The MacGregor's Lady

by Burrowes, Grace

  “Tell me, Mr. Draper, how does Baron Fenimore go on? I’m given to understand his health may still be troubling him?”

  The baron was happily anticipating his own demise, though it didn’t seem to be troubling him. Perhaps the thought of rejoining his baroness consoled him. “He’s as well as may be, your ladyship. I bring his felicitations to the household, of course.”

  Though if Fenimore knew Draper was reduced to calling on in-laws due to a lack of even cab fare, Fenimore would not be pleased.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Draper. I’ll be but a moment.”

  She left him alone in a room for which many trees had given their lives. Paneling covered every surface, a warm blond oak that rose up the walls and erupted into ornate molding. The desk was of the same wood, as was the mantel over the fireplace. Compared to Fenimore’s cramped, camphor-scented office, this room was celestially airy, organized, and attractive.

  A man could nap here in one of the big, well-padded chairs flanking the desk.

  Because Draper had closed his eyes to contemplate such a possibility, the bang of the door startled him.

  “Chamber pot’s under the sideboard. Her ladyship will be fussing the kitchen for a moment, if you’ve a need of privacy.”

  The footman busied himself closing the curtains, shutting out a view of the back gardens and dimming the room somewhat. The fellow was sandy-haired, freckled, and spoke with a slight burr.

  “You’re sure?”

  “She said you looked like travel hadn’t agreed with you, and I wasn’t to slam the door for my own entertainment.” The fellow smiled and winked, for which Fenimore would likely have fired him.

  Fenimore, who welcomed death.

  When the countess reappeared some minutes later, the same footman was in tow, no smile in evidence. He set an enormous tea tray down on a table before the hearth. Draper looked away from all that gleaming silver and the sandwiches and fruit sitting upon it.

  When the footman had withdrawn, the countess turned a dazzling smile on her guest. “Now, Mr. Draper, my every instinct tells me you’ve had an adventure. I shall be desolated if you don’t share it with me down to the last detail.”

  Unlike the sunshine, the glaring floors, or the gleaming silver, the countess’s smile did not hurt Draper’s eyes. Her smile, so full of benevolence and good cheer, beckoned to him and offered a promise of comfort and consolation. She was the sister of two MacGregor spouses, after all, and cousin to Augusta, Baroness of Gribboney, who was married to a third MacGregor.

  The countess’s smile was the smile of a family member welcoming a prodigal home. Draper glanced up at a corner of the room, where a fat cherub swaddled in oaken clouds was wielding a wooden bow aimed directly at the tea set.

  St. Louis had not deserted the weary traveler after all.

  “Well, your ladyship, there was a card game, you see. On the train. In the convivial spirit of the impromptu gathering, my flask made its usual appearance.”

  Her gaze filled with commiseration. She poured a steaming cup of tea, added a dash of sugar and a dollop of cream. “Do go on, Mr. Draper.”

  By the time he’d downed three cups of very fine oolong, and even managed a nibble of buttered scone, he reached the part about arriving in Manchester, of all the godforsaken destinations, without the very flask given to him by his own dear granny, and without his wallet either.

  “The flask, of course, was the greater loss,” he observed.

  “Of course it was, you poor man.”

  Whereupon the Earl of Spathfoy joined them, forcing Draper to start the whole miserable tale all over again, though this time he began his story from the point where he’d come upon Theobald MacDuie’s smallholding north of Berwick-Upon-Tweed.

  Seventeen

  The pain was like a brutally laced emotional corset, offering discomfort from every direction, impinging on Hannah’s every thought and impulse. While the wheels of the train rumbled rhythmically beneath her feet, Hannah stumbled about mentally, trying to grasp that Asher MacGregor had procured them a license to marry.

  Which was the reason—the only reason—he’d gifted her with his intimate favors. She watched him in the close confines of their railcar as he played cribbage with Ian.

