Free The MacGregor's Lady by Grace Burrowes Page A

to poach.”
    He departed, and Hannah bent to her task, thinking over his list. A hatchet was a New World tool—or weapon—and not something one typically found in English arsenals. He’d recognized her accent, too, and been quite at home camping on this moor. He’d kept her warm and well fed, not simply alive.
    Warm and comfortable.
    Comforted, too, in some regard, and even a bit kissed, unless she’d dreamed that small gesture.
    She peered around the end of their little lean-to, searching the area for Lord Balfour.
    He was nowhere to be seen.
    His tracks led off around where she imagined the road would curve, but the only sound was the chill sweep of the wind across the frozen white ground.
    She fed the fire very, very carefully.
    ***
    “Tiberius, I have the best news!”
    Tiberius Flynn, Earl of Spathfoy, accepted a kiss from his wife, though the dear woman was lying through her pretty white teeth. She waved a single sheet of fine stationery he recognized all too easily.
    “When are they coming? Be honest, Hester, for only family could put that sparkle in your eye so early in the day.”
    Her smile faltered then turned mischievous. “You are trying to act peevish, which you do very well, sir, but I know you are always happy to see our family.”
    Her family, whose visits made Hester happy, so Spathfoy tolerated them as best he could.
    Spathfoy led his countess to the saddle room, the coziest and most private location in his London mews, because a woman in her condition ought not to be out in the elements without her husband’s protective presence.
    Then too, a lady in her condition was given to frequent and unpredictable bouts of kissing, which a husband also tolerated as best he could.
    “I have never met a woman so eager to call cousins-by-marriage her family. And no, I have not taken to reading your correspondence. Mama wrote to you, but Joan wrote to me.”
    The marchioness was nothing if not a reliable correspondent, while Tiberius’s sister Joan was a reliable correspondent too—and an effective spy. In claiming the hand of his countess, Spathfoy had unwittingly blundered into the outer reaches of Clan MacGregor, for Hester’s brother had married Mary Fran MacGregor, and Hester’s cousin had married Ian MacGregor, both siblings to the present laird.
    Hence the need for Mama’s helpful and informative letters, and Joan’s watchful eye.
    Hester scooted onto a trunk as Spathfoy closed the saddle-room door. “If Asher brings that American woman south, then I cannot but hope the rest of the family will follow.”
    Spathfoy contained his joy at such a prospect; indeed he did. “My love, you do realize that my mother, among others, would thus expect me to maintain surveillance over the hulking, kilted lot of MacGregor brothers?”
    “There are only four, Tiberius, and you are adorable in your kilt.”
    He kissed her, lest she elaborate on how adorable he was when they were some distance from the house.
    “Besides,” Hester went on as Spathfoy shifted to nuzzling her ear, “Ian, Connor, and Gilgallon are all quite civilized now that they’re married.”
    “They’re not civilized. They’re besotted. This is an entirely different matter, particularly among the Scots, and means they can be trusted only when in the company of their ladies.” Much like Spathfoy himself, come to that.
    The specific nature of the sigh Hester feathered across her husband’s neck suggested a trip back to the house—to the bedroom on the second floor—might be a prudent course. Spathfoy was ever the servant of his countess, especially when her delicate condition had imbued her with all the shyness of a pillaging Roman legion.
    “Asher has been back from Canada only a short while, Tiberius. We must help him feel welcome, for he is not married, and his siblings are all quite preoccupied starting families. I have explained this to you.”
    She kissed his chin, like a tutor might pat a slow pupil on the head.
    Balfour