Page 94 of The MacGregor's Lady
“That’s an honor, isn’t it?”
“It… is. I supposedly have a well-rounded view on relations with Canada and the United States. In truth, somebody is thinking I won’t know enough of British politics to cause much trouble, possibly Spathfoy’s dear papa, the very English Marquess of Quinworth.”
They would soon gain the summit, spread their picnic, and have what privacy Asher could manage atop one of the most popular walking destinations in the realm.
“This a positive sign, though, isn’t it?” Hannah’s gaze flicked over him. “An acknowledgement of your worldly sophistication compared to the insular lords and squires responsible for managing the empire.”
“Possibly. More likely it’s Victoria meddling in the neighbors’ business. The Lords does little anymore but debate and bluster and rattle sabers.”
And yet, Hannah had a point too. Victoria, for reasons of her own, had taken more than a passing interest in the MacGregor family situation. She was also quite fond of Mary Fran’s husband, Matthew, though nobody could explain that either. To refuse the opportunity to serve in the parliamentary delegation would not be… prudent.
“You should accept this,” Hannah said, pausing as they rounded the bend onto the top of the hill. “You should wade in among the blustering fools and speak your truth, not because you understand the New World better than any of your peers, though you do, but because you understand it might be important that epidemics do not come from foul miasmas.”
The view was magnificent, and Asher knew it well. Edinburgh and the sea lay stretched out in one direction; the interior of Scotland lay in the other. Both had beauty and heart, though the fairer view lay to the west.
And yet, what Asher saw was not sweeping vistas and dramatic Scottish skies, but the woman who understood him, who recognized what motivated him, and what would sustain him when parliamentary rules of order were threatening his sanity.
He saw the only woman he would ever propose to. “Let’s choose our spot.”
She smiled again, the curving of her lips a little softer this time. “You don’t want to dwell on the parliamentary honor, but you’ll go back and read your monographs, then consider your obligation to your queen with all her little princes and princesses. You’ll mention this to your brothers. Then you’ll think of little John, thriving in his parents’ care now, but so small and helpless, and the decision will already be made.”
Yes.Unbidden, the sensation of John, a wee scrap of a lad bundled against Asher’s chest, hit him like the slap of the heather-scented wind whipping across the summit.
“I had intended to buy myself a few weeks of dithering before committing one way or the other. Where shall we enjoy our meal?”
She brushed another glance his way and hooked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “A few weeks of dithering won’t change the outcome. Let’s find a place where we won’t be blown into the sea by a strong gust of fresh Scottish air.”
They chose a spot well back from the precipice, in the lee of a small, stony black bluff and well away from paths few were treading on a weekday afternoon. When the footmen arrived with the hamper, Asher waved them away to eat their own meals in some other sunny spot.
Hannah dropped to the tartans spread on the sparse grass. “I do like the absence of a chaperone, or the almost-absence. My guess is we’re supposed to conclude, given enough latitude, that the blessings of marriage outweigh our misgivings.”
He settled himself beside her, prepared to argue with a lady. “They are notourmisgivings, Boston.”
She opened the hamper and peered inside as if a crystal ball or magic carpet might be found therein. “So you’ll move to Boston with me, spend the rest of your days as an earl in absentia? Leave wee John to the epidemics, and have the next earl raised in complete ignorance of his birthright? I am vastly relieved to hear this.”
Had her voice not held a slight catch, had she not been rummaging blindly in the hamper, Asher might have accused her of meanness.
She hadn’t a mean bone in her body, more’s the pity. He shifted across the blankets and knelt up so he could wrap his arms around her. “I know, Hannah, in the marrow of my bones and in my soul that you are the woman I should take to wife. I know I am the man whom you should wed. I have no misgivings on that score, and neither do you. We could spend a few years in Boston—”
Hannah shook her head, her suffering palpable even in so simple a gesture. “And what of my mother? When Grandmother dies and the boys grow up, what of my mother? She is far from elderly. Do we send our firstborn son to Ian and Augusta when he’s eleven years old, part him from all he knows to live with strangers across the sea?”
He wanted to stop her words, wanted to slip his hand over her mouth, but she would torture herself with these thoughts whether she shared them or not, and if this was all he could bear with her—the doubts and anxieties and regrets—then bear them he would.
“Asher, I’m sorry. Saying these things solves nothing, but I am so very sorry.”
Something like anger, though not as corrosive, gave him the strength to turn her loose. “I amnotsorry. Not sorry we’ve met, not sorry we’ve had these few weeks, not sorry for any of it.”Notsorrythey’d been lovers.He kept that last thought to himself, lest it cause her more torment.
She sank back on her heels and studied him. “You mean that.”
He did. Realizing this felt like a shift in the wind from one brisk, challenging direction to another, though the second direction bore the faint, welcome scent of home. Rather than let her see that far into his soul, he took his turn sorting through the hamper. “Would you rather I didn’t? Would you rather I shrugged and said our dealings were of no moment, Hannah?”
Her brows drew down in the manner that meant she was focusing on a topic inwardly. “No, I would not. You’re right—the things I regret are the factors we do not control. Had I not met you…”
Had she not met him, she might have ended up married to one of the Malcolms of the world. A man who would take her coin then leave her to fight her own battles. Or she might have been prey to one of her stepfather’s more determined schemes.
Asher shoved that thought off the edge of the precipice some distance up the path. “There’s cold chicken, fruit, scones, cheese, and—Cook was feeling generous—apple tarts in this hamper. Also a decent bottle of Riesling. Shall I open it?”
“Please, and let’s start with the apple tarts. I’m in the mood to enjoy my sweets first.”
