Page 85 of The Trouble With Dukes
“What’s the problem with wringing a confession from Puget?” Megan asked. “He should be relieved to be free of Sir Fletcher’s schemes, assuming you don’t alert the authorities.”
Hamish gave her the first, gratifying hint of penetration and went still. “The problem, Meggie, is that I can’t find Puget. He hasn’t been seen at a polite entertainment since last you and I spoke. If he’s on his way to Gretna with the lady of his choice, nobody is breathing a word of it.”
Scotland was days and days of travel away, and Sir Fletcher’s patience was at an end. All over again, despair swamped Megan.
For a moment, she didn’t move. She remained not quite joined to her beloved, and endured the possibility that Sir Fletcher might win after all. He had forgeries of her letters, his accomplice was nowhere to be found, and Megan’s choices were fast narrowing to either ruin for her and her sisters or marriage to a scoundrel.
And yet, Hamish had come to her. Hamish had not given up, and he would not. Megan wrapped her arms around him and completed their joining.
“We have another problem, Hamish.”
“Meggie, my heart, right now, I haven’t a problem in the world. I have the woman I love in my arms, and that’s miracle enough for the moment.”
The woman I love. How brave he was, how worthy.
Pleasure welled, welcome and luxurious. “I love you too, Hamish MacHugh, but we still have a problem.”
“Tell me this problem, Meggie, though if you love me, and I love you, there’s nothing we cannot surmount together.”
Colin had told Megan more of Hamish’s battle history. Standing resolute was Hamish’s nature, while skulking and scheming was Sir Fletcher’s. That she’d been duped by Sir Fletcher’s charm and pretty looks was not her fault, but oh, she regretted it more with the passage of time, not less.
“Meggie?”
Megan cast the last bit of caution to the wind, and cast the last of her heart into Hamish’s keeping.
“My courses are late.”
Chapter Nineteen
Hamish lay in Megan’s bed far longer than he should have, felled by emotions too complicated to name. Wonder coursed through him such as he’d never thought to feel, for he and Megan were very possibly to have a child.
Worry chased close on the heels of that mighty sentiment, along with determination. Under no circumstances would Hamish allow Megan, much less their child, to endure the future Sir Fletcher had planned.
Fear tried to wedge a foot into Hamish’s thoughts, but he shut and locked all portals against that demon. Megan was counting on him, and though it might require all manner of ugliness on the battlefields of Mayfair’s social season, Hamish would not accept defeat.
He stole from the bed, pausing to kiss his beloved’s cheek and tuck the covers around her. The dear woman had loved him witless, and he’d responded as best he could. Never had tenderness and passion colluded so forcefully and well.
Love had not muddled Hamish, but rather, had allowed him to see clearly.
He eased over the balcony railing, while in the darkened streets beyond the garden wall, polite society was returning from its latest revels.
Hamish, by contrast, was going to war. He’d inspect every gambling hell, drover’s inn, sponging house, and brothel in London to find Garner Puget, and he’d do it in the next few days.
The garden below was dark, but Hamish got to the ground easily. He blew a last kiss in the direction of Megan’s balcony, said a silent prayer that Garner Puget hadn’t left the country, and was halfway down the terrace steps when a voice stopped him.
“Steal off into the night if you must, Murdoch, but if you have stolen Megan Windham’s virtue, you are a dead man.”
The tone was pleasant, which made the menace all the more believable. Hamish turned slowly, hands at his sides, to face the Duke of Moreland. His Grace’s hair glinted golden in the moonlight, and he wore evening finery that would have cost Hamish more than one of Eddie and Ronnie’s rampages at the modiste’s.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Hamish said, bowing.
“Murdoch.” No bow, not even a nod. “Do you know why my children have dubbed that chamber the courting bedroom?”
“No, sir.”
“Because whoever sleeps there is courting folly. The balcony is visible from the apartment I share with my duchess. My children, brilliant though they are, don’t seem to have realized this.”
His Grace gave away nothing—not ire, certainly not humor, and not forbearance—so Hamish kept his own counsel too.
