Page 38 of The MacGregor's Lady
This was such a low, unforeseen blow, that Hannah wrapped her arms around her middle and leaned into the man beside her. “You must not say such things. Enid barely survived this crossing, and Grandmama is increasingly frail.”
His arm came around her, a welcome support that shifted to an embrace. His chin rested on her temple, and memories of a frigid night in a warm embrace swamped Hannah’s reason.
“Among my people, both my father’s people and my mother’s, the safety of a guest is a host’s sacred responsibility. I need a countess. You need to be free of your family’s scheming. We’d find our way well enough, Hannah.”
For mere instants, she let herself consider the bounty he laid at her feet. Asher MacGregor was wealthy, and in their short acquaintance, Hannah had found him honorable as well.
He was also practical, not easily shocked, no slave to fashionable Society’s dictates, and while not precisely handsome, his looks appealed to her strongly.
Then too, he made her feel safe, his scent was lovely, and he’d never once offered her a hint of disrespect.
“Finding their way” with him would not be a matter of furtive couplings three Sundays a month in the dark. He would not take a mistress without giving Hannah children as well, and he would never publicly shame his countess.
Before the list of his positive attributes could grow any longer, Hannah reminded them both why no such list would ever be long enough. “You are an earl. Your responsibilities lie here. My responsibilities lie in Boston. My grandmother buried her son there, and that means a great deal to her. She also feels a duty to mitigate the worst of my stepfather’s decisions affecting my mother and younger brothers.”
A large, warm male hand came up to cradle Hannah’s jaw, a caress that brought equal parts comfort and despair.
“She could live another ten years, Hannah, the only years when you might bear children. Will you martyr yourself to her cause so she can martyr herself to your mother’s?”
Plain, accurate speaking.
“If I must,” Hannah said, making no move to sit back. Her grandmother hugged her from time to time, in private, but nobody held her. Her brothers jostled against her getting into or out of coaches, Aunt Enid leaned on her—but an embrace like this, one that offered warmth and comfort, was more dear than rubies.
“You do not argue with me, Balfour. Have your manners asserted themselves belatedly?”
His hand stroked over her hair, wracking Hannah’s composure sorely. “I abandoned my family when the famine had decimated our resources. I had reasons, or so I told myself, and my brothers did not argue with me, but then I did not return to Scotland, and one year turned into five, and then it became prudent for me—in my narrow view of things—for Ian to take on the title. I was declared dead—I let my brothers and my sister think I was dead—rather than come home and see to my Scottish family.”
Within the circle of his embrace, Hannah sat back—and even that much was monumentally difficult. She took his point. “I cannot stay here, and you cannot leave your responsibilities behind to bide in Boston.”
And yet in the space of a few moments, it had become much harder for Hannah to contemplate that journey back across the Atlantic. Lest the return trip to Boston become impossible, Hannah rose and crossed to the wardrobe, extracting the pink slipper custom-made for her right foot. She brought it to him and put it into his hands.
“If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I have to check on Aunt Enid.”
His arguments had all apparently been silenced, and while that was a relief—the idea of becoming his countess was extravagant, generous, and ridiculous—it was also a profound grief.
He stuffed the slipper in his pocket, paused by the door, offered her a silent bow, and withdrew.
When the door clicked shut softly behind him, Hannah did not square her shoulders and cross the hallway to offer her aunt mendacious good cheer and false subservience. Hannah instead plunked herself down on the settee, helped herself to a sip of the earl’s cooling tea, and assumed his place on the sofa.
She took out the handkerchief he’d given her and permitted herself a few minutes of honest, bitter tears.
***
Asher made it no farther than the hallway, where he had to stop and lean his back against the paneled wall—only to hear Hannah weeping.
Red Indians were accused of having a cold demeanor, one roused only by the primitive emotions of lust and anger. The same could probably be said of the English, though they’d likely piss themselves before they admitted to lust in decent company.
Stoicism was not a lack of feeling, but an ability to control expression of that feeling. One learned stoicism in the cramped, smoky confines of a longhouse. One learned depths of reserve and patience, with oneself and others. The alternative was to brave brutal winters alone, facing impossible survival odds.
Monique had understood this, or at least accepted that it was so when Asher had explained it to her. Asher missed her with a jagged ache, missed the sound of her laughter and the way she’d been able to steady him with a look, with a touch. He missed the privilege of comforting her with his body and with his simple presence.
He was not in love with Hannah Cooper, and she was not in love with him. His offer of marriage had been impulsive and pragmatic, and her rejection of it should not have stung, particularly when she was right: he was bound to Scotland, while her obligations were in Boston.
And yet, Asher did not leave his place outside her door until the sound of her weeping had ceased.
Eight
“It’s this wretched weather.” Enid took a sip of her tea then set the cup down on the tray in her lap. “If only it would warm up. And that bitter wind… all the flowers will be ruined.”
