes. Maybe she also saw how grateful he was that Spathfoy’s London residence wasn’t so very far from the train station after all.

“The MacGregors all speak very highly of you, Mr. Draper. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to tarry for just a bit?”

He was muzzy-headed, not only with overimbibing, but also fatigue. More to the point, he lacked fare for a cab clear to the MacGregor town house. “Perhaps a cup of tea.”

“Of course. We’ll avail ourselves of his lordship’s study.”

She meant to
take
tea with him? Was there a saint for dealing with overly gracious, well-intended, wee countesses?

Like a prisoner approaching the dock for sentencing, Draper followed her through a spotless, well-appointed town house. The windows were sparkling even on this dreary day, the floors seemed to give off light so highly were they polished, and the entire house bore a slight scent of cedar.

The effect of all this domestic industry—even of the relatively fresh air—was that Draper’s eyeballs started pounding in counterpoint to his throbbing head. And of course, he had to use the necessary. How did one ask a countess for the use of the privy?

“Tell me, Mr. Draper, how does Baron Fenimore go on? I’m given to understand his health may still be troubling him?”

The baron was happily anticipating his own demise, though it didn’t seem to be
troubling
him. Perhaps the thought of rejoining his baroness consoled him. “He’s as well as may be, your ladyship. I bring his felicitations to the household, of course.”

Though if Fenimore knew Draper was reduced to calling on in-laws due to a lack of even cab fare, Fenimore would not be pleased.

“Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Draper. I’ll be but a moment.”

She left him alone in a room for which many trees had given their lives. Paneling covered every surface, a warm blond oak that rose up the walls and erupted into ornate molding. The desk was of the same wood, as was the mantel over the fireplace. Compared to Fenimore’s cramped, camphor-scented office, this room was celestially airy, organized, and attractive.

A man could nap here in one of the big, well-padded chairs flanking the desk.

Because Draper had closed his eyes to contemplate such a possibility, the bang of the door startled him.

“Chamber pot’s under the sideboard. Her ladyship will be fussing the kitchen for a moment, if you’ve a need of privacy.”

The footman busied himself closing the curtains, shutting out a view of the back gardens and dimming the room somewhat. The fellow was sandy-haired, freckled, and spoke with a slight burr.

“You’re sure?”

“She said you looked like travel hadn’t agreed with you, and I wasn’t to slam the door for my own entertainment.” The fellow smiled and winked, for which Fenimore would likely have fired him.

Fenimore, who welcomed death.

When the countess reappeared some minutes later, the same footman was in tow, no smile in evidence. He set an enormous tea tray down on a table before the hearth. Draper looked away from all that gleaming silver and the sandwiches and fruit sitting upon it.

When the footman had withdrawn, the countess turned a dazzling smile on her guest. “Now, Mr. Draper, my every instinct tells me you’ve had an adventure. I shall be desolated if you don’t share it with me down to the last detail.”

Unlike the sunshine, the glaring floors, or the gleaming silver, the countess’s smile did not hurt Draper’s eyes. Her smile, so full of benevolence and good cheer, beckoned to him and offered a promise of comfort and consolation. She was the sister of two MacGregor spouses, after all, and cousin to Augusta, Baroness of Gribboney, who was married to a third MacGregor.

The countess’s smile was the smile of a family member welcoming a prodigal home. Draper glanced up at a corner of the room, where a fat cherub swaddled in oaken clouds was wielding a wooden bow aimed directly at the tea set.

St. Louis had not deserted the weary traveler after all.

“Well, your ladyship, there was a card game, you see. On the train. In the convivial spirit of the impromptu gathering, my flask made its usual appearance.”

Her gaze filled with commiseration. She poured a steaming cup of tea, added a dash of sugar and a dollop of cream. “Do go on, Mr. Draper.”

By the time he’d downed three cups of very fine oolong, and even managed a nibble of buttered scone, he reached the part about arriving in Manchester, of all the godforsaken destinations, without the very flask given to him by his own dear granny, and without his wallet either.

“The flask, of course, was the greater loss,” he observed.

“Of course it was, you poor man.”

