Page 39 of Miss Delightful
Dorcas had never been adored before, had never met a man whose adoration would have mattered to her.
“What did you do, back in Spain?”
“I talked to the nun who admitted me to the church. Babbled, more like. We sat among the children, under the olive trees, and that old woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders listened to me. She pointed out that I could atone for any harm I had done. I could send along some coin for the children. I could intervene with the next officer bent on enjoying himself at the expense of innocents. I could pay attention to the instincts that warn a man when his fellows are about to behave evilly. I was not powerless in the face of evil. I coulddo betterand hopefully even do some good. She never once used the typical language of piety. She simply told me to make what amends I could.”
Dorcas allowed herself, ever so slightly, to lean against Mr. MacKay’s arm. “And you have been atoning ever since.”
“I come to London in winter and keep an eye out for the streetwalkers. They suffer badly in the colder months. No custom to be had, Town half empty of those who can afford to pay for their pleasures. I’ve sent a few children to Goddard for a meal and a safe place to sleep, but the ladies are my concern. I also made a decision in that churchyard, Dorcas, that I would be a gelding, so to speak, until I had spent as many winters in London as I had spent soldiering in Spain.”
“You took a vow of chastity?” Again, not what she’d expected to hear on this visit with Charlie.
“Nothing so noble as a vow. I made a decision to temporarily put aside an aspect of life that had grown too complicated. That decision afforded me relief, and it was the right choice at the time.”
“You became a spinster, which can be a relief.” A haven, a form of camouflage that the world would never understand.
“I became a spinster, but I have also served out the term of my indenture to self-restraint, though I remain bound by my memories.”
The mother cat rose to sit on her haunches, and Mr. MacKay gently set the kitten on the floor. The little creature returned to his mama, and she commenced licking his head.
What an extraordinary tale Mr. MacKay had told. What an extraordinary man he was. “How are you bound by your memories?”
“Though I have served out my winters of self-restraint, I am still unwilling—perhaps unable—to pursue recreationally that which most men of means regard as harmless frolicking.”
He was being delicate, which he did surprisingly well. “You do not kiss me merely to flirt?”
“Such a bright woman. You make a difficult conversation as easy as it could possibly be. I would never trifle with a lady’s regard or with her good name. I kiss you because you bother me in the best possible way and because I hope that when you kiss me back, you are not trifling with me either. And if you are trifling with me, I must ask you to desist.”
Dorcas eased the rest of her weight against his side. This conversation was part confession, part declaration, and entirely right. This was precisely how two people ought to embark on becoming a whole greater than the sum of the parts.
With honesty and trust, with words that could be painful, but were intended honorably.
“Say something, Dorcas. I am not in the habit of discussing my past, but with you, the topic had to be broached.”
Dorcas did not discuss her past either. “I will respect your confidences, Alasdhair MacKay, and I respect you.”
His brows knit. “Does that mean no more kisses?”
“Quite the contrary.”
The mama cat curled up with her offspring again, and Alasdhair’s arm came around Dorcas’s shoulders. “That’s all right, then.”
Chapter Nine
Alasdhair and his cousins often spoke of the lessons learned at war. Powell swore he’d never again take for granted a letter or scold from his sisters, that simply hearing them rip up at him in their native Welsh tongue was now a joy.
Goddard had become devoted to the French vineyards he’d inherited from his mother’s family. He was convinced that fine French vintages, and champagne in particular, were a way to knit together English conviviality with what was best about France and her traditions.
Alasdhair had learned the bitterness of regret, of wishing he’d been a better man, and the determination to become that better man. He’d learned that change might come to some people in a revelatory moment, but for him, change had been a slow, uncertain process. A man who’d once proclaimed himself born to carouse could now rejoice to sit beside a woman in silence and let the peace of a chilly stable fill his heart.
“I have regrets too,” Dorcas said. “Nothing so terrible as what you’ve endured. Nobody died, nobody was orphaned. No towns were razed. I’ve nonetheless had to make my peace with situations where all of my choices led to sorrow.”
Sorrow was more bearable than dishonor. Alasdhair had learned that too. “Have you forgiven yourself?”
She rested her head against his shoulder. “For the most part. Tell me about Scotland.”
Right. Enough about the war. Finally, enough about the war. “Scotland is more beautiful than you can imagine, Dorcas. The light is purer, the water sweeter, the breeze fresher than anything England has to offer. My family delights in hard work and in each other. We are full of song and naughty jokes, and our whisky is as fierce as our winters.”
“You make whisky?”
