Page 57 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
“Is there anything else I can get you and your wife, sir?” the innkeeper asked, hovering.
Duncan’s stomach leapt to hear Beatrice called his wife. Yet he replied evenly, “We’ve everything we need right now.”
“Yes, sir.” The man and the woman retreated.
Once Duncan and Beatrice were alone again, he apparently needed to prod his wounds and asked in what he hoped was a light tone, “Thought about marrying again?”
When she stared at him as though he’d suggested cannibalism as a viable diet, he continued, “Many women remarry after the death of their husbands, especially if they’re young, as you are.”
“To begin,” Beatrice said, “bless you for calling me young. I’m a mother thrice over. But, to your point, given the choice of taking a seat at a banquet, or resigning myself to a meal of a single dish every day for the rest of my life, I’ll take the banquet.”
“There’s companionship and affection,” he felt obliged to point out. “The chance to see a beloved faceevery day.” This was what he’d hoped to gain with his own marriage, and he’d fixated on it in the heart of war’s hellishness.
From infancy, he’d been taught the importance of a wedded union. A man might indulge himself for a few years with amours and dalliances, but when it was time to create something lasting, something that would stand through the decades ahead, he found himself a bride. The McCamerons were fervent believers in fidelity—none of his male kin ever kept mistresses. That was the path they all followed, and he had fully anticipated he’d do the same with Susannah.
That future with her had been blown to pieces, and yet he still believed that when you wanted a romantic relationship to last, marriage was the answer.
“I’ve a few friends who married for love,” Beatrice said softly. “They wanted precisely what you described, and, for a time, they got it. But it faded, changed. Even the most doting husband turned distant.”
“That doesn’t happen with every love match,” he countered. His own parents were still affectionate with each other after nearly forty years.
“A distant husband is the best situation many women can hope for.” Her gaze was direct as she regarded him across the table. “For me marriage was an extended exercise in losing myself. I cannot,will not, endure that again, not when I’m only now beginning to relearn who I am.”
He gave a clipped nod, grappling with the fact thather reasons were sound. Men lost none of their power by marrying, unlike women. Yet . . . marriage was what people did when they cared about each other. There wasn’t an alternative.
They finished their meal in silence, and he couldn’t help feeling that something slipped from his grasp—despite the tightness of his grip.
When the innkeeper appeared to take away their empty plates, Duncan asked, “What time does the mail coach leave?”
“Sir, it’s gone already.” The innkeeper twisted his hands together. “An hour ago.”
“What?” Beatrice demanded, sitting up straight. “We should have been made aware of its departure.”
“I tried, madam. I went to your room to tell you but”—the innkeeper coughed into his fist—“it sounded as though you were bothengaged, and as sir was most insistent last night on being left alone I, erm...”
Duncan cursed under his breath. His hunger for her had wrecked their plans. “There must be another coach later today.”
“Day after tomorrow, sir,” the innkeeper said contritely. “There’s one coming later this afternoon in Wilbrick.”
“Surely we can hire someone with a wagon to take us there,” Beatrice said.
“There’s George Thompson.” The innkeeper nodded energetically. “He’ll be your man. Uses his dray tomake deliveries in town. You’ll find him on the main road, in the house in the middle of the street.”
Duncan nodded, determined to get things underway. “Thank you for your assistance.” He pressed a coin into the innkeeper’s hand. To Beatrice, he said, “Remain here, and I’ll meet you in the yard. Shouldn’t be more than a quarter of an hour.”
Smiling, she saluted him, making him realize he’d used his most officerlike tone.
Well—hehadbeen an officer for over fifteen years.
Leaning close to her, he whispered in her ear, “Last night, you rather enjoyed me being in command.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” she murmured.
“Goddamnbut that sounds better coming from you instead of my men,” he growled.
“Should hope so,” she answered pertly. “Perhaps later tonight you can hear it again.”
He drew in a breath, trying to calm his body’s reaction to her. Right now, he had a duty to carry out.
