The MacGregor's Lady Read online

  He sat back, again making the settee creak. “If this scheme works, then maybe you won’t be in as much pain. Maybe you’ll want to dance.”

  Oh, drat him. Drat him and blast him. Damn him, in fact. She hid behind another sip of her tea.

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” He spoke softly, pushing a lock of hair back behind her ear. “You cannot bear another disappointment. You long to dance, but you’ve given up.”

  “Given up?” If he’d knocked her to the floor, he could not have been more ruthless, and the gentleness in his touch made his words that much more difficult. “Given up, because I don’t seek to bedazzle some spotty young fool on the dance floor? Given up, when all I want is to look after my grandmother and have the benefit of an inheritance left to me by my father?”

  She set her teacup down with a bang and marched across the room to put space between her and the presuming, too insightful earl. “If I had given up, my lord, then I’d be married to Jeremy Widmore, carrying my second child by now, and likely sporting bruises in all manner of private places. If I had given up, I’d be in my bed, praying that my husband would content himself with his mistresses and gambling, while I watched the funds my children needed frittered away for Widmore’s pleasure or my stepfather’s.”

  She whirled in a flurry of skirts and speared the earl with a glare. “If I had given up, I’d be envying Aunt Enid her laudanum addiction, for that’s what it is. She has given up, but as long as my grandmother draws breath, I cannot, I shall not, I…”

  Could not breathe.

  He was beside her in an instant. “Sit.” He did not scoop her up against his chest as he had so easily in Edinburgh, but his arm was around her waist, conducting her to the bed, the nearest piece of furniture that would hold both of their weights. “Head down, breathe slowly.”

  His hand on her nape had her bending forward. “Don’t move.”

  She didn’t. Even in the short stays she refused to lace too tightly, it was easier to breathe like this. “God in heaven, what is that for?”

  He held a short, wicked-looking knife. The handle was bone with some scrimshaw design etched on it, and the blade positively gleamed.

  “I’m going to cut you out of your goddamned stays.”

  Hannah bounced away from him, which was difficult given how high the bed was. “That will not be necessary.”

  The knife disappeared, up his sleeve, into his boot, into some sort of sheath affixed somewhere on his person—Hannah knew not which.

  “Tell me about Widmore, Hannah.”

  She’d started out the day as Miss Hannah, Miss Hannah Lynn Cooper who’d enjoyed the most innocent good-night kiss last night. This morning she was Hannah, her name spoken in a low, harsh rasp, and she was about to be laid bare by a knife-wielding Red Indian Scottish Earl Physician.

  Despite all inclination to the contrary, she talked. “Widmore was the last threat, the one I’m fairly certain step-papa manufactured to inspire me to acquiesce to this trip.”

  Balfour reached out with the same hand that had gripped her slipper so tightly, the same hand he’d used to fix her tea and brandish that knife, and brushed his thumb over her cheek. Hannah didn’t realize what he was about until he tasted the pad of his thumb then produced a handkerchief.

  The wild and fluttery sensation in her stomach leapt higher at the sight of him tasting her tears.

  She took the little cotton square from his hand lest he wipe her face for her.

  “Go on, lass.”

  As if she hadn’t already explained, as if Balfour knew in his bones there was more to the tale.

  “He was not honorable.”

  A calculating coldness came into Balfour’s eyes, one that gratified Hannah even as it took her aback. “I have many connections on the American seaboard, Hannah Cooper. I can make sure this Widmore never has an opportunity to be dishonorable with a young lady again.”

  The image of the knife flashed in Hannah’s mind, and just then, she was glad this earl was, among other things, also part savage. She adored him for it, in fact, and wished she were part savage too.

  “His sins will catch up with him.”

  If anything, this tired pronouncement made the chill in the earl’s eyes deepen. “I’d rather you allow me to catch up with him, Hannah Cooper, me and my knife and a quiet, dark alley. If the knife won’t do, there are herbs that can make a man wish he were dead and leave him—”

  Hannah put a finger to his lips and barely, barely resisted the urge to run that finger over his eyebrows.