  Were Hannah to marry Asher, such a sight would become prosaic, commonplace. She would not notice that he looked tired, that with his sleeves cuffed back, his exposed wrists had a particular masculine appeal.

  She would not notice that his brothers and sister watched him in stray moments, as if making sure he were still among them.

  “You are a thousand miles away, Hannah Cooper.” Augusta’s voice was kind, offering distraction, only if distraction would be welcome. Her observation was quiet, too, the noise of the train ensuring an odd measure of privacy.

  “I’m wondering why my grandmother’s letters have grown so sparse. She’s a reluctant correspondent, but reliable.” If two letters a month could be considered reliable.

  “The elderly must be allowed their crotchets. I certainly intend to indulge in them when Ian and I are getting on.”

  She kissed her baby on his fuzzy head, the infant apparently content to sleep anywhere, provided he was held in loving arms.

  Another jab at Hannah’s heart: she’d never have children with Asher MacGregor. Never catch him looking at her the way Ian regarded his Augusta when she tended to the child.

  “How is it Asher spent years in the Canadian wilderness?”

  Augusta’s expression didn’t change, but her violet eyes filled with sympathy.

  “He wasn’t in the wilderness for the entire duration. For at least the last few years, he was mostly on the coast, enjoying the blandishments of civilization. I’m told your father was in the fur trade as well.”

  Hannah managed a nod. She missed her grandmother, she missed her mother. She missed her half brothers, too, with an intensity that was surprising. Lately, though, realizing what she’d leave behind in Scotland, realizing a small part of what her parents had shared and what her mother had grieved, Hannah had also missed her papa.

  “Hannah, are you well? You look as if train travel might not agree with you.”

  No, she was not well and never would be again. “I’m fine. When do we arrive to York?”

  “Within the hour. This child will wake up just in time to ensure Ian and I have no peace until at least the middle of the night.”

  “And yet, you want more children exactly like him.”

  Augusta’s smile was soft, female, and a trifle naughty. “Ian says it’s our duty to see to the succession, at least until Asher marries and he and his countess can take up the job themselves.”

  A question hung in the air, like a knife suspended over Hannah’s composure. Thank a merciful God, her lapse with Asher had been timed such that conception was unlikely.

  “Do you think Asher will ever practice medicine again?” She tossed the question out as a means of changing the topic.

  “It isn’t likely. Belted earls must tend to other obligations. Would you like to hold the baby? He’s ever so dear when he’s sleeping.”

  Hannah reached for the child without thinking. Augusta had never offered before, and Hannah had never presumed to ask. Across the narrow railcar, Ian peered up from his cards and exchanged a glance with Augusta. They communicated much in an instant, about the baby, about train travel, maybe even about plans for later in the evening.

  As Hannah hugged the baby gently, she added to the list of jabs and pinches suffered by her heart: she and Asher would not exchange such potent glances while others looked on without being able to translate the nuances.

  She and Asher would not spend the shank of an evening murmuring to each other of the day’s events in a peaceful darkness.

  She and Asher would not use that license, and it was—all of it—her fault.

  ***

  To cram his entire family together in a few train cars had struck Asher as a brilliant inspiration. With siblings, in-laws, ch
ildren, and a cat underfoot, there was little likelihood he and Hannah would have to deal with each other directly.

  He had forgotten though, or ignored, that such proximity meant they’d all be living on top of each other for two days. Watching Hannah cuddle the sleeping baby had nigh unmanned him, and he had a sense she wasn’t faring much better than he.

  And now, here she was, standing on the platform between the ladies’ sleeping car and the parlor car, wearing her night robe, slippers, and a tentative smile.

  Manners. When all else failed, a fellow who’d been stupid enough to dash out and procure a marriage license still had his manners. “I beg your pardon, Hannah. I didn’t know you were out here.”

  “Nor I you.”

  For an instant, swaying along with the locomotive’s rhythm, they said nothing.

  Bloody goddamned manners, MacGregor. “Are you looking forward to reaching Edinburgh?”

