Page 20 of The MacGregor's Lady
Draper’s grizzled face split into a beatific smile, one the occasional maid found passably tolerable. There was no accounting for the queer starts of females, though Fenimore suspected cold weather might be a factor. A fellow of Draper’s hulking dimensions would give off significant heat.
“Balfour was a physician before he started running from his birthright. I take it he dealt with any twisted ankles, megrims, or sprains the American came up with?”
Draper peered into his drink. “He read to her.”
Outside the wind moaned as only a Scottish winter wind could, but inside, Fenimore felt a spark of hope. “Balfour has years of medical education, the woman’s worth a bloody fortune, andhereadtoher?”
Half of Draper’s whiskey disappeared. “Aye, when they wasn’t arguin’. Even the housekeeper found it quite touchin’.”
The Edinburgh housekeeper, one Bessie Flaherty, had been old when Roman legions had marched past Arthur’s Seat.
“Draper, I do not pay you to decimate my stores of whiskey. You will keep track of Balfour and his charge, and report back to me regularly. Now get out.” Though Draper was too honest a man for the rest of the scheme Fenimore intended to put into play. For those machinations, a more dastardly relation would have to serve.
“I’m leaving, Laird.” In no particular hurry, Draper set his half-full glass within Fenimore’s reach, tossed more coal on the fire, and tugged at the plaid over Fenimore’s knees. “And Mrs. Flaherty sends you her regards. I left a jar of her special liniment in the pantry.”
That liniment was magic, and yet, if Fenimore had asked for it, the damned woman would have said she had none to spare. “Be gone, Draper, and send my quack to me—with the liniment.”
“Oh, aye, mustn’t forget the liniment. Sweet dreams, Laird.”
Draper toddled off, a good, loyal man with friendly blue eyes, and an incongruous talent for flirting up the maids. And Draper knew what mattered, too, for he’d noted that Balfour had read to the American girl.
Fenimore’s gaze went to the portrait hanging over the hearth. A pretty red-haired lass in the Clan MacGregor formal attire held pride of place there, though her dress was at least half a century out of date.
Fenimore lifted Draper’s neglected drink—an indulgence for which the snippy little physician would offer a grand scold, if he learned of it—and saluted the lady in the painting.
“I used to read to you, my dear, and you sassed me regularly. Look how well that turned out.”
***
Hannah awoke to the certain knowledge that she was safe. Without being able to articulate how, she knew she was for once beyond the reach of her step-papa and his schemes, she was beyond the whispers and gossip, and she was completely, utterly safe.
The feeling was novel and precious, carrying with it more relief than she’d thought herself capable of. Great, swooning buckets of relief, mental and physical, that made her want to both weep and smile.
And she would have to relieve herself soon too, but not just yet.
She was content instead to drowse in a cocoon of warmth and good scents. Cinnamon, nutmeg, clove… a soothing blend of fragrances wrapped all around her, along with a vague memory of being cuddled and comforted in the night.
“You’re awake?”
She felt the words as much as heard them, for she was intimately aligned with Lord Balfour.
He’d asked her to call him something else; she forgot exactly what.
“I’m awake, and it is morning.”
“You sleep very soundly, Hannah Cooper. A blessing, considering. And only a few more inches of snow fell during the night.”
“Another blessing, of course.”
Neither of them moved.
“It’s warm in here,” Hannah said.
“Verra cozy.”
He shifted a little, so Hannah became aware she was resting her cheek against his arm. Had she done that all night?
“It’s warm in here,” she said again, “and it is decidedly not warm out there. Has the fire gone out?”
