Eighteen
Hundreds of miles north of London, the light was different. This was the first thing Hannah noticed as she stepped down from the train. Then too, she had a sense of the train reaching dry land, of endless motion coming to a halt, and the body needing to make an adjustment.
“It’s chilly here, for being almost summer.”
Asher would not drape his coat around her shoulders in broad daylight, nor did he look chilly in the kilted attire he’d donned for the day. “By local standards, we’re in for a sweltering day.”
They waited on the platform as the rest of the family debarked, porters dispatched baggage, and the welfare of the baby, the cat, and various expecting women was inventoried.
They’d be dividing up into coaches at any moment, so Hannah slipped her arm through Asher’s and led him a few steps away. “I’ve a question for you.”
He patted her hand, not as a lover might, but as a patient host would. “Ask.”
“How did you know?”
One swift glance, a perusal that felt to Hannah as if Asher could assess her very memories. “Your trunk was sitting in the mews, labeled for Boston and headed for the docks. It was not laden with mementos and fripperies, so I concluded you intended to follow it to its destination.”
Of course. A simple deduction for a man as observant as Asher MacGregor. Fiona’s cat started to yowl, an aria of feline discontent that could last indefinitely.
“Where will we be staying?”
Asher turned at an angle that would allow his family to remain in his line of sight. “You will stay with me, Ian, Augusta, and wee John. Mary Fran and Matthew have their own place, as do Con and Julia. I expect Genie and Gil will stay with Con. When they come north, Spathfoy and Hester have the choice of staying at his place or with his mother, though Lady Quinworth positively dotes on my brothers.”
When and how these arrangements had been worked out, Hannah did not know. She was simply grateful to Augusta for providing the chaperonage that permitted continued proximity to Asher. “You’ve never called the baby by name before.”
This earned her a twitch of his lips, maybe impatience, maybe humor. “We’re drinking companions now. He vows I’m his favorite uncle.”
Hannah drew back to study Asher, because the observation wasn’t simply self-mocking. Somehow, on this trip, the baby had become not merely an infant, occasionally noisy, often malodorous, but dear enough on general principles. He’d become “wee John,” another obligation, another person for the reluctant MacGregor patriarch to love.
Hannah’s only warning that the morning was to become livelier was a hint of lilac on the brisk morning air, and then a substantial lady dressed in the height of lavender fashion came swooping along the platform.
“Why, Balfour, you certainly do make a commotion when you arrive to town.”
The lady leaned close, as if a kiss to her cheek from any passing earl was only her due. She was a handsome woman of a certain age, red-haired, with a vaguely familiar smile, and the air of a fit and fashionable Amazon.
“If it isn’t me favorite marchioness.” Connor, for once smiling himself, greeted the woman with an audible smack to both of her cheeks. Two liveried footmen took a nervous step closer, though the lady motioned them back with a wave of her gloved hand.
“And Gilgallon.” She accepted a kiss from him. “If my own son can’t be bothered to come north yet, I will content myself with what charming company I can find. You must all join me for breakfast. I insist.”
“What about me?” Fiona had barged her way between the kilted knees of her uncles, the protesting cat in its hat-box cage still making a racket as she set the thing at her feet. “Am I invited for breakfast too?”
The marchioness dropped to her knees and opened her arms, the gesture at complete variance with her elegant attire, liveried footmen, and the lacy parasol she’d allowed to fall to the ground. “Fee! My darling little Fiona! How much you’ve grown, and how I have missed you.”
The child bundled in for a long tight hug, while Hannah watched and tried not to label the emotions this succession of affectionate greetings had engendered.
Except that envy figured prominently among them, too prominently to ignore.
When the marchioness rose, she had Fiona by the hand. “I feel a kidnapping coming on. These things tend to strike whenever my darling Fiona comes to town.” Over the child’s head, the lady aimed a look at Mary Fran, who with Matthew had remained on the perimeter of the family circle. “You won’t object to a short period of captivity for your daughter, will you, Lady Mary Frances?”
Though this marchioness strolling about the platform in the rays of morning sunshine was clearly a self-possessed woman of both title and means, the smile she beamed at Mary Fran carried a hint of vulnerability, too.
A hint of pleading.
Matthew caught Mary Fran’s eye in one of those silent marital dialogues Hannah was also coming to envy.
“A few days of being stuffed with cream cakes never hurt any child,” Mary Fran said. “Never hurt a cat either.”
