Free The MacGregor's Lady by Grace Burrowes Page B

wasn’t married yet . The poor bastard was wealthy, titled, and had a “curious past.” This was the reason Spathfoy’s mother had sent out her warnings and Joan had monitored the situation as well. For all Balfour could track wolves and hunt bears, he’d be no match for the predators in the London ballrooms.
    “Dear Asher has brought protection in the form of that heiress,” Spathfoy said, which was quite shrewd of him, “though you and Mama are right: in the interests of protecting their older brother, Ian, Connor, Gilgallon, and Mary Fran will all likely come south. I thought perhaps you and I might spend a few weeks in France.”
    Hester smacked his arm, which bore the impact of a hummingbird wing brushing past a rose petal. “You are such a tease, Tiberius. I love your sense of humor.”
    And Spathfoy loved his countess, so he did not make plans for a few weeks of Paris in springtime. He did, however, escort his wife back to the house.
    And up to the second floor.
    ***
    “You took us in a couple of hours before sunset,” Asher said.
    The man before him lowered bushy eyebrows and extracted a cold pipe from between crooked teeth. “Did we now?”
    Asher fished out his wallet and unfolded a wad of pound notes.
    “You did. You were kind enough to give the lady your own bed, and you gave me the run of your hay mow and your spare blankets—after feeding us both a substantial dinner.”
    The man eyed the pound notes. “A substantial dinner?”
    “Your missus lent the lady a dressing gown.” Several of the notes changed hands.
    “We had a fine stew last night,” the fellow allowed. “Plenty to go around.”
    “Plenty,” Asher agreed, passing a couple more notes over. “Lamb stew, if I recall, and lots of bread and butter.”
    “That’s a tricky curve there on t’other side o’ them trees.” The notes disappeared into the farmer’s jacket pocket. “Missus was glad for the company.”
    “I’ll fetch the lady then.”
    “Missus will get the kettle on.”
    And because Asher knew the fundamental character of the Scottish crofter, he also knew the man hadn’t asked for their names on purpose, and wouldn’t.
    The fewer lies the better when a fellow was being paid for his mendacity.
    Failing to scout the terrain in the last of yesterday’s fading light had been an oversight no self-respecting frontiersman would have committed. Last evening, keeping Miss Hannah Cooper from panicking, keeping her busy and warm and well fed, had seemed more important than observing the commonsense safety protocol of setting up a new camp.
    And so they’d spent the night together, not merely under the same flimsy roof, but wrapped in the same blankets, cloaks, and robes. In sleep, she’d trusted him, burrowing into his greater warmth like a kitten under the covers. And there she’d stayed, barely moving through the night, content in his arms.
    It should have been a simple matter of keeping warm, and on one level it had been.
    On another level, though, Asher had enjoyed their proximity, enjoyed the scent and feel of her in a way he didn’t examine too closely. His pleasure had had to do with keeping her safe, with avoiding the guilt of causing her discomfort or risk. He’d loved Monique dearly, and he was already carrying around enough guilt for a lifetime.
    “I’ve fetched the bread and cheese,” Miss Cooper said when he approached the fire. Even when she’d been half seas over, she had not invited him to use more familiar address. “I think the air is warmer than yesterday.”
    “Which suggests it might snow again,” he said. “We’re going to have to break camp.”
    “Break camp? And wait in the coach? It’s at a rather precarious angle.”
    For an instant Asher considered not telling her about the farmhouse just out of sight around that bend. Consequences would arise, serious consequences for both of them if he held his silence. What made him speak was an instinctive repugnance for manipulating the