Page 96 of The MacGregor's Lady
And abruptly, she no longer wanted to skip and dance or ice skate, though she did still want to run.
***
A ring was a token of eternal regard, and in that sense, Asher was determined that Hannah should have one from him.
And yet, a ring was risky, and not simply because it announced to the entire world that they intended to marry.
Behind all of Hannah’s smiles, behind her affection, behind her comfortable silences and insightful observations, even behind the unfathomable pain of their impending separation lurkedsomething, and it tormented Asher with the same sense of frustration as when he’d tried to diagnose a patient whose symptoms did not add up to a known ailment.
Did Hannah battle the identical feeling regarding him?
“If we’re to stand up at Lady Quinworth’s ball,” he said, “then all will be expecting you to wear my ring.” Hannah’s brows came down, her chin lifted, her expression shifted in a manner that had him adding, “Please let me do this, Hannah. I want to, badly.”
The sails of her indignation luffed, then went slack. “An engagement ring, only.” She swept past him into the shop.
The shop owner, young, blond, natty, and friendly without being in the least obsequious, was a distant relation, which meant the sign was switched to “closed” when Asher and Hannah were through the door. While Hannah had gone for her fittings, Asher had taken one of her rings and spent a morning sorting through settings, gems, and options.
If all he was permitted to give her was a single piece of jewelry, it had to be right.
“You should not be doing this,” she muttered as she stripped off her gloves.
He stuffed her gloves in his pocket as some sort of surety against her departure. “If you raise a fuss before Cousin Alasdair, Lady Quinworth will know of it by luncheon.”
“But rings are expensive.” She hissed this while Alasdair pretended to root around at the back counters. The shop was small and dark, the better to show off a few gleaming glass-and-brass cases, and a scattering of glittering offerings on jewel-toned velvet cloths. The place was without a discernible scent, as if even smells might dim the brightness of the gems.
“Don’t turn up Puritan on me now, Boston. If you won’t wear my ring, I’ll pierce my ear and display your stubbornness to all who meet me.”
He’d do it too,gladly.
“I’ll wear your ring.” She patted his cravat in a manner that said clearly,fornow.
Alasdair emerged from the back room, bearing a small hinged box of polished maple. He set it on the counter. “If my lord would do the honors?”
A knowing smile accompanied the question, and yet, as if he’d presided over many such moments, his cousin’s grin held something of a dare, too. Asher regarded the box then regarded the woman who appeared to be studying a case of silver bracelets.
“Hannah, your hand, if you please.” She straightened and faced him, extending her bare hand.
Asher opened the box and beheld his first attempt at designing adornment for a lady. A fat, happy emerald sat amid a Celtic knot of worked gold, winking merrily in all directions. He slid the ring onto the fourth finger of Hannah’s left hand, wondering if she heard the same words that rang through his mind:Withthisring, I thee wed…
“Do you like it?” He would not surrender her hand until he had an answer to his question.
She didn’t even look at the ring, but rather, kept her gaze locked with his. “I love it. I love it with all my heart, and I always will.”
Damn her, bless her. She was getting even, she was making him want to skip in public, and she was breaking the few pieces of his heart not yet pulverized.
He brought her knuckles to his lips. “That’s… good. I love it, too. It’s… right, somehow. Perfect. Precious, irreplaceable.”
They stood like that, her hand in his, profound sentiments lingering in the air, while Alasdair started chattering about God knew what. No coin was to be exchanged—Asher had made damned sure of that—and Alasdair likely knew better than to try hawking more wares while two hearts broke right before his eyes.
Hannah stepped closer and tucked her arm through Asher’s. “Shall we be going? I recall somebody mentioning a rum bun and a tot of grog.” She smiled up at him, a credible smile of infatuation, while her eyes held a desperate plea.
Takemeawayfromthisplaceandthismoment.
They gained the street, the bright sunshine making Asher blink and hang onto Hannah’s arm more tightly. A coach-and-four clip-clopped past, the sound serving as a pretext to put off conversation for a procession of seconds.
“It’s a beautiful ring, Asher.” Hannah spoke softly. “Should we put it back in its box? My gloves aren’t fitted enough that I could wear them and the ring both.”
The courage of women, as Ian had said, was different from the courage of men.