The marchioness’s smile faltered then blazed anew. “Cats, rabbits, uncles—if Fiona loves them, then they’re welcome in my houses. But, Balfour, you are remiss.” Still holding Fiona’s hand, the marchioness turned her smile on Asher. “Word of your engagement has preceded you. You must introduce me to your fiancée.”
Beside Hannah, Asher froze, while the marchioness’s smile became bright enough to guide lost ships through dense fog.
He untangled himself from Hannah’s arm and bowed over the marchioness’s hand. “I’m afraid your ladyship has mistaken the—”
Hannah spoke right over him. “We’re not engaged.”
The lady’s smile, full of teeth and conviction, was aimed at Hannah. “My dear, I’m very certain—very, very certain—that you and his lordship are quite engaged after all. Not another word now. We’ll discuss it later. Come along, breakfast en famille is not to be missed.”
She swanned off so quickly, Fiona barely had time to snatch up her yowling cat before being towed away toward the waiting coach.
***
“Spathfoy’s mama is a Scotswoman and a damned English marchioness, Boston. You’ll not gainsay her in public if you value your life, my life, either of our reputations, or the standing of any of my siblings. The cat alone is safe from her reach, only because he belongs to Fiona.”
Hannah was nearly running to keep up with him, and Asher might have slowed down except he was nearly running to keep up with the damned marchioness. When a lady of wealth and title roused herself before dawn, tricked herself out in glorious finery, and met a train in her full regalia, mischief had to be brewing.
Some more mischief, in addition to what he and Hannah had already brewed up.
“Are we engaged, Asher? You said the license was just a piece of paper.”
Hannah sounded more bewildered than furious, fortunately. “Her ladyship won’t say another word until we’re assured of privacy. That was the intent of her ambush, to make sure we couldn’t misstep before strangers. Something’s afoot.”
“Something’s amiss. Who is she?”
“Fiona’s paternal grandmother—another interfering granny. She’s Spathfoy’s mama, which explains much about them both.”
Though as grannies went, Deirdre Flynn, Marchioness of Quinworth, was a force of nature. She looked appreciably younger than her nearly fifty years and wore boldness like an exotic perfume blended exclusively for her.
Asher liked her, though he didn’t turn his back on her if he could avoid it. He’d noted that Spathfoy and her husband, the marquess, adopted the same policy while the woman’s three daughters emulated her in every particular.
“Into the coach, my dears.” Her ladyship’s smile still had that compelling quality, like a drill sergeant smiling at newly uniformed recruits before their first forced march. “Fee, you and the beast will join us at the town house. I’ll want to hear all about your adventures in London, and so will your grandpapa.”
More fussing and organizing took place while ladies were handed into coaches, and Hannah said nothing. At some point, Asher had linked his fingers with hers to make sure she didn’t hare off to the docks.
Or perhaps to comfort her.
When Hannah and Lady Quinworth were settled on the forward-facing seat and Asher on the bench across from them, Lady Quinworth gave the roof a smart rap with the handle of her parasol and produced a flask.
“It’s the custom in the Western Isles to start the day off with a wee nip. They’re hardy people out west.”
Hannah accepted the flask and tipped it to her lips. “Thank you, your ladyship. Do I offer it to—?”
“You do not.” Her ladyship collected the flask in a purple-gloved hand. “Balfour has his own. Now, imagine my pleasure at being disturbed at my slumbers late last night by a telegram from my darling son. Not a word of greeting, no felicitations—the boy takes after his father—but all dire warnings and bad news. I suspect his dear little wife put him up to it—she’s sensible, is our Hester.”
Asher did not take out his flask, though the temptation was great. “And the nature of those warnings, my lady?”
The coach lurched off in the direction of the New Town. Hannah wasn’t even pretending an interest in the passing sights.
“Forgive me, Miss Cooper, for being blunt. We have little time, because the announcement of your impending nuptials will be in the paper this very morning. I shall be inundated with callers, and we must fashion a proper story, mustn’t we?”
Hannah did not answer, but she’d gone pale enough that from across the coach Asher could count the freckles dusting the bridge of her nose.
Asher asked the obvious question, lest Hannah get to contradicting the marchioness again. “Who would announce our engagement, my lady? Miss Cooper and I have not, that I know of, plighted our troth.”
