But, yes, a chaperone was advisable. If a time came when he might court Miss Arabella Lovelock and ask for her hand, he would want to know that propriety had been observed and that she had chosen him freely and not because of a compromising situation.
Wouldn’t he want that? Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure that hedidn’twant a compromising situation. It would accelerate everything. And yes, take things out of his hands.
All this, of course, assuming she refused Boyd.
And that she had any interest in him, Alasdair. As a husband. As a man.
He looked around the room. It was snug with a low, white plastered ceiling with beams. Crisp, pink curtains on small windows. He had never seen pink curtains before. The peat fire he was near. Many piles of books scattered about. A sewing basket with something white and frilly poking out of it.
He could smell something savory roasting somewhere not too far away. A meat pie, maybe?
He would like to sit in this room with pink curtains. With her. Forever.
But it was not to be.
“I must take my leave,” he said and stood. “Would it suit ye to leave tomorrow?”
“Yes,” she said and stood as well. “I will close the school for now. Until Harry is out of danger.”
They were facing each other. Three feet apart. He looked at her. She looked down at his right and then his left hand.
And then she raised her head from looking at his hands and stepped forward onto tiptoes, putting her arms around his neck and pulling Alasdair’s head down to hers. He had a moment—of fear or excitement?—when he thought Arabella would kiss him. But she did not. She pressed her pink cheek to his. He could feel his poorly shaved jaw scratching her soft skin. Her breath skimmed by his ear. She whispered something. He could not make it out.
Was it possible that what she said was, “at last?”
She released him and he avoided her eyes, murmured his farewell, and left the cottage quickly.
Boyd was waiting for him in the public house with three large tumblers of whisky sitting in front of him. One was almost empty.
“Cousin,” Boyd said. “Sit. One of these is for ye.”
Alasdair sat. He held up his glass to clink against Boyd’s, but Boyd did not hold his glass out. He just studied Alasdair.
Alasdair took a sip. The whisky was harsh, not the smooth, smuggled elixir he had drunk over the years at Sommerleigh.
“Ye told me that ye ken her sister. Ye dinnae tell me that ye ken her.” Boyd’s voice was thick with whisky already.
“Our acquaintance was years ago and brief.”
Boyd stared into his glass. “Her feelings are strong for ye, I can see.” His tone was bitter.
“I ...”
Boyd drained his glass and wiped his mouth. “She’s told me, ye see. About ye. And her. What ye did.” The bitterness was edging into something stronger, something dangerous. Something violent. Boyd seized his second glass and took a gulp.
Alasdair strove to keep his own voice neutral. “Pardon?”
“Ye should be beggingherpardon. I dinnae ken how these things are rectified down in England, but up here ye might remember that scoundrels like ye answer for yer actions.”
Alasdair was lost. What was Boyd on about?
Boyd pushed his chair back and stood. The chair clattered to the floor. Voices stilled in the room.
“I will not kill ye, cousin. I am a man of God. But Iwillbeat ye until ye bleed.”
Alasdair pushed his own chair back from the table but stayed seated and raised both his hands up.
“I dinnae believe I have done anything intentionally injurious.”