  “Of course. It’s said to be a lovely city, though I was in no mood to appreciate it when I first arrived.”

  “It’s an old city, dating back to before the Romans.” He slipped off his coat and draped it around her shoulders. “I’ll enjoy showing it off to you.”

  Assuming she didn’t take ship for Boston the very next day. The thought nearly brought him to his knees.

  “This coat is marvelously warm. How long will we be staying?”

  How long can I get you to stay? “At least a couple of weeks, though I’d like you to see Balfour, too, assuming you’re willing to tarry that long?”

  She turned so she faced the north country rolling past under the moonlight. “I feel like I’m not going toward anything. I feel like I’m racketing about, like one of those round cheeses that’s rolled down a steep hill for sport.”

  A fine analogy. She was leaving, and because she was leaving, she’d permitted him rare and precious liberties.

  But she wasn’t gone yet. He positioned himself behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. “Do you miss your aunt?”

  She relaxed against him, letting him balance for them both. “Miss her? Are you teasing me? When she declared her stomach too delicate to journey north with us, I wanted to dance one of your reels.”

  “I expect Mr. Trundle did too, discreetly of course. May I kiss you, Hannah?”

  If a man was to suffer the torments of the damned, then they ought to at least be the more enjoyable torments. Not the torment of watching her cuddle Ian’s dratted infant, or the torment of knowing she was leaving.

  Leaving.

  Leaving.

  She turned in his embrace and propped herself against the railing, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her forehead on his chest. “We haven’t spoken much since leaving London.”

  The hour being late, he’d discarded his cravat. Hannah’s tongue grazed his throat.

  “We haven’t had any privacy.”

  “I like your family, Asher. They are very dear, and they are devoted to you and to one another.”

  Unlike her blighted family, all of whom needed Hannah to protect them, or so his informants in Boston implied. He dipped his head to gather her lavender scent. “My family likes you, too. Will you be able to sleep? We’ll reach Waverly Station quite early.”

  She sighed, a weary exhalation that suggested his question was inane, which it was—though bloody polite, too. “I’ll not sleep. You’ll not sleep either. The baby sleeps, Fiona sleeps, and that infernal cat sleeps. Your brothers are no doubt playing cards and drinking until they can’t keep their eyes open, while their wives are ‘resting.’”

  “You should rest too.” And he should go play cards, because if he stood out here with her much longer, he wouldn’t answer for the consequences. “The baby is learning the finer points of poker as we speak.”

  This made her smile, her teeth showing white against the darkness. “Is he taking a wee nip every now and then?”

  “No, but I am. Kiss me, Hannah.”

  She did better than that. She nigh climbed him to fuse her mouth to his, mashing her body against him until his arousal was a throbbing presence between them. It took strength, determination, and cooperation, but within minutes, Asher had her backed against the parlor car, wedged between the wall and the railing, her leg around his hip, and his trousers unfastened.

  “We shouldn’t, Hannah. There could be a child.” Bad things happened when people destined to part procreated. He was the living proof.

  She curled her fingers around his shaft. “Stop being reasonable. Whether we suffer one lapse or two makes little difference.”

  They were up to three lapses, with the fourth impending, when the dratted, blessed woman scooted a little, so that what ought to have been a feat of sexual gymnastics became entirely possible. Asher widened his stance, half-hiked her to a perch on the railing, and probed at her heat, desire clawing its way past reason. “Don’t let me drop you.”

  “Don’t let me fall.”

  They came together in a fit of insanity, as if all the power of the locomotive itself fueled their coupling. He tried to hold back, tried to exercise a little finesse—manners, be damned—but Hannah clutched at him and leveraged herself against the wall to buck into his thrusts.

  “Harder, please, Asher. You have to…”

  He covered her mouth with his, lest somebody hear her demands. She groaned into the kiss while he got a hand firmly under her backside.

  “Better. Hold me tight, Asher.”

