Bridegroom Wore Plaid (41 page)

And Augusta tried to get used to people addressing her as “my lady.”

“You’re the Baroness Gribbony, a peeress in your own right,” Ian had told her the morning of the shoot. “Your mother either didn’t know or didn’t care that the Scottish title went to the eldest and could be matrilineal, but as she was eldest and you are her only child, the title comes to you.”

“I don’t want it.”

Ian’s smile was sad. “That’s the hell of it. With titles you have them, and then they have you, and there’s not a damned thing you can do about it.”

He hadn’t come to her room since the evening following the hunt almost a week past. That night, he’d come to her in silence, held her close all through the darkness, and departed before the sun had risen. She’d waited for him to come again then realized he wasn’t going to.

He’d said all the good-byes he was going to say to her.

So she made arrangements to go south with Con and Julia—not as far south as London, but to Julia’s holding in Northumbria. Chaperoning a honeymoon wasn’t the way Augusta wanted to spend her autumn, but the idea of her little property in Oxford, without even a cat for company…

And then were was Trevisham. She wasn’t ready to go back there either, though Matthew had explained to her privately that it would one day soon be hers again.

While Altsax recovered under strict guard, the safes in Kent had been opened, revealing the original copy of the very valid will left by Augusta’s parents. The baron had secreted the will, lied to her and the courts, created a guardianship of her property, and then set about reaping the rewards of his perfidy—making damned sure Augusta wasn’t viewed as a marriage prospect by any who might get to questioning her finances.

And in a subtle bit of cleverness, Altsax had started alluding to his possession of the Gribbony barony only years after Augusta’s parents had died, and then only on a few discreet occasions. Sooner or later his ruse would likely have been revealed, at which point he could pronounce himself repentant over having misinterpreted the vagaries of an old patent.

Ian and Matthew had conferred privately regarding a proper fate for the baron, but Augusta could not muster enough sentiment to care what befell her uncle, as long as his path never again crossed her own.

“Augusta?” Ian stood at the edge of the terrace, looking weary and dear in waistcoat, shirt, and plain work kilt. “Have you a minute, my lady?”

“I hate it when you call me that.”

One corner of his mouth quirked up a very little. “Shall I call you Baroness?”

“I like it better when you called me ‘my heart’ and ‘my love.’” She ducked her face, staring at her hands where they rested in her lap. Fatigue—or perhaps desperation—was taking a toll on her manners.

Ian came down beside her on the bench and let out a sigh. “I should not have presumed. I ask you to forgive me for it.”

She glanced over at him, feeling tears threaten. They were close at hand these days, as was a grinding, dragging fatigue.

“I will forgive you for that remark, Ian MacGregor. Honest sentiment should never be a cause for apology between a man and a woman who’ve been as intimate as we have.”

He was quiet a long while, the fresh scent of him coming to her on a breeze that bore a hint of autumn. Autumn, when everything died away and Augusta would be far from Ian and all she held dear.

“There’s something I want you to know, but I haven’t known quite how to put it,” he said.

Augusta’s gaze shifted to Ian’s hands—strong, callused, and yet elegant, and beautiful to her.
For
God’s sake, take my hand.
Augusta smoothed out her skirts lest she grab for his hand instead.

“In the woods,” Ian said, “when the baron and I struggled, I think he was trying to turn the gun on himself.”

“To attempt suicide?”

“He isn’t sane, Augusta. I have been forbidden by no less than the Prince Consort to blame myself for not seeing Altsax for the menace he presented. I’m finding it difficult to respect the prince’s guidance on this issue.”

“Albert is your friend.”

“If such a man can have friends, I would be honored to think I’m among them.”

“He’s English.”

“By act of Parliament.”

They fell silent, while Augusta felt her heart breaking in her chest. They discussed suicide and princes, but not what mattered.

“You’ve a letter, Augusta. I think you’ll want to read it in private.” He withdrew an epistle from his pocket. “Before you read it, though…”

“What, Ian?”

He peered over at her, his expression impossible to read, and then his arms seized her, and his mouth was crashing down on hers. Hot, demanding, and so, so welcome. Augusta wrapped her arms around him and put everything she was, every scrap of love and determination she felt toward him, into her answering kiss.

And then he drew back and stood. “Read your letter.”

She glanced at the letter—Henry Post-Williams was bestirring himself to write to her
while
Ian
was
walking
away
.

“Hang the damned letter, Ian MacGregor. You don’t kiss me like that after days of leaving me to toss on my own all night and then just walk away.”

Ian stopped in midstride, his back still to her. He turned slowly, his expression fierce. “The letter is from a prosperous English gentleman seeking to offer you his addresses,
Baroness
. I suggest you read it.”

She marched up to him, held the letter up before his gorgeous Scottish nose, and tore the paper right down the middle. “Hester says his hairline is receding.” She tore it again. “He’s looking for a free governess.” She tore it yet again. “And he can’t
kiss
worth a farthing.” She flung the pieces over her shoulder. “I shudder to think of the poor woman who has to content herself with Henry Post-Williams’s company for the rest of her life. She’d be better off raising chickens in the shires.”

She put her hands on her hips. “
I
love
you, Ian MacGregor
.” She spoke the Gaelic carefully. “
I
will
always
love
you. You are the beloved of my heart.
” It was the limit of what she could manage in his native tongue. “I will leave tomorrow if you ask it of me, but I will spend my life regretting that I allowed you to send me away.”

She went up on her toes and kissed him softly but soundly on the mouth. “You will regret it too.”

And she was not going to leave the field, but if she didn’t sit down, the knocking of her knees was going to see her laid out flat at his feet—a metaphor she’d rather avoid. She marched back to the bench and sat, glaring at him where he stared at her.

