She tilted her head and after raising her eyebrows gave him an extended, expectant look.
He cupped her jaw, rubbing his big thumb over her cheekbone. “I meant, my leavin’ for London depends on whether ye say yay or nae to marryin’ me.”
Chapter 25
Dugall wasn’t certain exactly what Gwendolyn’s reaction might be to his second impromptu proposal in just over an hour, but a fit of nervous giggles hadn’t topped the list of possibilities, even if the musical mirth caused an answering twitch of his own mouth.
Truth to tell, hilarity hadn’t been on the list at all.
Tears of joy?
Aye.
Peppering his face with excited kisses?
Aye.
An exuberant hug?
Aye.
Declarations of love?
He had hope for such.
Each had crossed his mind as well as surprise or astonishment that he was indeed serious about wedding her.
More serious than about anything else in his life.
Her giggles finally subsided, and still wearing a large grin, she swiped at the corners of her eyes with the edge of the sheet. “Please forgive me. I fear Yvette liberally dosed the tea with whisky, and I quite forgot myself.”
Her face and eyes did have a spirit-born glow, as did her bemused smile.
“Marry you,” she muttered. “That’d make five betrothals. Surely that’s a record somewhere.”
Verra well could be, but this time she’d actually find herself wed.
Gwendolyn Ferguson.
Aye, the name had a lovely ring to it.
She hiccupped and slapped a hand over her mouth while giving him a chagrined peek.
Just how much whisky had the toddies contained?
Dugall didn’t have any flowers, or sweets, nor had he composed an ode or sonnet. Hell, he didn’t even have a ring. He’d rather botched the second proposal too, so much so, she’d not taken him at his word once more.
Still, no time like the present.
Clasping Gwendolyn’s uninjured hand, Dugall sank to one knee beside the bed. “Gwendolyn McClintock, I’ve loved ye since I awoke in that cart and looked into yer magnificent eyes. I’d be honored above all men if ye’d consent to be my wife.”
Gwendolyn’s jaw went slack for an instant before she recovered herself and tugged her hand loose.
Blast and damn.
Too short? Not romantic enough?
He ought to have waited until he could gather a few posies, although where he was supposed to find blossoms this time of year was beyond him. Even the heather was done for the season.
Probably should’ve made a trip to Edinburgh. He could’ve purchased a few sentimental tokens, done something to make the moment more memorable.
Normally, he was quite the romantic. So why had his usual adeptness vanished like steam wafting from a teacup?
“Are you daft, Dugall? You cannot marry me. And there’s no need for such a sacrifice now in any event, though I do heartily appreciate the chivalry behind the gesture.”
Chivalry be hanged.
There wasn’t a blasted thing noble about asking her to be his wife. He wanted her at his side for the remainder of his days. Purely selfish motivation promoted him, and he’d neither deny it nor paint it pretty.
Quite simply, he needed her far more than she needed him.
Despite her chirpy rejection, Dugall detected the merest gleam of something in her eyes, and her gracious smile seemed forced at the corners.
He rose and rather than take his former seat on the bed, crossed his arms and rested a shoulder against the heavy, carved posts.
“Lass, ’tis nae sacrifice, I assure ye.”
She pinched her lips together, then opened her mouth but snapped it shut again without uttering a sound. Darting a glance his way, she gave a slight shake of her head, sending the curls caressing her shoulders to pirouetting. Inhaling, the whole while tormenting the lace-edged counterpane, she sat up a bit straighter, and met his gaze.
“Dugall, answer me one question, if you will. Does the Diplomatic Corps countenance married agents?”
“Nae.” Hadn’t he already told her that? Mayhap not. Ewan might’ve mentioned it, too. “They dinna want their operatives distracted.”
“Well, there you have it.” She threw both her hands up and promptly flinched and clutched at her sore arm. “What kind of woman would I be to selfishly accept your offer? You’d be giving up what you’ve most desired, and I cannot help but think in time, you’d come to begrudge your choice. You mustn’t forfeit this opportunity, the likes of which will never come along again.”
