Page 71 of Lyon of Scotland
“Two weeks old, and adorable.” She longed to hold him again. The desire and the need flowed through her, warming her inside somehow.
“Quite the week,” he said, taking her hand, kissing her gloved knuckles. “My dear Hannah, Lady Strathburn,” he murmured, “I still bless the day I saw you.”
She smiled, teasing. “What day was that, sir? We were both rather foggy.”
“Not that day. Three years, was it, in the fall, I believe, when I walked into your father’s house for the first time. And there you were, in a white gown with a blue sash that I remember matched your eyes. I never forgot the sight of you, or your kindness that day, and thought you never noticed.”
“I did. You wore a kilt of dark green and dark red that day, the only man in a room full of Scotsmen who dared expose his limbs and declare his Highland roots.”
“But then I am a daring sort,” he teased.
“You hardly spoke a word until I took pity on you and asked what sort of jam you preferred on your scones.”
“Any sort,” he said, pulling her close, “so long as you share it with me, my dearest.” He kissed her then, and she melted, warmed beyond the lap robe and the thoughts of family, and the thoughts of what the future might bring, and the more immediate thoughts of what she dared do with Lord Strathburn once they were at home and alone again.
THE END