  “That won’t be necessary. When I return to Boston, having failed so spectacularly in London, Widmore will have reason to gloat, and that will be his revenge upon me. He’ll trouble me no more.”

  Balfour grabbed Hannah’s hand and kept it in his grasp, and abruptly, Hannah’s problem was not tight stays or a soaring temper.

  “You could marry me, Hannah Cooper. If I’m to do my part for the earldom—and I shall—then I must marry. As my countess, you’d suffer no more Widmores bothering you, no more dodging your stepfather’s schemes, no more fretting over the fate of your fortune, and we could easily see your grandmother comfortably settled.”

  He was talking himself into this rash offer, grabbing for reasons in support of it only as he glowered at his would-be intended and kept her hand captured in his own.

  And Hannah loved him for it—purely, unabashedly loved him for his protectiveness and for the simple, honest workings of his honor. Her regard echoed the way old Sir Walter’s characters became impassioned in their high-flown romances, and would give her something to dream about when she was old.

  As old as the grandmother, upon whom, Hannah would never turn her back.

  Hannah touched her fingers to his lips. “Asher, please don’t. My grandmother is very old, and I would not abandon her to the tender mercies of strangers. As long as she must bide in America, my stepfather could find a way to hurt me through her. He’s a vengeful man, is Step-papa.”

  Very vengeful. The temptation to blurt out just how vengeful was nigh overwhelming, but that admission would provoke Asher into a renewed proposal—of marriage or murder; they were equally endearing offers.

  “So bring your grandmother here, Hannah. We’ll keep her in toasted bricks and possets and teach her to cheat at whist. We’ll give her great-grandchildren to tell her stories to.”

  This was such a low, unforeseen blow, that Hannah wrapped her arms around her middle and leaned into the man beside her. “You must not say such things. Enid barely survived this crossing, and Grandmama is increasingly frail.”

  His arm came around her, a welcome support that shifted to an embrace. His chin rested on her temple, and memories of a frigid night in a warm embrace swamped Hannah’s reason.

  “Among my people, both my father’s people and my mother’s, the safety of a guest is a host’s sacred responsibility. I need a countess. You need to be free of your family’s scheming. We’d find our way well enough, Hannah.”

  For mere instants, she let herself consider the bounty he laid at her feet. Asher MacGregor was wealthy, and in their short acquaintance, Hannah had found him honorable as well.

  He was also practical, not easily shocked, no slave to fashionable Society’s dictates, and while not precisely handsome, his looks appealed to her strongly.

  Then too, he made her feel safe, his scent was lovely, and he’d never once offered her a hint of disrespect.

  “Finding their way” with him would not be a matter of furtive couplings three Sundays a month in the dark. He would not take a mistress without giving Hannah children as well, and he would never publicly shame his countess.

  Before the list of his positive attributes could grow any longer, Hannah reminded them both why no such list would ever be long enough. “You are an earl. Your responsibilities lie here. My responsibilities lie in Boston. My grandmother buried her son there, and that means a great deal to her. She also feels a duty to mitigate the worst of my stepfather�
�s decisions affecting my mother and younger brothers.”

  A large, warm male hand came up to cradle Hannah’s jaw, a caress that brought equal parts comfort and despair.

  “She could live another ten years, Hannah, the only years when you might bear children. Will you martyr yourself to her cause so she can martyr herself to your mother’s?”

  Plain, accurate speaking.

  “If I must,” Hannah said, making no move to sit back. Her grandmother hugged her from time to time, in private, but nobody held her. Her brothers jostled against her getting into or out of coaches, Aunt Enid leaned on her—but an embrace like this, one that offered warmth and comfort, was more dear than rubies.

  “You do not argue with me, Balfour. Have your manners asserted themselves belatedly?”

  His hand stroked over her hair, wracking Hannah’s composure sorely. “I abandoned my family when the famine had decimated our resources. I had reasons, or so I told myself, and my brothers did not argue with me, but then I did not return to Scotland, and one year turned into five, and then it became prudent for me—in my narrow view of things—for Ian to take on the title. I was declared dead—I let my brothers and my sister think I was dead—rather than come home and see to my Scottish family.”