Lady Quinworth sniffed. “You’ve spent the night out on the moors without shelter or chaperone, which comes close enough to a declaration for anybody. That old fool Fenimore has ferreted out the details. Spathfoy says the baron’s man stumbled into their parlor after you’d departed for points north. Quite a tale came spilling forth over tea and crumpets—the entirety of which was dispatched to Fenimore by wire and letter before Draper had even reached London. I can hardly credit it, myself.” She shot an appraising look at Asher. “The moors in winter are no place to be caught without food and shelter.”
Much less a chaperone.
Hannah raised unhappy eyes to his. “There’s to be an announcement?”
Fenimore’s doing, no doubt, the rotten, old, conniving sod. “An announcement doesn’t make us engaged, Hannah.”
“Don’t listen to him, Miss Cooper. It’s one thing to break an engagement—that merely ruins you. It’s quite another to make a fool of Fenimore and Balfour both while you do. Balfour is toothsome, well-heeled, and reasonable—as men go—but he has an unfortunate past. I suggest you accommodate the notion that you are to be his countess, lest you create all manner of awkwardness for him and his family.”
Hannah looked inclined to argue. She looked, in fact, inclined to toss all twelve stone of the marchioness out of the coach.
“Hannah.” He spoke quietly, willing her to understand that they’d talk later, not caring at all that Lady Quinworth had noted his informal address. “We’re tired, hungry, and the announcement is apparently already in print. Even an engagement need not necessarily end in marriage.”
She sat back, glancing out the window for the first time since they’d crammed themselves into the coach. “Later then, when we are assured of some privacy.”
That last was a snub, a blatant, uncompromising snub of the marchioness, whose efforts had been directed at preserving them both from walking straight into complete, unsalvageable folly.
“Of course you’ll have some privacy,” the marchioness said pleasantly. “Engaged couples are always afforded a great deal of latitude that unattached couples would never be permitted.”
Hannah stared resolutely out the window, while Asher fished through his pockets for his flask.
***
“What would be so awful about being Asher MacGregor’s wife?”
Augusta posed the question in the most pleasant tones from her perch on Hannah’s settee, while Hannah grabbed for her patience. This was the opening salvo in what would be four weeks of relentless, well-meant cross-examination.
“My brothers have years to go before they reach their majorities,” Hannah replied, taking the first pair of slippers—Spanish Bullets, or something metallic—from a trunk and setting them in an enormous wardrobe. “My grandmother, for all her great age, should also have years left, and my mother…”
She trailed off. Mama’s circumstances were in some ways the most precarious. No less authority than the Bible, backed up by the law and the good fellows of the American legal system, dictated that Mama remain entirely under her husband’s control. In the name of marital discipline, a man could beat his wife, exercise his marital privileges against her will, starve her, and clothe her in rags, and the wife would have no recourse.
“What about your mother?”
“I am all she has, and there’s little enough I can do. Sometimes, though, a person will moderate his behavior simply from the knowledge that it is witnessed by others.” Hannah paused, her Maiden’s Blush dancing slippers in her hands, the right now sporting a discreet lift to the heel. “My stepfather is quite sensitive to public opinion, which is probably why Grandmama continues to live with us.”
Augusta fingered the tassel of a bright blue pillow trimmed in gold. “Asher has many business associates on the American seaboard. He could keep an eye on matters in Boston easily enough.”
Not only the pink pair, but every pair of Hannah’s slippers, shoes, and boots sported a small lift on the heel. When had Asher done this?
Because he’d done it himself. Hannah knew that from the way the edge of each heel had been sanded smooth, the wood matched so the lifts would not be obvious.
“Asher cannot have somebody present at every meal to ensure my mother is permitted to eat. He cannot ensure correspondence is delivered unopened to the intended recipient—or delivered at all. He cannot examine my brothers, mother, or grandmother for bruises in unlikely places. He cannot post a guard who will hear every time somebody in the house is in distress.”
Not that her mother screamed. She’d once told Hannah that any show of resistance only made matters worse.
Augusta set the pillow aside, rose, and wandered to a trunk as yet unopened. “Asher can, however, be sure something nasty is slipped into your stepfather’s drink when the dratted man is whiling away an evening at his club. I expect a physician has more than a passing acquaintance with poisons.”
Hannah started hanging stockings, of which she had acquired an abundance. That such a genteel lady as Augusta MacGregor would leap to ideas Hannah had taken years to approach was reassuring.