  For an instant he let her balance on sheer strength while he found her hand and used her own fingers to apply pressure to a nipple. The sound she made, low, earthy, and voluptuous, went right to his cock.

  He’d seen a meteor once, in the cold, starry depths of the Canadian wilderness. It had streaked into the night sky, growing brighter and brighter as it hurtled across the firmament.

  Hannah’s pleasure was like that. Glorious, incandescent, a perfect complement to the train rocketing them north at the speed of a horse galloping for its life. He lasted only a half-dozen ferocious thrusts longer than she did, pounding Hannah into the wall before he withdrew and spilled onto their bare bellies.

  She recovered first, kissing his jaw. “Put me down. I can feel you shaking.”

  He didn’t want to let her go. He settled for allowing her leg to slide off his hip, while he stood, arm braced above her, panting. That he had her physically cornered was some consolation.

  Her fingers winnowed through his hair, trying to put right what she and the train had utterly disordered. “I think I’ll sleep now.”

  “And I’ll play cards. Stare at them, in any case.”

  They both smiled. As long as conversation wasn’t expected of them, they were on safe ground.

  “You should rest, Asher. I’m going to expect your devoted escort once we get to Edinburgh.”

  “You’ll have it. I’ll expect you to be the scintillating American heiress who had old Moreland mustering his troops.”

  The exchange petered out, and abruptly, Asher was aware of the night wind on his damp, exposed parts. He kissed her again, slowly, a sure way to bring heat back into his system. The words “I love you” began to drum at his brain, but where would that leave them?

  Did a man who loved a woman try to hold her against her will with words?

  Even honest words?

  “Hold still.” Hannah fished in his pockets, produced a handkerchief, and dabbed at herself. She folded the thing over to use on his stomach, then arranged his softening cock in his clothes and fastened his trousers.

  “You are proficient at that, Hannah Lynn Cooper.”

  She tossed a look up at him, as if she’d say something, then changed her mind. When she would have ducked around him, left him on the platform without so much as a good-night kiss, he caught her hand.

  “What were you about to say?” He could not read her expression, but he could feel her unhappiness with every instinct he possessed. “Tell me, Hannah, because this is as much privacy as we’re likely to find, an
d if you were going to say this mustn’t happen again, I agree. It must not. Ever.”

  ***

  What was he saying?

  Hannah put her hand to Asher’s cheek, as if by touching him she could gain powers of divination to defy the darkness around them. Against her palm, his jaw was rough with the beginnings of a beard, and warm.

  She craved that warmth.

  He captured her hand in his own and gently removed it from his person. “Shall we sit, Hannah?”

  He gestured to a bench fashioned on the side of the platform nearest the ladies’ car. A simple, flat surface such as a man might use to enjoy a cigar or to escape from the confines of the train’s cramped compartments.

  Hannah took a seat, gathering Asher’s coat around her. He settled beside her, making no move to put an arm about her shoulders or draw her close.

  So that’s how it was to be?

  “You said this must not happen again, ever. What did you mean, Asher?” Was she to go back to my-lording and Balfouring?

  “I want to touch you. It’s a distraction not to.” He took her hand, though his tone was truculent. “I meant, Hannah Cooper, that after the Alcincoates’ ball, we had a discussion, and that discussion led to indiscretions such as we just enjoyed moments ago.”

  Passionate lovemaking was an indiscretion. He spoke the truth—a truth—but she wanted to pitch him off the train before he could say one more word—or perhaps jump from the train herself.

  “My lord—” Wrong. For this discussion, all wrong. “Asher, I owe you an apology.”

  He brought her knuckles to his lips. “You will explain this apology.”

  The nature of their misunderstanding was apparently clear to him, and yet, she wanted to be the one to acknowledge their mistake. “When we had that discussion, I should have been clearer about my position. I was not accepting your proposal of marriage.”

  “I know that now. You were announcing your intention to take ship. So why are you still here, holding hands with me?”