Page 66 of The MacGregor's Lady
Well done of the boy, if Spathfoy said so himself. “Precisely my point. If any one of those guests had—”
“Asher knows that,” Connor said softly. “And the lass needs a husband, apparently. He knows that too.”
Spathfoy’s wife began to unlace her boots, a development a prudent husband took note of. “You’re saying Balfour is trying to compromise Miss Cooper?” For appearances lent that theory a deal of credibility.
“Never that. He’s trying to convince her. There’s a difference between when a man merely desires a woman and when he adores her.” Julia offered Connor more cake while Spathfoy nigh goggled at the smile Connor MacGregor bestowed on his wife in a public location. “Though I’ll tell you something, Spathfoy.”
The earl had to blink, because his countess’s naked feet were coming into view. He adored those feet. He liked to get one in his hand, the better to guide the accompanying knee an inch wider as he—“If you’re going to offer some auld Scottish profundity, MacGregor, I suggest you be about it before Julia has decimated the cake.”
“Hannah Cooper is no blushing debutante. She knows full well what the consequences might be of kissing stray earls behind the bushes. She wasn’t exactly fighting him off.”
No, she hadn’t been. Upon reflection, Spathfoy allowed that the lady had been devouring thestrayearl every bit as enthusiastically as Spathfoy himself nibbled on any available part of his countess—usually right before the baby awoke.
Said countess rose to her bare feet. “I’m going wading, Spathfoy. Will you accompany me?”
Spathfoy’s countess was not a formal sort of countess unless the situation demanded it. In soft Gaelic, he answered her. “I would follow you anywhere, my dearest love, provided you eventually led me to a secluded part of the nearby woods.”
Connor laughed around a mouthful of cake while Julia slipped off her boots.
***
“A lovely day for travel,” Draper informed his mount. The beast sported a reset pair of rear shoes, and an improved gait for having enjoyed a day of leisure in a greening pasture courtesy of Theobald MacDuie and his lovely if taciturn helpmeet, Maud. Draper himself was a touch the worse for the delay, owing mostly to MacDuie’s private brew.
“Has cousins in the distillery business over by Glasgow,” Draper mused. “Never hurts to have cousins in the distillery business.”
Draper did not take out his flask to emphasize the point. He wouldn’t be taking out his flask until noon at least, when an enormous breakfast of bannocks, eggs, and ham would have settled, and Draper’s thoughts might be settled as well.
Drink loosened a man’s tongue, even a man like Theobald MacDuie.
“Farmers are all talkers at heart,” Draper observed as his mount shuffled along. “Some are the coy variety. They take a little coaxing first, but then the floodgates part, and gracious, they can hold forth.”
The bedamned Sassenach, the barmy, perpetually breeding Queen and her infernalmeinHerrof a consort, the sneaking Russians, the bastard thieving Americans, the perennially revolutionary French, who were lousy farmers in a good year… the Venerable MacDuie was poet laureate of the international insult.
He’d liked Hannah Cooper though, the pretty little red-haired lass who’d come through with her great strappin’ laddie of a fellow weeks earlier. MacDuie had approved of the way the lady had looked at her man with such besottedness and had given him no trouble—even though Miss Cooper had been an American.
This observation, made through teeth clenched around mine host’s pipe, was followed by a pointed look at Mrs. MacDuie at her station by the sink. She had banged a few pots and plates in answer, the Scottish wife’s version of a minor scold.
Another pass of the jug, and more of the story had come out, about how a crappin’ miserable excuse for an English travelin’ coach had gone ass over teakettle in the snowy ditch, and the strappin’ laddie and his little American princess—he’d called her that once, “Princess”—had had to cast themselves on guid Scottish hospitality lest they fall further victim to the elements.
The recitation had trailed off into another volley of banging pots and marital glowers. Farmers were talkers at heart, but more often than not, farmers’ wives dealt in home truths and plain speaking—even when banging their pots.
“Fenimore will be pleased, you know,” Draper reflected. “Proud of the boy’s resourcefulness. A Scottish winter night in the countryside isn’t to be trifled with.” The horse did not seem impressed, but the laird would be, both with Balfour’s skills and with what a little gratitude and sympathy directed toward an overworked farmwife had yielded.
“MacDuie did not exactly break any confidences, but he should have spent a bit of the earl’s coin on his missus.” The selfsame missus who had refilled Draper’s flask as the old man had taken himself out to the jakes. In MacDuie’s absence, she’d indulged in a bit of righteous Christian muttering.
About American girls being no better than they should be, and leading fine Scotsmen astray at the first opportunity.
About what it took to remain alive through a night on the Scottish moors in winter.
About how the wee “princess” had sported no ring, though she’d surely had every opportunity to enjoy the privileges of holy matrimony with her Scottish escort.
As Draper cast back over MacDuie’s recounting, he realized MacDuie had avoided even implying that the couple had sheltered at the croft through the night, while the wife had flatly, albeit quietly and with every concern for the American girl’s soul, contradicted her husband’s chronology.
And neither husband nor wife had mentioned the delicate auntie tasked with chaperoning the host and his guest.
How… interesting.
As noon approached, Draper took stock of the stretch of road before him. Green rolling hills fell away to the south, the tang of the sea came on a breeze from the east, and the sun shone benevolently from above. Spring was making a good show—at the moment.