Whereupon the Earl of Spathfoy joined them, forcing Draper to start the whole miserable tale all over again, though this time he began his story from the point where he’d come upon Theobald MacDuie’s smallholding north of Berwick-Upon-Tweed.

Seventeen

The pain was like a brutally laced emotional corset, offering discomfort from every direction, impinging on Hannah’s every thought and impulse. While the wheels of the train rumbled rhythmically beneath her feet, Hannah stumbled about mentally, trying to grasp that Asher MacGregor had procured them a license to marry.

Which was the reason—the only reason—he’d gifted her with his intimate favors. She watched him in the close confines of their railcar as he played cribbage with Ian.

Were Hannah to marry Asher, such a sight would become prosaic, commonplace. She would not notice that he looked tired, that with his sleeves cuffed back, his exposed wrists had a particular masculine appeal.

She would not notice that his brothers and sister watched him in stray moments, as if making sure he were still among them.

“You are a thousand miles away, Hannah Cooper.” Augusta’s voice was kind, offering distraction, only if distraction would be welcome. Her observation was quiet, too, the noise of the train ensuring an odd measure of privacy.

“I’m wondering why my grandmother’s letters have grown so sparse. She’s a reluctant correspondent, but reliable.” If two letters a month could be considered reliable.

“The elderly must be allowed their crotchets. I certainly intend to indulge in them when Ian and I are getting on.”

She kissed her baby on his fuzzy head, the infant apparently content to sleep anywhere, provided he was held in loving arms.

Another jab at Hannah’s heart: she’d never have children with Asher MacGregor. Never catch him looking at her the way Ian regarded his Augusta when she tended to the child.

“How is it Asher spent years in the Canadian wilderness?”

Augusta’s expression didn’t change, but her violet eyes filled with sympathy.

“He wasn’t in the wilderness for the entire duration. For at least the last few years, he was mostly on the coast, enjoying the blandishments of civilization. I’m told your father was in the fur trade as well.”

Hannah managed a nod. She missed her grandmother, she missed her mother. She missed her half brothers, too, with an intensity that was surprising. Lately, though, realizing what she’d leave behind in Scotland, realizing a small part of what her parents had shared and what her mother had grieved, Hannah had also missed her papa.

“Hannah, are you well? You look as if train travel might not agree with you.”

No, she was not
well
and never would be again. “I’m fine. When do we arrive to York?”

“Within the hour. This child will wake up just in time to ensure Ian and I have no peace until at least the middle of the night.”

“And yet, you want more children exactly like him.”

Augusta’s smile was soft, female, and a trifle naughty. “Ian says it’s our duty to see to the succession, at least until Asher marries and he and his countess can take up the job themselves.”

A question hung in the air, like a knife suspended over Hannah’s composure. Thank a merciful God, her lapse with Asher had been timed such that conception was unlikely.

“Do you think Asher will ever practice medicine again?” She tossed the question out as a means of changing the topic.

“It isn’t likely. Belted earls must tend to other obligations. Would you like to hold the baby? He’s ever so dear when he’s sleeping.”

Hannah reached for the child without thinking. Augusta had never offered before, and Hannah had never presumed to ask. Across the narrow railcar, Ian peered up from his cards and exchanged a glance with Augusta. They communicated much in an instant, about the baby, about train travel, maybe even about plans for later in the evening.

As Hannah hugged the baby gently, she added to the list of jabs and pinches suffered by her heart: she and Asher would not exchange such potent glances while others looked on without being able to translate the nuances.

She and Asher would not spend the shank of an evening murmuring to each other of the day’s events in a peaceful darkness.

She and Asher would not use that license, and it was—all of it—her fault.

***

To cram his entire family together in a few train cars had struck Asher as a brilliant inspiration. With siblings, in-laws, children, and a cat underfoot, there was little likelihood he and Hannah would have to deal with each other directly.

He had forgotten though, or ignored, that such proximity meant they’d all be living on top of each other for two days. Watching Hannah cuddle the sleeping baby had nigh unmanned him, and he had a sense she wasn’t faring much better than he.