Page 68 of Lyon of Scotland
Dove muttered something from the sofa, cupping a hand to his head.
Whitworth turned back to Hannah. “You look lovely, Hannah.”
“You do not look very well, I must say. How is it that you are here?”
Whitworth glanced at Sir Walter. “I, ah, came north with these gentlemen.”
“If I may,” Scott said, having been quiet so far. “Oliver knew the fellow and thought he might be at his family’s estate in York. So we decided to sail north with Lockhart and call on him all together. We persuaded him to come to Edinburgh.”
“Persuaded.” Whitworth pushed back his hair to expose a blackened eye. Glancing at Oliver Huntly, Dare noticed then that the young lawyer sported bruised knuckles.
“Ah,” Dare said. “Go on.”
“I believe Mr. Whitworth has something he wants to say,” Scott remarked. He gave the young man a nudge.
“Hannah—Lady Strathburn,” Whitworth began. “I was wrong. Very wrong.”
She lifted her chin, stepped away from Dare. “You were.”
“I realized my error later. Hannah, please understand. Please. I did not think Sir Frederic would put you through such agony as these men have described to me. I thought he would just come after me, so I fled to my parents’ home. I meant to ask for the funds and return.”
“But you never did. You left me to deal with it. And you forged my signature. It was never my debt.”
“I treated you horribly, I know. I was not entirely aware—of what I was doing then. The drink, you see. The opium—Sir Frederic had a hand in that, I will say. He gave me something to calm my nerves. But I know it is my fault. I should have walked away from all of that, the bottle, the gambling. Not from you.”
“So Sir Frederic had a hand in what happened to you?” Hannah looked toward the man who sat bloodied and diminished on the sofa. “Why am I not surprised?”
“He said you were Scottish and I deserved better. He lent me money and gave me a drug to help my anxiousness. But—that was not helpful.”
“It was not. But he had his own reasons, which we are just discovering,” she said.
“I wanted to be a better man for you, Hannah. But I was not. I was weak.”
She did not answer. Dare glanced down to see the gleam of tears in her eyes. She had a soft heart for this sorry lad, this girl, he thought—this girl he loved with every ounce of his being. But he would say nothing. This was hers to resolve as she wanted.
He frowned, waiting. Hannah had indeed found a better man, and he was deeply glad and grateful to be that man. But he had to be worthy of her too, Dare told himself. He must keep his temper in this situation—Whitworth and Dove both, and calm the fist he flexed behind his back. He must summon that icy reserve he maintained so well.
But he did not feel as much compassion for this sorry young gent as she did.
“Mr. Whitworth has something else he needs to do for Lady Strathburn, I believe,” Scott said when Whitworth seemed to pause too long.
“The debt,” Whitworth said. “It is not yours, Hannah. I have come into my own now, since my father has forgiven me and advanced some of my portion to absolve my debts and start new. I hope you can forgive me too.” He was blushing fiercely, looking agonized, head down, hands behind him like a wayward schoolboy.
“I can forgive you,” she said into the quiet. “I am not sure I can forget.”
She was beautiful, Dare thought then, as the afternoon sun shone through the curtains to gloss her dark-gold hair. She was calm and kind and everything to him and he could not take his gaze from her. He could hardly believe she had married him, could hardly believe she loved him as he loved her.
Silent still, he breathed out, watching Whitworth, and suddenly felt more understanding. No wonder the young lout loved her. Anyone would love her. Anyone but Dove—and that even-sorrier fellow would soon reap more consequences than he could ever imagine, if Dare had anything to say about it.
Then Dare knew, with absolute clarity for a moment, that part of his work in life was to protect this beautiful, talented young woman. To watch over her, bring her happiness, help her move her work out into the world. He had not made a good start of that, with no courtship whatsoever, a hasty proposal, a very odd wedding, and an altogether strange start for a marriage. He would make it all up to her.
“I will pay Sir Frederic what I owe him,” Whitworth said then. “And I am so sorry. I did not know how badly this had gone for you. I thought you had gone home to Scotland. I thought your father would take care of you.”
“I did not go to my father. I worked to pay what was owed.”
“Then take this.” Whitworth reached into a pocket and brought out a folded paper. “A bank draft for the amount.” He held it out, his hand trembling noticeably.
Hannah did not move. Dare stepped forward then, took the bank draft, and examined it. He showed it to Hannah, who nodded, then shrugged. A tear slipped down her cheek.
