Page 48 of The MacGregor's Lady
“Your bum. I am—I was—a doctor. I’ve dealt with far less genteel concepts than a lady’s derriere.”
He was still smiling, at her maiden’s blush, no doubt. Hannah checked the tea, and even if it had been nigh transparent, she would have declared it strong enough. “Shall we?” She gestured with her chin toward a small round table by the old-fashioned open hearth.
On the floor above them, some lively, stomping Highland dance came to an end. Augusta, or whoever was at the keyboard, switched to a dreamy triple meter.
“How that infant endures such a racket I do not know,” Hannah said. “He seems to take it all in stride—for a fellow who’s not quite walking.”
A shadow flitted across Balfour’s face as he took the chair beside Hannah’s. “Babies adjust to their surroundings easily enough, as long as their loved ones are close at hand and minding them.”
This was not an entirely medical opinion. “You don’t hold with children being tucked away in the nursery until they can spout Latin verbs and recite Bible passages by the score?”
He crossed his feet at the ankles, which caused the drape of his kilt to shift over his thighs. “I don’t hold with children being expected to labor like adults from their earliest years. I don’t hold with children being turned over to the care of paid strangers, such that their parents are then strangers to them. I don’t hold with letting children starve not ten blocks from some of the wealthiest, most wasteful—”
Hannah patted his hand where it rested near his untouched tea. “I am not the only one who has decided opinions in this kitchen. I think your brother Ian shares your views of child-rearing. He cuddles that baby at every opportunity.”
Balfour blew out a breath. “You want children, Hannah. I’ve watched you with Fiona. She adores you already and is trying to mimic your accent when she’s having tea with her cat.”
And when had his lordship caught his niece entertaining in the nursery?
“We can’t always have what we want. Balfour, are you going to leave me even a smidgen of jam?”
On the next floor up, in the music room, three male voices rose in close harmony, the words indistinguishable, the tone tender and lyrical.
“What I want, Hannah Cooper, is to dance with you. May I have that honor?”
He was in an odd, off mood, with each unlikely topic of conversation bearing a peculiar agitation. Cholera, babies, and now a kitchen waltz.
“Here, in this kitchen, you want to dance?”
“A test of the magic Maiden’s Blush slippers.” He rose and bowed, extending one hand while holding the other behind his back, as if he were in some glittering ballroom, not a deserted, cavernous kitchen.
Shehadmissedhim.Hannah put her bare hand in his and let him draw her into waltz position. “Your brothers sing very well.”
“We made a solid quartet, though Connor probably can’t pull off the impressive counter-tenor he sported as a lad.”
Balfour drew Hannah closer while she tried to attune herself to the phrasing of the music. She wore no corset, he was in barely decent attire—no sporran this time—and still, he didn’t move off with her. He enfolded her against his body, swaying slightly with the music.
The last time they’d been this close, they’d both been fully clothed and dressed for the out-of-doors. The difference was… astounding. Asher MacGregor gave off heat, and without a brisk wind, the scent of him was a concentrated pleasure for Hannah’s nose.
Cloves and ginger, maybe a hint of cinnamon, but also… sadness, a soul weariness that made Hannah lean into him for his comfort as well as her own.
“We’ll start slowly,” he murmured right near her ear. He tucked their joined hands close, so Hannah’s knuckles rested over his heart. Her head rested against his shoulder, their posture becoming so sumptuously intimate, Hannah closed her eyes the better to savor it.
When he shifted his feet, Hannah followed him easily. Behind closed eyes, she entrusted him with her entire balance while she floated, safe and warm in his arms. How long they swayed in the shadows she did not know, but when the melody died away above them and the piano fell silent, she made no move to step back.
“Hannah.” He gathered her closer, his cheek resting against her temple. “Boston. This isna wise. You should go, lass.”
Soon enough, she would go. She would leave, cross an ocean, and not come back.Now, she kissed him, raised her face without opening her eyes, used her fingers on his jaw to orient herself, and pressed her lips to his.
He growled and wrapped both arms around her, turning the kiss from a delicate exploration to a passionate onslaught in an instant. Wanting tore through Hannah, for him, for home, for what she could not have. Wanting and relief to have her hands on him again.
“Balfour—”
“Asher, damn it. Ye kiss a man witless, the least ye can do is use his damned name.”
She planted her nose against his open collar and inhaled him. “Asher. I’ve missed you, missed—”
He hoisted her up onto the counter. “Say my name again.”