“Then I would be as bad as my stepfather, wouldn’t I? Worse, in fact, because he only slaps and bullies, while I contemplate murder.”
And then Augusta was there, right beside her, without having made a sound. “You have contemplated murder, though, haven’t you? Things are that bad.”
Such a wealth of compassion communicated itself from Augusta’s violet-blue eyes. Hannah tossed the last of the stockings toward a hook. “One grows desperate, and weary, which is why I cannot…”
Augusta was a good six inches taller than Hannah, and she was a mother. When she slipped her arms around Hannah’s waist, tears welled from the bottom of Hannah’s heart. She leaned into Augusta’s support when the weight of impending regrets would have brought her to her knees.
“My youngest brother, we call him Bertie—” Unless the boy’s father was in the room, and then, by God, Hannah addressed him as Albert.
“What about him?”
“He was helping me pack, or bothering me while I packed, the night before I took ship. He asked me why I never considered dying my hair. The question struck me as peculiar coming from a schoolboy.”
“Boys are odd creatures.”
“He said—” Hannah could not explain the dread or the pain of the memory. “He said red hair is wicked, and women with red hair have ungovernable tempers. Just like that. He doesn’t even know what ‘ungovernable’ means, and it came out of his mouth, full of righteousness despite the uncertainty in his eyes.”
“He was mimicking his father. Boys do this, and then they rebel, if all goes according to plan.”
Augusta was the mother of a son, but that son was still very young. Hannah slipped away and opened the second trunk. “He comes out with pronouncements like that more and more, understanding clearly they are the way to win his papa’s approval. I cannot abide the thought that Bertie will end up hating his own sister because she has red hair, feeling superior to her, thinking that if she’s beaten frequently enough, the man doing the beating might redress what the Creator Himself put wrong.”
The discussion was difficult, but putting Hannah’s thoughts into words also helped clarify the answer to Augusta’s initial question.
Hannah could find not one thing wrong with being the wife of Asher MacGregor, except that such an honor would require that she abdicate her every responsibility as a daughter, granddaughter, and sister.
And yet, Augusta did not give in. “Asher could—”
Hannah tossed another pair of gossamer stockings toward a hook and missed. “Asher could do nothing. Children are their father’s chattel, wives are chattel, and Boston is an ocean away. I will not ask a man I esteem greatly to commit murder for my convenience. Not when I can go home, endure the next little while there, and soon establish my own household.”
This earned Hannah a silence while Augusta paced to the window, arms crossed, expression resolute. “How common is it in Boston for a young lady to establish her own household?”
“My grandmother would join me. For a spinster and an elderly relation to live together would not be unusual.”
Augusta drew the sash down with a solid thunk! and yanked the curtain closed. “And when, as could happen at any moment, your grandmother passes on? Then there you are, twenty-some years old, without male protection, still attempting to battle a man more than twice your age for the safety of people whom you legally cannot touch?”
Hannah picked up the copy of Waverley she’d purchased from the inn in Steeth. The book bore a slight lavender fragrance from its prolonged confinement in the trunk, and the peacock feather marking Hannah’s place had somehow been lost.
“Augusta, I have to try. I cannot turn my back on my family. Asher understands this.”
“And he cannot turn his back on his family. The pair of you will drive me to Bedlam.”
Augusta whipped away from the window, swooped down to administer one more tight, fleeting hug, and then left Hannah alone amid clothes and mementos that would be packed up again all too soon.
***
They were down to twenty-three days, five already having been spent accepting good wishes from a parade of strangers and acquaintances at Lady Quinworth’s town house. At some point, Hannah had been whisked away for fittings, though Asher wondered why she allowed such an outing when she never intended to wear the dress.
And now he was supposed to make polite conversation with her, when what he wanted to do…
“How do you like being engaged to an earl, Hannah?”
The weather being fine, they were enjoying the walk up to Arthur’s Seat. Or making the walk, regardless. Two footmen struggled along yards behind them, the picnic hamper carried between them.
“You shouldn’t joke about such a thing.”
He took her hand, ostensibly to assist her up the incline. “I like being engaged to you. I no longer have to guard my besotted gazes, no longer have to hold back every fatuous word that springs to mind.”
Though he did. In defense of his heart and hers both, he kept many of the fatuous words behind his teeth.
She smiled. A restrained species of her usual display, but a start. “I have not noticed much in the way of fatuous words from you, Asher MacGregor. Mostly when I see you, you are murmuring civilities at Lady Quinworth’s friends, or muttering curse words in Gaelic.”
