Page 103 of The MacGregor's Lady
The words were meant to comfort, and yet, Hannah hurt. She hurt with an emptiness that resonated in every particle of her soul. When Asher eased away, she let him go, and the pain of that was beyond description.
The mundane business of dressing each other provided the next steps in the direction of their ultimate separation. Asher passed her a handkerchief, and while he pinned and buckled himself into his kilt, Hannah dealt with the less delicate aftereffects of shared passion.
She shook out the little cotton square, intending to refold it into quarters and hand it back. Asher pulled his shirt on and left it unbuttoned, then passed Hannah her drawers, stays, and shirtwaist.
“Shall we go boating on the loch tomorrow?” The burr had been wrestled into submission. The earl was trying to put the lover to rout, an effort Hannah suspected was undertaken for her benefit. Asher was no more interested in boating on the loch than Hannah was.
“That sounds pleasant, if the weather allows.” They’d bring the inevitable picnic, maybe some Walter Scott, and spend another afternoon suffering together.Howlovely.
He helped her with her stays, though his idea of what constituted a proper fit was much looser than Hannah’s. He also laced her boots for her, and when Hannah made no effort to rise from their blankets, he sat beside her, silent and solid.
Only then did she pass him his handkerchief. “It’s the same color as my dancing slippers, the first ones you repaired for me.”
He took the little cloth, his brows knitting. “The same color?”
Hannah nodded at the handkerchief, which sported three faint pink streaks. “Maiden’s blush.”
Her next spate of tears was not quiet. Not quiet at all.
***
Asher had stowed Hannah’s bags, inspected her cabin, lectured the maid to within an inch of her life, then conferred with his captain at length, though not one moment of their discussion had been spent on cargo, schedules, or changes made to the ship’s crew.
In the morning, Hannah would take ship, and by noon, Asher would be blind drunk. As plans went, it left something to be desired.
“It’s when they go quiet you worry the most.”
As he offered this observation, Connor took the seat to Asher’s left on a comfortable sofa, passing his brother a drink. The inn’s appointments were far above reproach, Asher having insisted on the fanciest harborside accommodations Edinburgh had to offer. He had not wanted Hannah to have to depart for the ship from his town house.
“When who goes quiet?” Asher asked. “Certainly not our brothers.”
Con took a considering sip of his whiskey. “The women. I was about eleven when I realized Mary Fran’s tantrums weren’t the worst havoc she could wreak. She’d go quiet, and it drove me nigh to howlin’. Those big green eyes, the stiff little shoulders. Diabolical, she was. Probably doesn’t have to say a word to have Daniels stepping and fetching double-time. Just goes silent, is all. Poor sod’s probably on his knees right now, begging her to say something to him.”
Asher set his drink aside—time for that later. Less than twenty-four hours later. “Do I have her to thank for everybody’s presence here at the inn?”
“We’re your family, Asher MacGregor. We’ve come to see our Hannah off on her journey.”
Connor was his baby brother, and yet of all of them, Con was in some ways the most substantial. The man could be as silent as an oak cask, and about as flexible. There would be no running Con off, no intimidating, reasoning, or bullying him into giving Asher privacy.
“When we’ve seen Hannah off, will you get me home before I start drinking?”
“Aye. And we’ll drink with ye, and pour ye into bed, and mind the fires until ye’re able to walk again. Ye’re neglecting your medicine, Brother.”
Con did not neglect his. He downed his whiskey in one swallow, then rose and crossed to the little table where a decanter and glasses sat on a tray. The door to Asher’s sitting room opened without a knock.
“And here I thought this was a decent inn.” Connor held out a drink to Spathfoy, then poured for Gil. “Asher was just about to get out the cards. Ian, you can get your own drink when you’ve tossed me wee fartin’, stinkin’, burpin’ nephew into the street for the rag man to pick up.”
Wee John liked that idea fine, banging on his father’s shoulder with a tiny fist and grinning at his uncles.
“Is he cutting more teeth?” Gil asked.
“He’ll be cutting damned teeth until he’s in short coats,” Ian grumbled. When he took the place on Asher’s right, the sofa cushions temporarily heaved up then settled as if on a sigh. “Little man kept his poor mama up half the night, and now he’s all smiles.”
Asher reached out a hand to the child, knowing his finger would be taken prisoner. “Plotting civil disturbance and insurrection, no doubt. He will be cutting teeth pretty much until he’s two, then it comes in spurts.”
“Two years.” Ian’s expression suggested the number was comparable to two thousand. “And we’ve likely another one just like him coming along behind.”
For some reason, Ian’s misery was a cheering sight. “Things do improve. They stop cutting teeth, and not long after that, they start to catch on to using the Jordan pot, and what a happy occasion that is.”