  Within the circle of his embrace, Hannah sat back—and even that much was monumentally difficult. She took his point. “I cannot stay here, and you cannot leave your responsibilities behind to bide in Boston.”

  And yet in the space of a few moments, it had become much harder for Hannah to contemplate that journey back across the Atlantic. Lest the return trip to Boston become impossible, Hannah rose and crossed to the wardrobe, extracting the pink slipper custom-made for her right foot. She brought it to him and put it into his hands.

  “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I have to check on Aunt Enid.”

  His arguments had all apparently been silenced, and while that was a relief—the idea of becoming his countess was extravagant, generous, and ridiculous—it was also a profound grief.

  He stuffed the slipper in his pocket, paused by the door, offered her a silent bow, and withdrew.

  When the door clicked shut softly behind him, Hannah did not square her shoulders and cross the hallway to offer her aunt mendacious good cheer and false subservience. Hannah instead plunked herself down on the settee, helped herself to a sip of the earl’s cooling tea, and assumed his place on the sofa.

  She took out the handkerchief he’d given her and permitted herself a few minutes of honest, bitter tears.

  ***

  Asher made it no farther than the hallway, where he had to stop and lean his back against the paneled wall—only to hear Hannah weeping.

  Red Indians were accused of having a cold demeanor, one roused only by the primitive emotions of lust and anger. The same could probably be said of the English, though they’d likely piss themselves before they admitted to lust in decent company.

  Stoicism was not a lack of feeling, but an ability to control expression of that feeling. One learned stoicism in the cramped, smoky confines of a longhouse. One learned depths of reserve and patience, with oneself and others. The alternative was to brave brutal winters alone, facing impossible survival odds.

  Monique had understood this, or at least accepted that it was so when Asher had explained it to her. Asher missed her with a jagged ache, missed the sound of her laughter and the way she’d been able to steady him with a look, with a touch. He missed the privilege of comforting her with his body and with his simple presence.

  He was not in love with Hannah Cooper, and she was not in love with him. His offer of marriage had been impulsive and pragmatic, and her rejection of it should not have stung, particularly when she was right: he was bound to Scotland, while her obligations were in Boston.

  And yet, Asher did not leave his place outside her door until the sound of her weeping had ceased.

  Eight

  “It’s this wretched weather.” Enid took a sip of her tea then set the cup down on the tray in her lap. “If only it would warm up. And that bitter wind… all the flowers will be ruined.”

  Like my sanity. Hannah pretended to measure out a dose of Enid’s most recent pet remedy but counted out only one-third of the prescribed number of drops. “We get cold snaps like this in Boston, too, Aunt, and the Holland bulbs were just making a start. They won’t be daunted by a dusting or two of snow.”

  “I do hope we don’t get a late spring. Ball gowns and mud are not a pretty combination. You can put that right in my tea, dear.”

  Hannah upended the spoon into Enid’s tea, stirring a few times for good measure. “I really wish you’d try to put these medicines aside, Aunt. You need some fresh air and activity.”

  “Activity?” Enid downed her doctored tea like a stevedore with his ale. “Activity is not at all fashionable, not unless it involves shopping.”

  Hannah went to the window, but a layer of ice had formed on the outside of the pane, making the view into the back gardens distorted. An inch of wet snow covered the struggling daffodils and tulips. Even to shop, Aunt was not likely to brave such weather.

  “Her Majesty endorses walking, and she and the Prince take their children out of doors regularly.”

  Enid settled back against her pillows. “Since when does an American look to British royalty for guidance on child-rearing?”

  “She’s the mother of seven, and she hasn’t lost a child yet.” Seven, so far, and an eighth likely on the way.

  Enid sniffed and drew the covers up. “She also chooses to spend her holidays in the wilds of Scotland, and if that isn’t peculiar, I don’t know what is. Our host is her neighbor, you know, or his lands march with hers at Balmoral. That’s how the English say it: the lands march.”