“They sound better in Gaelic. Allow me to demonstrate my most fatuous look.” He drew her to a halt on their climb and set both hands on her shoulders. “Look at me, Hannah.”
Her smile died. What he saw in her eyes tore at his heart. She was worried, weary, and dreading the next twenty-three days. “I wish I could hold you, right this moment, I wish I could put my arms around you.”
She scooted out from under his hands and resumed walking. “If wishes were horses…”
“There wouldn’t be a blade of grass left, and we’d have to watch where we stepped much more closely.” He took her hand again, feeling the welling helplessness of a man who did not know how to turn love into appropriate action. The feeling was old and immensely frustrating. “My name is being put forth for the Scottish delegation to Parliament.”
“That’s an honor, isn’t it?”
“It… is. I supposedly have a well-rounded view on relations with Canada and the United States. In truth, somebody is thinking I won’t know enough of British politics to cause much trouble, possibly Spathfoy’s dear papa, the very English Marquess of Quinworth.”
They would soon gain the summit, spread their picnic, and have what privacy Asher could manage atop one of the most popular walking destinations in the realm.
“This a positive sign, though, isn’t it?” Hannah’s gaze flicked over him. “An acknowledgement of your worldly sophistication compared to the insular lords and squires responsible for managing the empire.”
“Possibly. More likely it’s Victoria meddling in the neighbors’ business. The Lords does little anymore but debate and bluster and rattle sabers.”
And yet, Hannah had a point too. Victoria, for reasons of her own, had taken more than a passing interest in the MacGregor family situation. She was also quite fond of Mary Fran’s husband, Matthew, though nobody could explain that either. To refuse the opportunity to serve in the parliamentary delegation would not be… prudent.
“You should accept this,” Hannah said, pausing as they rounded the bend onto the top of the hill. “You should wade in among the blustering fools and speak your truth, not because you understand the New World better than any of your peers, though you do, but because you understand it might be important that epidemics do not come from foul miasmas.”
The view was magnificent, and Asher knew it well. Edinburgh and the sea lay stretched out in one direction; the interior of Scotland lay in the other. Both had beauty and heart, though the fairer view lay to the west.
And yet, what Asher saw was not sweeping vistas and dramatic Scottish skies, but the woman who understood him, who recognized what motivated him, and what would sustain him when parliamentary rules of order were threatening his sanity.
He saw the only woman he would ever propose to. “Let’s choose our spot.”
She smiled again, the curving of her lips a little softer this time. “You don’t want to dwell on the parliamentary honor, but you’ll go back and read your monographs, then consider your obligation to your queen with all her little princes and princesses. You’ll mention this to your brothers. Then you’ll think of little John, thriving in his parents’ care now, but so small and helpless, and the decision will already be made.”
Yes. Unbidden, the sensation of John, a wee scrap of a lad bundled against Asher’s chest, hit him like the slap of the heather-scented wind whipping across the summit.
“I had intended to buy myself a few weeks of dithering before committing one way or the other. Where shall we enjoy our meal?”
She brushed another glance his way and hooked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “A few weeks of dithering won’t change the outcome. Let’s find a place where we won’t be blown into the sea by a strong gust of fresh Scottish air.”
They chose a spot well back from the precipice, in the lee of a small, stony black bluff and well away from paths few were treading on a weekday afternoon. When the footmen arrived with the hamper, Asher waved them away to eat their own meals in some other sunny spot.
Hannah dropped to the tartans spread on the sparse grass. “I do like the absence of a chaperone, or the almost-absence. My guess is we’re supposed to conclude, given enough latitude, that the blessings of marriage outweigh our misgivings.”
He settled himself beside her, prepared to argue with a lady. “They are not our misgivings, Boston.”
She opened the hamper and peered inside as if a crystal ball or magic carpet might be found therein. “So you’ll move to Boston with me, spend the rest of your days as an earl in absentia? Leave wee John to the epidemics, and have the next earl raised in complete ignorance of his birthright? I am vastly relieved to hear this.”
Had her voice not held a slight catch, had she not been rummaging blindly in the hamper, Asher might have accused her of meanness.