Och. Gwendolyn hadn’t said she didn’t want to accept. Only gave her reason for not doing so. Two vastly different things. A selfless excuse. And one that gave him hope and filled him with unfamiliar giddiness.
He chuckled, earning him a decidedly peeved glare, her eyes all but shooting green sparks.
“Forgive my naiveté, but what is humorous about what I just said?”
Wise man that he was, he didn’t remind her that but moments before, she’d laughed until tears leaked from her eyes.
Dugall did sit then, and clutched her hand to his chest. “Ye are what I most desire, lass.” He flattened her palm over his chest. “Do ye feel my heart beatin’?”
Eyes wide and uncertain, she gave a cautious nod.
“Every beat, leannan, is for ye. Ye twist my thoughts, keep me awake at night. And when I do sleep, ye invade my dreams. Ye’ve melded with my spirit to such an extent, that I dinna ken where I end and ye begin. I’m no’ whole without ye.”
The temptation to take her in his arms and show her just how much he loved her, hummed through his veins, channeling its way to his heart.
Unmoving, except for the shallow rise and fall of her chest, she stared at him for so long, the flicker of hope he’d harbored faded bit by bit.
“How can you forsake something so important to you? You told me yourself you’d yearned for this very thing like nothing else since you were a wee lad. Becoming an agent is your lifelong goal.” Peering deeply into his eyes, she gripped his forearm. “You cannot, must not, give up your dream.”
“I think I ken my own mind.”
She crossed her arms, as much as she was able to given her wound, and notched her pert chin up at a mutinous angle. “I won’t permit it. The guilt would haunt me all my days.”
He reclaimed her hand, linking her long, delicate fingers between his thick, roughened digits.
“Sometimes, we strive for somethin’, believin’ with our whole being that if’n we can achieve that elusive thing, that we’ll be content. And many times that might be so, unless ye’re as blessed as I’ve been to have somethin’—someone—even more special and important cross my path.”
Or be run down by her carriage.
He’d go to his grave, grateful for her driver’s cowardice.
“And then the former passion loses its luster and appeal. Because she is so glorious, so perfect right down to the adorable freckles pepperin’ her nose, nothin’ else matters.”
He placed a quick peck on that upturned nub.
“You think my freckles are adorable?” She touched her nose, wonder shining in her eyes. “Really?”
Out of all that pretty speech, it was his love of her freckles that won her over?
“Aye, lass. Especially that tantalizing one just below yer left ear.” He touched the love mark, wishing she wasn’t injured and he could yield to the impulse to place his lips where his finger had just been.
She searched his face, a mixture of hesitation and yearning swirling in her eyes. She was afraid. Frightened of taking a chance, of being disappointed and rejected again.
He co
uld see it clearly, in the shadow that shaded her eyes, reshaping her countenance from happy to troubled.
“Gwendolyn, I love ye.”
A timorous smile curved her mouth as she blinked back tears. “You’d have regrets.”
“Aye, if’n I didna persuade ye to marry me, and let me help ye raise those two hellions.” He winked. “That alone ought to have ye callin’ for the reverend before the day’s end.”
A watery chuckle escaped her, and she brushed a tear away with her bent knuckle. “I’ll admit, that tempts me mightily. But what will you do instead of working for the Corps? I rather hoped to allow Lloyd to stay on as Suttford House’s agent. Especially now that he isn’t kin to McClintock. He’ll need a position. And once Jeremiah’s of age, he’ll take over what responsibilities I’ll carry. I actually expect he’ll be ready before his majority.”
Dugall winked again and waggled his eyebrows. He leaned forward and whispered, “The whisky distillery has great appeal. And I think yer linen factory suggestion is brilliant, too. Why no’ try both?”