  Hannah turned and braced her hips against the windowsill. Her backside ached, but from inactivity rather than overuse. “When were you going to tell me that I’m being introduced to Society by a Canadian earl?”

  “There is no such thing. Would you mind closing the draperies, Hannah? The light is most cruel.”

  The light was honest, revealing what Hannah had suspected: Aunt colored her hair, and having been unable to see to this subterfuge for the past month at least, her dark locks were showing gray at the roots.

  Hannah closed the drapes. “Lord Balfour was raised by his mother’s people in the Canadian wilderness. When his grandmother died, he was taken to the trading post, and there put into the care of an Anglican priest who set about notifying the earl’s father of his existence. It was the same priest who’d married the earl’s parents and said the blessing over his mother’s grave, otherwise the earl would likely never have been sent to Scotland.”

  “Balfour was the best your parents could do, Hannah. We will contrive, somehow, to find you a suitable match despite the earl’s unfortunate history. You mustn’t speak of it, mustn’t let on that you know he was raised as a savage. He was probably taught how to scalp people. I shall have nightmares if we don’t change the subject immediately.”

  Because the danger of being scalped right here in fashionable Mayfair was so very great. “Shall we play cards, Aunt? Or the earl has taught me backgammon. I could show you how it’s played.”

  Enid let out a great sigh and closed her eyes. “Leave me. My head will soon be pounding if I cannot find rest. Thank God for modern medicine.”

  Thank God, indeed. Hannah left the room on swift, silent feet, and was closing the door in similar fashion when the earl spoke from immediately behind her.

  “Let me guess: she’s at death’s door, though she ate a hearty enough spread with her tea, and we must put straw in the street because the noise is intolerable.”

  Balfour was attired in, of all things, a kilt. A beautiful swath of rich, patterned wool that swung about his knees, hugged his hips, and would have flirted with gross immodesty in a high wind, but for the pouch resting against his thighs. “I beg your pardon?”

  Were she more honest, she’d beg to sketch
him in that kilt.

  “Laying down straw is the old-fashioned signal that there’s illness in a house, and it does dampen the street noise. You and I are escaping, Miss Hannah.” His dark eyes held mischief, not merely teasing.

  “I wasn’t aware we were imprisoned.” Mendacity was becoming a habit.

  “Come along.” He took her by the hand and started off down the corridor, leaving Hannah no choice but to follow. “We are not imprisoned, but I’ve had some ideas, and I want to try them out.”

  Hannah made no reply, for it seemed to her that a man in a kilt could move more swiftly, with more purpose to his gait than the same man in morning attire. Then too, his knees were disturbingly in evidence, as was the occasional flash of strong, male thigh.

  “You’ll need a cloak of some sort,” the earl observed as he hauled Hannah toward the back of the house. He paused before the service door and plucked Hannah’s old brown velvet cloak from a hook. “This will do.”

  Before she could protest—perhaps a kilt robbed a man of social niceties in addition to exposing his knees—Balfour had her cloak settled around her shoulders and was fastening the frogs. The brush of his warm fingers beneath Hannah’s chin was almost as unsettling as the sight of his bare… limbs.

  “We’ve not far to go.” He shrugged into a wool coat and snagged two pairs of ice skates from the last hook in the hallway.

  “We’re going skating?”

  He ushered her through the door and wrapped her arm over his. “Observant, you Americans.” He gave her hand a condescending little pat and swept onward through the back gardens. “Sometimes, in the middle of winter, when it was as cold as the ninth circle of hell, we’d scare up a hunting party just to have an excuse to move around. It didn’t matter if we found any game or not, we just… even the Prince Consort is known to play shinny hockey. You’re familiar with the malaise of remaining cooped up for too long.”

  Intimately. “I am, but surely the ice won’t be solid…” The idea of landing smack on her backside on ice… Hannah stopped walking and unlooped her arm from Balfour’s. “This is not well-advised, sir.”