The MacGregor's Lady

by Burrowes, Grace

  She could not have looked more beautiful to him.

  “Asher MacGregor, please tell this man he cannot take me to Boston. Tell him you will not allow it.” She had never sounded more crisp, imperious, or Bostonian.

  The temptation to run to her, to snatch her into his arms was overwhelming, but the stakes were far too high for rash behavior. “Why would I not allow it? It’s all ye’ve wanted since ye set foot on Scottish soil, Hannah. It’s your duty, your heart’s desire. If I love ye, and I do, verra much, why would I come between ye and your heart’s desire?”

  “Because—” Her hands fisted at her sides. She closed her eyes and turned her face up to the heavens. “Because you are my heart’s desire. To be your lady is my heart’s desire. The rest…” She looked around at the wide sea beyond the harbor, at the shore, and then at him. “The rest will have to sort itself out. I will need your help, but I need you more. The alternative doesn’t bear… I can see no alternative.”

  Behind him, his brothers were clambering over the rail, their boots thumping onto the deck.

  “Then come to me, Hannah, and be my lady.” He held out his arms, and in her stocking feet, she pelted across the wet deck, as nimble as a goat. Gilgallon swore cheerfully in several languages, and Con and Spathfoy started arguing about who had won the bet.

  Hannah held him tight, her arms lashed around his middle. “Don’t let me go, Asher.”

  “You won’t fall, Hannah.” Though he didn’t turn her loose.

  “No, don’t let me go to Boston. My family has had years to put Step-papa in his place. I can only offer them my home—our home—and hope they’ll accept the invitation. I cannot let their lack of sense become my own.”

  She would have babbled on, would have explained all her reasons and counterarguments and contingency plans to him, but he kissed her, all the argument he needed to make.

  The sailors whistled and stomped, Mills barked orders nobody heeded, and Hannah kissed Asher.

  And kissed him.

  When her enthusiasm for remaining in Scotland was threatening Asher’s ability to walk, he broke the kiss. “Madam, we have an audience.”

  Hannah mashed her nose against his throat. “Good, they can be our witnesses, and your brothers too. The captain can marry us, can’t he?”

  Ian said something in Gaelic that Asher hoped Hannah couldn’t understand.

  “The ship’s captain cannot marry us, Hannah.” He put his lips to her ear. “Under Scottish law, we married the day you had me naked in the hills behind Balfour House. You might want to have a more formal ceremony once your grandmother is done speaking sense to you.”

  “I liked the informal ceremony.” Then her head came up. “My grandmother? I’m not waiting weeks, while we beg and plead and bully a stubborn old woman to get on a ship for Scotland, Asher. She can be impossible. She doesn’t believe in half measures. I tried to reason with her by correspondence, and she wouldn’t even acknowledge my arguments.”

  Another kiss was necessary to stop this tirade. Why didn’t anybody tell schoolboys there was no need to argue with ladies when a more effective tactic lay so close to hand? “Will you wait until we can get you to shore?”

  “To shore?”

  “I asked your grandmother to come to Scotland, Hannah. I begged, I pleaded, I nigh wept on the pages and told my man in Boston to offer my firstborn and my last groat to get the old woman onto one of our ships. I also offered emphatically to host your mother and your brothers for an indefinite stay, and they’ve accepted.”

  Well, in part they had. He could explain the subterfuges necessary to accept his invitation, but Hannah would hardly quibble.

  And if she did, he’d kiss her again.

  Spathfoy clamped a hand on Asher’s shoulder. “So do we stand around in the middle of the harbor all morning, or take turns kissing the bride?”

  “Neither. Hannah, into the boat. I’ll send a tender out to fetch your things before Mills catches the evening tide.”

  Now, now that Spathfoy was proposing inappropriate liberties, Hannah stepped away, though she kept her hand in Asher’s. “There’s something I’d like to do first, Asher. It won’t take long.”

  She said something quietly to Ceely, while Asher withstood his brothers’ grins and taunts—in English, lest anybody fail to comprehend that the ship’s owner had been one whisker away from ruining the rest of his life.

