Page 73 of The MacGregor's Lady
On that feeble remonstration, she hunched forward and fell silent, not a silence Asher could read. In the interest of not saying the wrong thing—purely in that interest—he used one hand to knead the muscles between her neck and shoulder blade. “I cannot abide that you are so upset.”
That hadn’t been on his list of things to say—and he did have a list. A well-reasoned, thoroughly rehearsed, intelligently worded list of negotiating points.
She relaxed some under his hand. “You won’t easily be able to find a bride after this, though I don’t think you’ve been looking very hard.”
“How do you think I could possibly—? Come here.” He pulled her back against him, wrapped both arms around her, and rested his cheek against her temple. She hadn’t resisted, not in the least.
“My siblings had a very pointed discussion with me.” It had come out, “M’ siblin’s had a verra pointed discussion w’me.” Asher heard the burr stealing into his inflection and made another mental grab for those well-articulated reasons.
“Siblings will do this,” Hannah said, nuzzling his throat. “Grandmothers know of almost no other kind of discussion.”
Her grandmother was the last person Asher wanted on Hannah’s mind at present. “I am a physician, Hannah, which is why tonight’s situation will not immediately erupt in scandal.”
She pulled back to regard him warily. “You’re saying it willeventuallyerupt in scandal?”
His list had gone completely out of his mind, leaving him drowning in Hannah’s gaze. She expected the truth from him. She deserved the truth, though he hadn’t wanted to force her decision on the matter.
He gently pushed her head back to his chest. “When you remain unwed and are not found to be with child, there are those who will speculate that being a physician, I was in a position to relieve you of your burden.”
Cuttheweebairnfromherverrabodie, was how Ian had put it—shouted it. The most delicate inference in the world couldn’t hide the brutality of the idea, and yet, Ian’s tirade had been inspired by whispers that had already started around the ballroom.
Hannah drew up into a knot of tension in his arms. He waited, holding her loosely, expecting her to cry, to screech, to cryandscreech. Instead, her voice was quiet.
“That is the most vile, vulgar, mean, unfair… how could they accuse you of such behavior when you’ve been nothing but decent, kind, gracious, patient, generous…” She exhaled and went pliant against him for a long, quiet moment. “I cannot abide this.Igiveup, Asher. I surrender. I’m leaving the battlefield to those who find it entertaining to assassinate character and choke the very breath out of women while they do. I don’t know how to fight this, this… army of small-minded venality, and my scheming aunt, and my dratted stepfather. You win. I can’t do this alone anymore.”
Youwin.
For more than a minute, he said nothing. He stroked his hand over her back, trying to sort out feelings that ought not to be engendered by a woman’s acceptance of a marriage proposal.
Sadness was there, for her, because in part her capitulation was caused by her surprising—and gratifying—indignation on his behalf. He hadn’t foreseen that, hadn’t put it on his list.
He also felt some peace. They were to marry, and that felt right. A rebel countess from the wilds of Boston suited him, a treasure no one else had noticed, a woman who had backed, bullied, and blustered her way into his heart without even meaning to.
And he felt… desire. The lust was leavened with relief, to have the chase over and won—her word—and the certainty of mutual pleasure assured. He savored that feeling even as his awareness of Hannah’s body next to his became more acute.
She wore only nightclothes, no stays, no corsetry or bustle. Nothing but cotton, Hannah, and the scent of sweet lavender. When he gathered her closer, she tucked herself against him with every indication of complicity.
“You are falling asleep, my dear. You are worn out.”
She muttered something that was not a protest, so Asher scooped her up and rose, crossing the room with her in his arms. Without her evening finery, she was a smaller package, also more…
Simplymore.
“I hate it here.”
“Love, I know that. You’ll like Scotland, though.”Loveit, he hoped.
He laid her on her bed, drew the covers up over her, then turned to tend to her fire lest he linger overlong on the sight of her. Her braid was a thick, burnished rope against the pillow, her eyes lambent by firelight. He wanted nothing—nothing—so much as he wanted to get into the bed and simply hold her.
And to hell with the riot starting up in his trousers.
“Asher?”
He made sure the logs and coal were pushed to the back of the andirons and the screen was snug up to the bricks. “Go to sleep, Hannah. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Kiss me.”
The last of his sadness on her behalf vanished.