“But I don’t have funds for—”
“Shh.” Placing two fingers across her lips, he quieted her objection. “I have a tidy sum set aside, and I’ve nae doubt Ewan would want to invest, too.”
She tapped her chin with her forefinger. “And I could invest a portion of Julia’s and Jeremiah’s funds from the plantation also. If overseen diligently, they might see a handsome profit.”
Excitement danced in her eyes as the first fluffy snowflakes sifted from the sky outside.
He laid his palm against her satiny cheek. “Say aye. Marry me, mo chroi. Tha goal agam ort.”
My darling. I love you.
Her eyes widened, pleasure flushing her cheeks as she recognized the Gaelic.
“Are you sure, Dugall? Absolutely, without a single doubt or speck of hesitation?” She cupped his hand framing her face and closed her eyes, her voice the merest thread. “For ’tis better to reject you now than for us to wed, and I have to watch remorse and disenchantment transform your love to something I couldn’t bear.”
Turning her face so that but an inch separated their mouths, he placed a tender kiss on her lips. “As positive as that’s snow fallin’ from yonder sky.”
Dugall wrapped his arms around Gwendolyn, mindful of her wound, and drew her near.
Her pulse beat frantically at the base of her throat, but her eyes held a woman’s invitation, before her lashes fluttered closed.
He lowered his head once more, eager to drink deeply of the nectar of her mouth. Without hesitation, she opened, her tongue jousting with his, and the hunger he’d kept in check burst free of its boundaries.
A child’s giggle interrupted the blissful moment, and Dugall raised his head as Gwendolyn gasped and jerked away.
Julia’s elfin face, one hand covering her mouth, peered around the edge of the door. She glanced over her shoulder, saying, “I was right! I told you, you donkey’s behind. Aunt Gwenny is too gonna marry Mr. Dugall. She’s kissing his face off right now.”
“Good heavenly days, that child will be the death of me yet,” Gwendolyn murmured, her lips dewy from his kisses, and color flaring across her cheeks.
Passion-induced or embarrassment?
Both, perhaps.
Dugall chuckled and moved to a more discreet position. None too soon either.
A moment later, the door swung open all the way, and seven eager-faced children swarmed into the room, all talking at once as they clambered toward the bed.
A grin wide enough to park a coach split Kandie’s face as she trundled in behind her wards. Her rich laughter filled the room. “Fo’ certain, the chil’ be right, dis time.”
Dugall swung Julia onto his lap and pulled Jeremiah near his side. “What say ye? Would ye like me to marry yer aunt?”
“Oh, yes. It’s the most romantiestest of things,” Julia breathed.
Jeremiah nodded, and said, “She means romantic.”
Not to be outdone, the other five chorused their approval as well.
“What say ye, Gwendolyn, my love?”
Eyes shining, her gaze touched on everyone before settling on him. “How soon?”
Och. She didn’t want to rush into the union. He shoved aside his disappointment. Looked like he’d be visiting Loch Arkaig until he took her delectable form to bed. “We can wait for as long as ye like, Gwenny.”
His groin gave a disgruntled twitch.
Too bad for ye, laddie. I’m no’ about to rush the lass.
She smiled, a decidedly impish gleam in her green eyes. “How long will it take for a cleric to get here?”
Epilogue
21 June 1826
Suttford House, Scottish Highlands
For the umpteenth time, Gwendolyn leaned on the balustrade and gazed at the tranquil scene before her. Twilight had settled on the Highlands, and the noise and bustle of the builders didn’t intrude upon the peaceful moment.
The buildings under construction paralleled Suttford Bourne: the distillery to the left and the linen factory to the right. Even from here she could smell the fresh wood.
Dugall had proven brilliant when it came to both endeavors, and as he’d predicted, Ewan had been keen to invest. Lloyd had surprised them with his eagerness to help as well.
A movement below her window caught her eye, and she bent over the handrail, her loose hair brushing the railing. Dugall preferred that she sleep with the mass unbound, which gave her a devil of a time brushing it in the morning. But he so adored her hair, she couldn’t refuse him.
