Page 66 of The Trouble With Dukes
Perhaps because Hamish listened when she spoke and wasn’t in a great hurry to be elsewhere, though by rights he ought at that moment to be lounging about some gentlemen’s club.
“My eyesight is poor,” Megan said. “Even so, with my spectacles, I can see better than many, and my cognitive faculties are in fine working order. I’m grateful for that. I see especially well early in the day, but then my eyes grow fatigued. In any case, there’s also much I cannot do because of my bad vision.”
“Stone blind you’d be four times the woman most ladies are on their most sighted day, Meggie Windham, soon to be MacHugh, and I’ll—”
She kissed his chin. “Put down your claymore, Murdoch. My family loves me. The people who fuss at me for imperfect vision don’t matter, and I use my relative obscurity to ponder my surroundings.
“Why is Charlotte so restless this year,” she went on, “and what is stopping Beth from making a suitable match? Why is Anwen so devoted to those orphans, and when can you and I be married?”
“You deserve to be thoroughly courted,” Hamish said. “Also kissed.”
As it happened, Megan agreed with that last sentiment, and somehow ended up in Hamish’s lap as a result. She climbed off of him, and instead of taking the place beside him, folded down to the paving stones at his feet, sitting with her back to his knees.
“You have a talent for distracting me, Hamish. Hear me out, please.”
His fingers whispered across her nape, as softly as sunshine. “Of course. Always.”
What a privilege, to nuzzle a man’s bare knee, to acquaint oneself with the muscle and bone and strength of him. Megan looked forward to the day—or evening—when she could learn all of Hamish MacHugh at her leisure.
“I think about things,” she said, before the temptation to kiss his knee overcame the last of her sense, “and that means, I’m good at puzzling out what might not be obvious. I suspect Sir Fletcher is not his papa’s son, for example.”
Those fingers, which were distracting Megan in the best possible way, paused. “A cuckoo in the nest?”
“He’s a fourth son, meaning his late mama had done her duty by the title, and he came along a good five years after the next oldest brother. He doesn’t look anything like his siblings, his papa hardly takes notice of him.”
“And he has the put-upon air of one treated unfairly from a young age. You might be right. That would shed light on his behavior in Spain, though it wouldn’t excuse it.”
Two thoughts coalesced in Megan’s awareness. The first was silly and delightful: Even Hamish’s knee tasted of heather, suggesting he was fastidious in all particulars.
The second was delightful and not silly at all: Perhaps Hamish talked to her and listened to her so well in part because her eyesight was poor. A reserved man, ashyman, one uncomfortable in London society, would be more at ease when free from endless visual scrutiny.
Howwonderful, that a lack of keen eyesight could be such a valuable asset.
“Tell me about Spain, and about Sir Fletcher,” Megan said, twitching Hamish’s kilt over his knee.
The wool was soft, the sense of tenderness Megan endured nearly unbearable. She’d never have to pretend with Hamish as she so often did with her family, never have to make light of a moment turned awkward because she’d forgotten her spectacles.
Hamish’s palm smoothed her hair in a slow caress. “Sir Fletcher was a great one for having his men flogged. Any pretext would do, and his superiors turned a blind eye. Army discipline is a curious thing. We were downright social with the French sometimes, then word would come down that any man caught fraternizing would be court-martialed. For a time, distance would be kept. Very confusing for the men, and sometimes they got caught in the spats and stupidities of their officers.”
That was all preamble, of course, though enlightening. “Sounds like the social season with guns. I can’t imagine a less appealing undertaking.”
Hamish’s thumb traced the curve of Megan’s jaw. “Sir Fletcher was mostly competent, from what I could gather, but his tolerance for the Irish or Scottish lads when they got to scrapping was poor. He accused a fellow of stealing from regimental stores, which is viewed very dimly. The boy was barely shaving, none too bright, and probably starving. I intervened.”
“With your fists?” What did it say about a proper lady, that she relished the notion of somebody pummeling Sir Fletcher?
“Meggie dearest, you have a bloodthirsty streak. My papa, God rest him, would approve.”
“Sir Fletcher needs to be held accountable,” Megan said. “I have memories of him I wish I could wash out of my mind, Hamish.” She knew how Sir Fletcher breathed under intimate circumstances, knew the feel of him between her legs.
And abruptly, tears threatened. She hadn’t cried, not when Sir Fletcher had ignored her upon mustering out, not when he’d decided to take notice of her weeks ago. Not when he’d explained, in blunt, disrespectful terms, what his plans were for her.
“Ach, Meggie, let me hold you.”
She was back in Hamish’s arms, beside him on the bench, tears spilling in hot profusion down her cheeks. From her middle, a wail was building, a cry of regret and outrage.
“Iprayedfor him,” she said, pressing her forehead to Hamish’s shoulder. “I promised to wait for him, and prayed for his safe return. I told myself all couples need time, and eventually, I’d have children and a home of my own. I assured myself he couldn’t answer my letters without risking my reputation, not very often. Then he mustered out, and the first time we encountered each other, he treated me like …”
“Don’t speak of it, if it pains you,” Hamish said. “He can’t hurt you anymore, Meggie.”