  “You lot get in the damned boat and prepare to man the oars.”

  Spathfoy bowed, Gil saluted, Ian blew him a kiss, and Con performed the elaborate, wrist-twirling, old-fashioned court bow. Asher understood this display for a version of “I love you even when you’re being an ass,” known only to him and his brothers.

  Ceely appeared from below decks with a wooden box in her hands. “Poison, from her ladyship’s auntie. I’m off to pack up that which I spent last night unpacking. Ye’ll excuse me.”

  Hannah accepted the box, which had been tied closed with a red ribbon.

  “Enid’s gift?”

  “Her final lecture. Will you throw it over the side for me?”

  The box was gone, heaved many yards from the ship, to disappear into the water with barely a splash. “Now may I take you to greet your grandmother?”

  “We’re really, truly married, Asher?”

  “Yes. Under Scottish law, we’re really and truly married. I’m going to suggest we get married under English law as well, and Spathfoy’s estate in Northumbria will serve nicely for a quiet family wedding.”

  Lest she get to planning the ceremony right there on the boat, he kissed her again then sent her down the ladder into the waiting rowboat.

  As it turned out, the family wedding in Northumbria was attended by Hannah’s grandmother, mother, and half brothers, and several hundred other close family members, all eager to welcome the MacGregor’s lady to her rightful place at the laird’s side.

  And while the earl and his countess did have many children, the first of them, a great, strappin’ lad, had the good grace not to arrive until ten entire months after the family wedding.

  Read on for excerpts from Grace Burrowes’s Scottish Victorian series, and fall in love with the whole MacGregor clan!

  The Bridegroom Wore Plaid

  Once Upon a Tartan

  Mary Fran and Matthew

  Now available from Sourcebooks Casablanca

  The Bridegroom Wore Plaid

  “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single, reasonably good-looking earl not in possession of a fortune must be in want of a wealthy wife.”

  Ian MacGregor repeated Aunt Eulalie’s reasoning under his breath. The words had the ring of old-fashioned common sense, and yet they somehow made a mockery of such an earl as well.

  Possibly of the wife too. As Ian surveyed the duo of tittering, simpering, blond females debarking from the train on the arm of their scowling escort, he sent up a silent prayer that his countess would be neither reluctant nor managing, but other than that, he could not afford—in the most literal sense—to be particular.

  His wife could be homely, or she could be fair. She could be a recent graduate from the schoolroom, or a lady past the first blush of youth. She could be shy or boisterous, gorgeous or plain. It mattered not which, provided she was unequivocally, absolutely, and most assuredly rich.

  And if Ian MacGregor’s bride was to be well and truly rich, she was also going to be—God help him and all those who depended on him—English.

  For the good of his family, his clan, and the lands they held, he’d consider marrying a well-dowered Englishwoman. If that meant his own preferences in a wife—pragmatism, loyalty, kindness, and a sense of humor—went begging, well, such was the laird’s lot.

  In the privacy of his personal regrets, Ian admitted a lusty nature in a wife and a fondness for a tall, black-haired, green-eyed Scotsman as a husband wouldn’t have gone amiss either. As he waited for his brothers Gilgallon and Connor to maneuver through the throng in the Ballater station yar
d, Ian tucked that regret away in the vast mental storeroom reserved for such dolorous thoughts.

  “I’ll take the tall blond,” Gil muttered with the air of a man choosing which lame horse to ride into battle.

  “I’m for the little blond, then,” Connor growled, sounding equally resigned.

  Ian understood the strategy. His brothers would offer escort to Miss Eugenia Daniels and her younger sister, Hester Daniels, while Ian was to show himself to be the perfect gentleman. His task thus became to offer his arms to the two chaperones who stood quietly off to the side. One was dressed in subdued if fashionable mauve, the other in wrinkled gray with two shawls, one of beige with a black fringe, the other of gray.

  Ian moved away from his brothers, pasting a fatuous smile on his face.

  “My lord, my ladies, fáilte! Welcome to Aberdeenshire!”