She hadn’t a mean bone in her body, more’s the pity. He shifted across the blankets and knelt up so he could wrap his arms around her. “I know, Hannah, in the marrow of my bones and in my soul that you are the woman I should take to wife. I know I am the man whom you should wed. I have no misgivings on that score, and neither do you. We could spend a few years in Boston—”
Hannah shook her head, her suffering palpable even in so simple a gesture. “And what of my mother? When Grandmother dies and the boys grow up, what of my mother? She is far from elderly. Do we send our firstborn son to Ian and Augusta when he’s eleven years old, part him from all he knows to live with strangers across the sea?”
He wanted to stop her words, wanted to slip his hand over her mouth, but she would torture herself with these thoughts whether she shared them or not, and if this was all he could bear with her—the doubts and anxieties and regrets—then bear them he would.
“Asher, I’m sorry. Saying these things solves nothing, but I am so very sorry.”
Something like anger, though not as corrosive, gave him the strength to turn her loose. “I am not sorry. Not sorry we’ve met, not sorry we’ve had these few weeks, not sorry for any of it.” Not sorry they’d been lovers. He kept that last thought to himself, lest it cause her more torment.
She sank back on her heels and studied him. “You mean that.”
He did. Realizing this felt like a shift in the wind from one brisk, challenging direction to another, though the second direction bore the faint, welcome scent of home. Rather than let her see that far into his soul, he took his turn sorting through the hamper. “Would you rather I didn’t? Would you rather I shrugged and said our dealings were of no moment, Hannah?”
Her brows drew down in the manner that meant she was focusing on a topic inwardly. “No, I would not. You’re right—the things I regret are the factors we do not control. Had I not met you…”
Had she not met him, she might have ended up married to one of the Malcolms of the world. A man who would take her coin then leave her to fight her own battles. Or she might have been prey to one of her stepfather’s more determined schemes.
Asher shoved that thought off the edge of the precipice some distance up the path. “There’s cold chicken, fruit, scones, cheese, and—Cook was feeling generous—apple tarts in this hamper. Also a decent bottle of Riesling. Shall I open it?”
“Please, and let’s start with the apple tarts. I’m in the mood to enjoy my sweets first.”
The meal marked a turning point, with Asher sensing in Hannah a determination to appreciate the gifts they’d given each other, and to make the best of the time remaining. She had never intended to remain, after all, and he had not seriously intended to marry ever again.
“What do you make of that cloud?” Hannah had done her part to consume the wine. She lay on her back, Asher’s coat bundled under her head and one knee drawn up. Her posture was improper, but he’d paid good coin to ensure the footmen were waving away any who might stumble in this direction.
Asher glanced up from repacking the hamper. “It’s white. It’s fluffy. When the proper mood comes upon it, it will go carousing with a few of its mates and dump a cold rain on some undeserving village in the mountains.”
“Or a deserving village. A village where the gardens are all laid out and the winter stores depend on a good yield.” She held out a hand to him, so he arranged himself beside her on the blanket. “I’ll miss you, Asher MacGregor. I’ll look up at the clouds and wonder if they’ve blown in from Scotland. I’ll think of you.”
Ah. He put a name to the shift in their dealings, to what had eased: they were to grieve together for what could not be. Nobody else could grieve with them, and when they parted, they’d have grieving confidences to treasure in memory.
And to torture themselves with in solitude.
He took her hand. “My favorite fruit is a nice crisp, juicy, sweet red apple. What’s your favorite fruit?”
The rest of the afternoon went like that, as if they were engaged in truth, sharing secrets, looking forward to a lifetime of intimacy not simply of the body. She favored apples and raspberries; he leaned toward oranges, in addition to apples, provided they were sweet. She much preferred Scott to Dickens, and she did not have a favorite poet, though Tennyson was worth a mention.
Asher had a fondness for the language of the Old Testament, and as a boy had thought it held some rousing stories. His favorite bird was the hummingbird, for its exotic color, its agility, its ability to draw sweetness from a flower without harming it. Peacocks should be outlawed for the racket they created.
Hannah had watched his mouth as he delivered that last flight of nonsense, and then she had gone quiet for as long as it took for a cloud to drift by. When he was about to suggest they pack up and head down the hill, she curled close, kissed his cheek, and rested her head on his shoulder.
“I will not forget this day, Asher MacGregor, not ever. When I am old and bent and slow, when I neither hear nor see well, I will still recall every detail of this day.”
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and considered burning the city of Boston to the ground. He did not consider telling her that it had been too long since he’d had any word from his scouts in Boston. Any word at all.