Page 41 of The MacGregor's Lady
“It’s solid,” he called out, “not a crack to be heard.”
Boston had its share of winter weather, being a northern seaport. It had ponds, and children and even courting couples who skated on the ponds, but never in years and years of observing had Hannah seen anybody perform on skates as the earl could.
He built up speed in circuits of the perimeter, crossing his front foot over the back in an accelerating tempo; then somehow he was spinning rapidly in place, like a human top. He could ease out of his spins into slower loops then take off in the opposite direction. He finished with a small turning leap, landing easily then coming to a scraping stop right before Hannah’s bench.
“It’s solid,” he said again, grinning even as his chest worked to drag in air. “Come out on the ice and see for yourself, Boston.” He extended his long arm, his bare hand reaching for Hannah.
She put her gloved fingers in his, rose, and tottered down the bank.
The ice did not crack, and the earl did not drop her hand.
“Have you skated much, Hannah?”
Good. He would call her Hannah on this outing. She needed him to call her Hannah so she could call him Asher. “As a child, but not since I fell.”
“We all fall, but I’ll not let you fall today—unless it’s to land on a nice, soft earl.”
He would be about as soft as the oak bench Hannah had just left. “How do we do this?”
He moved around, shifting as easily on the ice as if he were barefoot in soft spring grass. “We begin in the traditional English manner, with a promenade.”
“Aslowpromenade.”
He grinned at her, slipped one arm around her waist, and clasped her left hand in his left. “On three.”
Hannah gave him credit for not moving until the count of three, she gave him credit for sliding along with her at a pace more funereal than decorous, and she gave him credit for being solid and warm and—Some unevenness of the ice, a protruding leaf, some infernal thing had Hannah’s skates shooting in opposite directions. In one moment, she went from being a statue moved by the earl’s impulsion to a panic in progress.
“I’ve got you, Boston. I’ve got you.”
He growled it in her ear, his hold on her implacable. He had her. He would not let her fall.
“Try again,” Hannah said. “I’ll pay more attention.” To her feet rather than her escort.
He organized them again in promenade position and started Hannah on another slow glide. “I caught you admiring my sporran, you know.”
“What’s a sporran?”
“My purse. I made this one when I first got to Scotland, leatherwork being something I’d been learning since infancy. Let’s turn a bit, shall we?”
He moved her in a slow arc, then a wide figure eight. “How’s the lift working?”
“It’s different. I can tell it’s there.” It wasn’t entirely comfortable, either. “I feel taller.” Straighter, but she wasn’t going to admit that.
“You’ll probably ache some from the unaccustomed arrangement of the joints.”
“I ache from the accustomed arrangements. Tell me about your family.”
***
Hannah clung to Asher’s hand, and yet her voice was admirably steady. A man who didn’t have his arm around her waist or his hand laced with hers wouldn’t know she was scared.
Nor would he be able to catch the scent of lavender that clung to her person.
“I have three younger brothers, Ian, Gilgallon, and Connor. Mary Fran is the baby of the family, but call her that, and she’ll skelp your bum but good.”
“Skelp?”
“Paddle, spank. Try moving your right foot, just a wee push…”