  An older man detached himself from the blond females. The fellow sported thick muttonchop whiskers, a prosperous paunch, and the latest fashion in daytime attire. “Willard Daniels, Baron of Altsax and Gribbony.”

  The baron bowed slightly, acknowledging Ian’s superior if somewhat tentative rank.

  “Balfour, at your service.” Ian shook hands with as much hearty bonhomie as he could muster. “Welcome to you and your family, Baron. If you’ll introduce me to your womenfolk and your son, I’ll make my brothers known to them, and we can be on our way.”

  The civilities were observed, while Ian tacitly appraised his prospective countess. The taller blond—Eugenia Daniels—was his marital quarry, and she blushed and stammered her greetings with empty-headed good manners. She did not appear reluctant, which meant he could well end up married to her, provided he could dredge up sufficient charm to woo her.

  And he could. Not ten years after the worst famine known to the British Isles, a strong back and a store of charm were about all that was left to him, so by God, he would use both ruthlessly to his family’s advantage.

  Connor and Gil comported themselves with similarly counterfeit cheer, though on Con the exercise was not as convincing. Con was happy to go all day without speaking, much less smiling, though Ian knew he, too, understood the desperate nature of their charade.

  Daniels made a vague gesture in the direction of the chaperones. “My sister-in-law, Mrs. Julia Redmond. My niece, Augusta Merrick.” He turned away as he said the last, his gaze on the men unloading a mountain of trunks from the train.

  Thank God Ian had thought to bring the wagon in addition to the coach. The English did set store by their finery. The baron’s son, Colonel Matthew Daniels, late of Her Majesty’s cavalry, excused himself from the introductions to oversee the transfer of baggage to the wagon.

  “Ladies.” Ian winged an arm at each of the older women. “I’ll have you on your way in no time.”

  “This is so kind of you,” the shorter woman said, taking his arm. Mrs. Redmond was a pretty thing, petite, with perfect skin, big brown eyes, and rich chestnut curls peeking out from under the brim of a lavender silk cottage bonnet. Ian placed her somewhere just a shade south of thirty. A lovely age on a woman. Con would call it a dally-able age.

  Only as Ian offered his other arm to the second woman did he realize she was holding a closed hatbox in one hand and a reticule in the other.

  Mrs. Redmond held out a gloved hand for the hatbox. “Oh, Gus, do give me Ulysses.”

  The hatbox emitted a disgruntled yowl.

  Ian felt an abrupt yearning for a not-so-wee dram, for now he’d sunk to hosting not just the wealthy English, but their dyspeptic felines as well.

  “I will carry my own pet,” the taller lady said—Miss Merrick. A man who was a host for hire had to be good with names. She hunched a little more tightly over her hatbox, as if she feared her cat might be torn from her clutches by force.

  “Perhaps you’d allow me to carry your bag, so I might escort you to the coach?” Ian cocked his arm at her again, a slight gesture he’d meant to be gracious.

  The lady twisted her head on her neck, not straightening entirely, and peered up at him out of a pair of violet-gentian eyes. That color was completely at variance with her bent posture, her pinched mouth, the unrelieved black of her hair, the wilted gray silk of her old-fashioned coal scuttle bonnet, and even with the expression of impatience in the eyes themselves.

  The Almighty had tossed even this cranky besom a bone, but these beautiful eyes in the context of this woman were as much burden as benefit. They insulted the rest of her somehow, mocked her and threw her numerous shortcomings into higher relief.

  The two shawls—worn in public, no less—half slipping off her shoulders.

  The hem of her gown two inches farther away from the planks of the platform than was fashionable.

  The cat yowling its discontent in the hatbox.

  The finger poking surreptitiously from the tip of her right glove.

  Gazing at those startling eyes, Ian realized that despite her bearing and her attire, Miss Merrick was probably younger than he was, at least chronologically.

  “Come, Gussie,” Mrs. Redmond said, reaching around Ian for the reticule. “We’ll hold up the coach, which will make Willard difficult, and I am most anxious to see Lord Balfour’s home.”

