Page 12 of Lyon of Scotland
Muriel, his former fiancée, a fine and calm Highland girl, the daughter of a neighboring laird, had died while he was in France and Belgium fighting a war and healing from wounds that took every bit of his strength and detachment. Reading the letter that told of her death from fever, he had shifted his cool detachment from his physical pain to the pain of that loss. He felt responsible for the girl’s tragic end—for he knew Muriel had loved a shepherd, a gifted poet, on her father’s estate. But his father, and her own, had insisted that their heirs should marry and join the two glens, and their engagement came about. The shepherd-poet left the glen and Muriel wept for days—but when Dare offered to break it off, she refused. Within weeks, he had been called with others commissioned in the Black Watch to travel to France and onward to war. Three years later, thoughhe felt grief, regret, and deep guilt, he knew Muriel’s death had freed him.
Yet he retreated like a turtle in a shell, relying on his work, his dedication to Scotland, banking emotion for later—a natural tendency honed in boyhood when his father had demanded that his sons and daughter learn discipline and service to others. And that, he realized as he paged through a book without seeing the pages, aye, all that had brought him to this juncture of deeply wanting Hannah, yet holding back, delaying his happiness even when he wanted it, needed it, desperately.
Buck up, his father had told him as the oldest and the heir; straighten the spine and shoulders, take on more responsibility, watch your siblings. As he grew, his father was strict in his advice: choose work to benefit the glen, the Highlands, Scotland, and the Scots; feelings and needs are small compared to the greater need of our fellow Scots. In all things, serve with honor, charity, legacy. Keep to yourself and find contentment in life later.
He had done that; he was doing that now. He had set himself aside and cared deeply about his work, about Scotland and its legacy. But now, standing still and silent, he was struck by a keen awareness that what he needed, the happiness he passionately wanted for himself, might be within reach if he dared—dared!—to let Hannah know he cared, and had always cared for her.
Whatever her answer, he would respect it; whatever direction it went, he would be a different man. He was done with shadows. The revelation, the flash of insight showing him why he had waited so long, changed him in that moment.
He glanced over at Hannah Gordon. With a cerulean smudge on her nose and her plaited hair sliding loose in honeyed tendrils, her impish smile dimpling her cheeks, she was a fetching and winsome creature. He wanted her deeply, aching to love her, his body telling him so, his heart telling him evenmore insistently, his habitual reserve trapping him into silence. No longer.
Either she was a catalyst for the dream, or the dream itself. He had to know.
When Naylor left the workroom moments later, and when Dare saw that he and Hannah Gordon were alone, he felt relieved, glad, and uncommonly anxious.
“My lord,” she said then, coming near, “would you mind very much helping me set these books on the shelves?” She pointed toward a tall bookcase in a corner.
“Certainly.” He let out a long breath, then took the books up again to carry them to the corner and set them on a worktable. “Where would you like them?”
“On the shelves just there, please.” She lifted one of the heaviest books. “This is a volume of ancient armorials that I need to consult for the king’s coat of arms.”
“I was looking through a similar volume in the archive just this morning. Very useful. Here, give me that.” He took the big book from her, his fingers brushing hers in the transfer.
“Thank you so much, Lord Lyon. You do not have to do this.”
“I do not mind. And call me Strathburn, if you will,” he reminded her. “My family title.”
“Strathburn.” She nodded, handing him another book, and when he had shelved that, another. He arranged them, his fingers touching hers, warm skin, pounding heartbeat. “Oh,” she breathed.
“What is it?” He set more books on the shelf, then reached for another from her.
“Your hands. Forward of me, but—was it—in the—”
With her, somehow, he had forgotten his habit of turning his hands so that the blotched pink and pale scars were not too visible. “In the regiment, aye. Will you be returning to Scotlandsoon?” he asked, changing the subject. “Sir George thought you might.”
“I want to—but I cannot just yet.”
He glanced at her, saw her fierce blush. “Too much work to be done here?”
She shook her head, shrugged. “I—made a promise to someone. My engagement is off,” she said suddenly, as if she too wished to move on. “Did you know?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Sir George mentioned. I am sorry,” he murmured.
“I am not.” She lifted her chin. “It was a mistake. He was not…who I thought.”
He shoved a book deeper on the shelf, harder than he meant. “Who did you think he was?”
“An ideal, I suppose. I thought him wonderful, caring, smart. I was wrong. It was distressing, but it is for the best. If only…” She handed him another book. “Have you ever wanted to be happy, sir, just happy, and yet could not seem to keep it for long?”
“We all want to be happy, lass.” He hefted another volume, shifted some others to make room. “I was engaged,” he said then, offering a little of himself, more than he would normally have done. “Before the war on the Continent. While I was away, she died.”
She gasped and set a hand to her throat. “Oh! I did not know. I am so sorry!”
“Do not be sorry. It was a while ago. It changes a person, though it takes time. One learns things and hopefully changes for the better, aye.”
“I am sure you must be better. You are talking to me.” She giggled then, light and sweet. He glanced over his shoulder.
“To you, aye,” he murmured, lips twitching in amusement.