He took one step toward her then halted. “I have nothing to offer you, Augusta. I’m poor.”

“You’re wealthy in your family, Ian. You are surrounded by people who love you and are loyal to you.”

He took one more step toward her. “I know nothing but hard work, and hard work is all I foresee. Until the last member of my family is well fed, safe, and secure, it’s all I can allow myself.”

“You think subsisting in a farmhouse for years is easy? Weeding my own gardens, milking my own cow, slopping my own hogs? I could manage in a croft, Ian, and consider it a wonderful life if I could share it with the man I love.”

He shook his head, his hands fisting at his sides. “Augusta, I’d keep you pregnant until we had so many mouths to feed…”

“I’ve wasted years feeding
chickens
. Give me all the children the Lord sends to us, Ian. Green-eyed boys and girls with humor and pride and stubborn streaks as wide as their papa’s.”

He took the last step and sank to his knees before her. “I said…” He stopped, his voice hoarse. “I said an earl not in possession of a fortune must be in want of a wealthy wife. I was not… I was not wrong.” He paused again, swallowed, and slid his arms around her waist. “I was right, my heart. I need a wife with a wealth of courage and honor, a wife with abundant loyalty. I need a wife so canny and resourceful that even when her title and her wealth are stolen from her, she has the courage and wits to fight for me and mine… to love… to love me. Ah, God, Augusta…”

He gathered her to him, his embrace fierce. “I can offer you nothing,” he said. “Nothing except my love and my pledge to bend my entire being to your safekeeping and happiness, but for the love of God, will you marry me? You don’t need my title—you have one of your own—you don’t need the shelter of my house—you’ve one of those too. You don’t need…”

She kissed him into silence. “I need, Ian. I
need
from the bottom of my soul. I need your love. I need your arms around me. I need you beside me in this life. I need to bear your children. I will be your wife, gladly, joyfully. It will be my privilege and my honor to be your wife.”

A great sigh went out of him, a sigh of such surrender Augusta felt tears drifting down her cheeks. She burrowed closer, craving the scent of him, the heat of him, the touch and sound and essence of him drawn so deeply into her awareness it could become a part of her.

He rose with her cradled against his chest and carried her, not to the bedroom where she’d been a guest and become his lover, but to the estate chambers where the earl and his countess would dwell for their remaining days at Balfour.

They passed Gil and Genie on the stair, both of whom beamed at them like idiots. Outside the billiards room, they encountered Con and Julia, who whooped with unladylike glee and managed to land a glancing swat on Ian’s backside. In the family wing, they met up with Matthew, Mary Fran, and Fiona, all dressed for riding. Matthew grinned, Mary Fran got teary, and Fiona dragged her parents off toward the stables, muttering something in Gaelic about new friends and lovesick uncles.

When Ian laid Augusta down on his enormous bed, they made love—there was no other description for the tenderness and joy with which they coupled. They made love endlessly as the afternoon shadows stretched across the room and the quiet of the house settled around them, and then they made love some more.

“Ian?” Augusta drew her hand over his chest hours later. A marvelous thing, that chest, so strong and yet susceptible of being tickled.

“My heart?”

“We won’t be poor.”

He smoothed his hands over her hair—it had come tumbling down long ago—and cuddled her a little closer. “It won’t be so bad, if we’re careful and lucky. By Scottish standards, we’ll be comfortable.”

“No.” She levered up to peer at him, realizing only then that Ian had no idea she’d inherited not only Trevisham but the substantial income from the Gribbony barony as well. “We’ll be fine.”

“Scots live on love and stubbornness.” He kissed her cheek. “We’ve plenty of both.”

She subsided against him. “We can live on love and stubbornness, or we can live on love, stubbornness, and all the income from my properties. I’ve more than one, you know.”

His hand went still in her hair. “I know you’ve the Gribbony estate, but it’s a Lowland holding, probably nothing much left of it but some farms and a few bleating sheep.”

“It’s four thousand acres plus a dozen tenancies, Ian.” She walked her fingers up his sternum. “A wool mill, a flour mill, and a distillery.”

He trapped her hand in his. “A distillery? You wouldna tease about such a thing?”

“I thought you knew.”

“I knew about the title, but this…”

She peered up at him. “Is it all right? I think you had your heart set on being poor and working your fingers to the bone and riding Hannibal until his muzzle was completely gray.”

“Had my heart set on…” He growled and rolled so she was under him. “Here’s your first lesson in being a Scottish countess: I will take such good care of your properties, Augusta MacGregor, that you will see how wonderfully well the Scots can adapt to wealth. I will dazzle you with my ability in this regard, as will my family.”

“Augusta MacGregor?” Oh, she liked the sound of that, loved it, particularly when Ian said her name in that soft, deep burr.

“We pledged to marry then consummated the pledge. By Scottish law, we’re married, woman. I am your husband from this moment forward, and all your troubles belong exclusively to me.”

He sounded fiercely pleased to be telling her this. Augusta was pleased to hear it too. “Then you won’t mind that I’ll be asking you to look in on Trevisham, will you? Matthew says it’s thriving, and…”

He kissed her, and then—and for decades to come—he dazzled her with his abilities in regards that had not one damned thing to do with monetary wealth and everything to do with what really mattered to them both.

Author’s Note

Readers will pardon me for taking a small liberty with the facts by laying railroad tracks as far west as Ballater in the 1850s. In truth, the line didn’t get to Ballater until the next decade, and in the present day, Royal Deeside is served by buses rather than trains. If you go to Ballater, you’ll see the train station has been converted in part to a museum dedicated to preservation of the area’s Victorian history. One of Her Majesty’s train cars is on display, and visitors can even take a peek at the royal parlor and the royal potty, a beautiful creation of mahogany, marble, and stained glass.