“Working late again, Lloyd?”
He turned and peered up at her, and even in the dim light, his teeth flashed in a broad smile. “I wanted to check on the new foal.”
He didn’t know it yet, his birthday wasn’t until next month, but the filly was his if he wanted her, and given he’d spent hours with the sweet-faced darling, he’d be overjoyed.
Jeremiah’s knickers might twist a trifle. He’d repeatedly hinted that as the laird, he was old enough to have a horse. Dugall had wisely assigned him stable duties.
“Until the lad learns what goes into carin’ for a horse, he’s got nae call demandin’ one of his own, even if he be the laird.”
Lloyd had proven his worth over and over, and though they weren’t actually kin, she’d grown to think of him as her cousin.
Not so much the Whitworths, both of which Gwendolyn had learned by way of Fenella’s eavesdropping, had subtly fed Dolina’s hatred. Oh, nothing as brazen as actually encouraging her to shoot anyone, but a constant string of grumbles, complaints, and grievances, inflaming her anger.
They’d steadily stoked Dolina’s fury, and when confronted about their part, their first concern had been whether they’d be permitted to remain at Suttford House.
Those two had threated Fenella with dismissal, and with her mother ill, and Fenella the only source of income, she’d been terrified to come forward with the truth.
Especially after the attempts on Gwendolyn’s life. She thought she’d be blamed. But after Dolina’s death, Fenella could keep her silence no longer. She fretted about the new laird’s safety if he returned to Suttford and the Whitworths still lived there.
Good thing Lloyd had already promised Elspeth she could marry her innkeeper—because once Gwendolyn learned of the Whitworths’ subterfuge, she ordered them from Suttford. Made them pack that very instant, and they were on their way within the hour.
That was what Elspeth had been whining about that day in the corridor. She’d wanted her mother to remain at Suttford House, and Lloyd had told her circumstances had changed. So, Elspeth had married her lover. But dear Mama had gone with her, much to Elspeth’s new husband’s chagrin.
Dugall wandered out onto the balcony, one of
the letters Gwendolyn had found in her grandparents’ things in one hand. “I’m surprised ye didna have me read these sooner, leannan.”
Glancing over her shoulder, she shrugged. “I honestly forgot about them. I did have an inclination along those lines when we first arrived, but things became as chaotic as coons in a cupboard, and I plumb forgot until today.”
She turned around and, leaning against the rail, pointed at it. “What do they say?”
“They’re love letters yer grandfather wrote yer grandmother while at university. From what I gleaned, they’d been in love for years. He hadn’t wanted to betray his brother, but their love was too strong.”
“Like Marilyn and Benjamin.”
“Aye. The difference bein’, I think, is that ye would’ve understood, and though perhaps ye’d have been hurt, ye’d have called off yer betrothal and allowed them to wed. Gerard McClintock would’ve never done somethin’ as unselfish. So in the end, he forced their elopement.”
A light breeze grabbed several strands of her hair and toyed with them. She caught the tresses and twisted them into a rope. “Does he say anything about . . .? What I mean is, is there any reference to Gerard being my grandfather?”
Dugall folded the crumpled letter and then reaching inside the balcony doors, set it on a table. “Aye.” He crossed to her and after kissing her forehead, bent over and kissed her rounded belly.
“Hello there, laddie.”
Gwendolyn laced her hands in his hair and gently forced his head upward. “Or lassie.”
He grinned up at her before kissing her tummy again. “Wee bairn, yer mither and I canna wait to see ye.”
Who’d have thought this brawny, strong-as-a-plow-ox Highlander would be so sentimental over his wife’s expecting their child?
Softly boxing his ears, she asked, “Are you going to tell me, or do I have to fret even longer about the possibility that Gerard McClintock’s blood runs in my veins?”
Seductive Surrender (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 6) Page 22