Page 35 of Ghost of the Ton

“Only at first,” she said. “But when I resigned myself to…” She smiled. “It’s not of import. What matters is that I survived. I intend to make the best of that.”

“Ye do?”

She nodded. “For one thing, I am no longer in danger if I treat others infected with smallpox.”

“How so?”

“Because I am immune.”

He raised his eyebrows in inquiry. She smiled, and his stomach tightened at the expression in her eyes. The faintest glimmer of joy rendered them more beautiful than any he had ever seen—certainly in sharp contrast to the spiteful expression of expectation and entitlement in the Honorable Aurora’s eyes.

Perhaps in interrupting his marriage to Aurora, the Almighty had spared Hamish a lifetime of trouble.

“For many diseases,” Euphramia said, “those who recover are at less, and sometimes no, risk of being infected again.”

“I dinnae understand.”

“It’s like training for a battle, or a fight.”

“A fight?”

She curled her lip in amusement. “Surely you’ve indulged in fights? Though I have no doubt, given that at your current size you could fell twenty warriors without so much as a scratch, you must have sustained injuries while learning how to beat another man to the ground with your fists.”

The beast lurking at the back of his mind let out a low growl of satisfaction. So…she’d observed his physique and concluded it to be superior to at least twenty other men.

She continued, “Having survived smallpox, my body is now capable of defense against further infection.”

“And ye know this, how?”

“Through Dr. McIver’s tutelage. He was willing to sponsor my application to train, but it was denied me.”

“How so?”

“Had I been born a boy, I would have been permitted to study medicine. But Papa—may God rest his soul—could never forgive me for being a girl.”

His heart ached at the pain in her eyes, which she tried to hide with a smile. Poor lass. From the moment she’d entered the world, she was a disappointment to the men who owned her. First her father, and now her husband…

Then her smile resumed. “I oughtn’t be ungrateful. Papa was no different to any father who’s not blessed with a son.”

“Aye,” Hamish couldn’t help saying, recalling his own father’s disappointment when Iona was born. Da had wanted a second son and had blamed Ma for her inability to give him one, cursing his lot on his deathbed for leaving Glenblath bereft of what it needed.

How different Hamish’s father had been compared to the brave, kind lass standing before him now, who, on her deathbed, had given him everything she had.

And look how ye’ve repaid her!

“I would like to think that when I’m a father, I…” Hamish trailed off with shame. Perhaps, if Fate had dealt him a different hand, the woman standing before him could have given him children.

Her cheeks reddened and, for the first time, she looked as if she might burst into tears.

“I shouldn’t have spoken with such disrespect toward my father,” she said, her voice tight. “He only wished that I’d been born a boy. At least he didn’t wish that I were dead.”

Her arrow hit home. But he welcomed it.

Then she shook her head. “Forgive me, Lord MacLennan, I spoke out of turn. Rest assured that I’ll not trespass on your life here any more than is absolutely necessary. I’m truly sorry for the turn of events and the impact it’s had on you.”

She withdrew to the door. As she touched the handle, he called out after her.

“Euphramia.”