  “And I am anxious to show it off to you.” Ian offered an encouraging smile, noting out of the corner of his eye that Gil and Con were bundling their charges into the waiting coach. The sky was full of bright, puffy little clouds scudding against an azure canvas, but this was Scotland in high summer, and the weather was bound to change at any minute out of sheer contrariness.

  Miss Merrick put her gloved hand on his sleeve—the glove with the frayed finger—and lifted her chin toward the coach.

  A true lady then, one who could issue commands without a word. Ian began the stately progress toward the coach necessitated by the lady’s dignified gait, all the while sympathizing with the cat, whose displeasure with his circumstances was made known to the entire surrounds.

  Fortunately, Mrs. Redmond was of a sunnier nature.

  “It was so good of you to fetch us from the train yourself, my lord,” Mrs. Redmond said. “Eulalie told us you offer the best hospitality in the shire.”

  “Aunt Eulalie can be given to overstatement, but I hope not in this case. You are our guests, and Highland custom would allow us to treat you as nothing less than family.”

  “Are we in the Highlands?” Miss Merrick asked. “It’s quite chilly.”

  Ian resisted glancing at the hills all around them.

  “There is no strict legal boundary defining the Highlands, Miss Merrick. I was born and brought up in the mountains to the west, though, so my manners are those of a Highlander. And by custom, Ballater is indeed considered Highland territory. We can get at least a dusting of snow any month of the year.”

  Those incongruous, beautiful eyes flicked over him, up, up, and down—to his shoulders, no lower. He tried to label what he saw in her gaze: contempt, possibly, a little curiosity, some veiled boldness.

  Shrewdness, he decided with an inward sigh, though he kept his smile in place. She had the sort of noticing, analyzing shrewdness common to the poor relation managing on family charity—Ian recognized it from long acquaintance.

  “How did you come to live in Aberdeenshire?” Mrs. Redmond asked as they approached the coach.

  An innocent question bringing to mind images of starvation and despair.

  “It’s the seat of our earldom. I came of age, and it was time I saw something of the world.” Besides failed potato fields, overgrazed glens, and shabby funerals. He handed the ladies in, which meant for a moment he held the hatbox. His respect for the cat grew, since from the weight of the hatbox, the beast would barely have room to turn around in its pretty little cage.

  Ian knew exactly how that felt.

  Once Upon a Tartan

  When Tiberius Lamartine Flynn heard the tree singing, his first thought was that he’d parted company with his reason. Then two dusty little boots dangled above his
horse’s abruptly nervous eyes, and the matter became a great deal simpler.

  “Out of the tree, child, lest you spook some unsuspecting traveler’s mount.”

  A pair of slim white calves flashed among the branches, the movement provoking the damned horse to dancing and propping.

  “What’s his name?”

  The question was almost unintelligible, so thick was the burr.

  “His name is Flying Rowan,” Tye said, stroking a hand down the horse’s crest. “And he’d better settle himself down this instant if he knows what’s good for him. His efforts in this regard would be greatly facilitated if you’d vacate that damned tree.”

  “You shouldn’t swear at her. She’s a wonderful tree.”

  The horse settled, having had as much frolic as Tye was inclined to permit.

  “In the first place, trees do not have gender, in the second, your heathen accent makes your discourse nigh incomprehensible, and in the third, please get the hell out of the tree.”

  “Introduce yourself. I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

  A heathen child with manners. What else did he expect from the wilds of Aberdeenshire?

  “Tiberius Lamartine Flynn, Earl of Spathfoy, at your service. Had we any mutual acquaintances, I’d have them attend to the civilities.”

  Silence from the tree, while Tye felt the idiot horse tensing for another display of nonsense.

  “You’re wrong—we have a mutual acquaintance. This is a treaty oak. She’s everybody’s friend. I’m Fee.”

  Except in his Englishness, Tye first thought the little scamp had said, “I’m fey,” which seemed appropriate.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Fee. Now show yourself like a gentleman, or I’ll think it’s your intent to drop onto hapless travelers and rob them blind.”

  “Do you think I could?”