Chapter 31

31

T he first snow of the season seemed a gift and the children's joy doubled Maryn's. Dressed warmly in thick wool capes and boots and mittens, she led her nieces outside to whirl about like snowflakes and make snow angels. Nessie raced around in delirious circles, further amusing them. As the icy mantle climbed to Maryn's shins, she looked out over the whitewashed Lowlands, wishing she could share it with someone not so wee.

"Auntie, can we eat the snow?" Pen asked, catching snowflakes on her tongue.

"Of course, Poppet," Maryn said, doing the same. "When I was wee, we used to mix snow with sugar. Snow cream, we called it. Your mother loved it like I did."

"Let's make some!" Charlotte jumped up and down, her cheeks pink as the wintering roses in the glasshouse behind her.

"I'll fetch a dish, then." Maryn started toward a near door, first rescuing Eugenie who'd fallen into a snow drift. Dusting her off, she watched as her youngest niece returned to play with her sisters.

Once inside, Maryn nearly ran into Mrs. Duncan. "Your Grace, you've a visitor."

A visitor? Had she misheard?

Maryn pushed three words past frozen lips. "In this weather?"

The housekeeper's smile seemed to light up the hall. "Aye, and only the most stalwart, brawest Scots will brave it. In this case, Mr. Hume." Mrs. Duncan gestured toward an open door. "In your cabinet."

Suddenly breathless, Maryn remembered her nieces. "Please have someone watch over the children outside. I promised them snow cream. And bring a buttered toddy for Mr. Hume."

"Of course. Now, let me help you with your wraps." She took Maryn's damp cape then left her alone in the hall to collect herself.

Why had Orin come? And on the Sabbath, to boot. Did he remember it was the anniversary of Herschel's death? Looking down at her soaked hem, she discarded the notion of rushing to her bedchamber to make herself presentable. Concern—and yearning—forbade any delay. She approached the chamber dearest her heart, amazed the man who held her heart waited there.

He faced the hearth's leaping fire, his back to the door as she entered. He'd shed his coat and hat but his hair, caught back with black ribbon, was damp. She framed his sturdy shoulders and remarkable height in her mind's eye as joy filled her to the brim, so overwhelmingly she felt faint.

"Orry … " she finally said as he turned toward her. His features were ruddy with cold. The light and joy in his face struck her hard as the snow. Only a slight, telltale scar remained beneath his injured eye.

"Maryn."

For a moment they just stood, their gazes locked, and then he took something from his pocket.

"A wee bird—a chaffinch—lit on the garden wall right above this. I'd given up checking the opening last summer. And then today … "

Her September letter? Had he finally found it? Warmth suffused her cheeks as she remembered all she'd penned.

"The weather erased all but a few words." He held it out to her. "Dismayed as I was to find it so long after you'd written it, the fact that it was there gave me hope."

She took the ink-smeared paper from him, now so weathered and worn. Perhaps the tenderest things needed to be spoken, after all.

"I wrote that I've decided to live life rather than lock myself away from it. A life that includes you." She paused, a bit winded by so many heartfelt words, unable to raise her gaze as she laid bare her heart. "Unless I read you wrongly, you seem to want me by your side, not only as a matter of honor."

"Maryn, look at me." His fingers brushed her cheek, startling cold against her flushed skin. "Sometimes it's even hard for a poet to express how he feels. I phrased it as a matter of honor but that includes my enduring love. A love that will not fade or find satisfaction in someone else."

He took her wounded hand and held it in his for a few seconds before gently removing her glove. Unable to look at her scarred, stitched-together flesh, she searched his face but his expression showed only compassion.

"I've said it before but it bears repeating. I would give all that I am to undo that day."

"As would I." She swallowed, summoning details she'd uttered to no one. "There's something you should ken before we go further. The doctors who treated me after the accident said my injuries aren't just the ones that can be seen. If we were to—" she faltered, out of her depth, "—come together, I may be unable to conceive … "

A flash of amusement crossed his face. "Four bairns are nae enough?" He brought her fingers to his lips. "Will you have me, then, come what may?"

Would she? "I will have you without any further delay. And I shan't be wearing sable."

"Then I'll do what the laird did when he wed his Northumberland bride. I'll forego the banns and obtain a special license."

"We'll wed at Ladykirk if you like." The wonder of it nearly stole speech. "With three flower girls attending us."

His gaze lifted as howls erupted from upstairs. "And one rowdy lad whom I've yet to meet."

No sooner had he said it than Haddon quieted.

He turned serious. "My lack of title is of nae consequence to you? Nor any naysayers?"

"I've never cared about either." She looked toward the cabinet's windows. Snow continued to sift down like sugar, overlaying the land like the richest icing on a wedding cake. "At the moment I feel far more a bride than a duchess. And you might well be snowed in here till we marry."

"There's nae place I'd rather be."

She turned back to him, their hands clasped, wanting no secrets between them. "I have another confession. I'm a playwright. A poet. But not of your caliber or stature."

"Only because there's nae Poet Laureate lass of Britain yet." His regard told her he wasn't surprised. "I suspected you'd never stopped your literary endeavors, including founding a renowned gazette. Something about queens and bees … "

Her smile was bittersweet. "I sought refuge in my writing when life was at its darkest."

"Nae more dark days, Maryn, at least alone." His voice deepened with emotion. "In future we'll weather them together."

He leaned in, the touch of his lips like a caress. Her arm encircled his neck, bringing him nearer, so close she felt the pulse of his heart beneath his linen sark, her rose-scented softness enveloped in his embrace.

He kissed her again and again, moving from her lips to her throat, the hollow of her shoulder, her hands, leaving a trail of tingling fire. His low murmur against her hair left her equally undone. "Mrs. Hume née the Duchess of Fordyce, then."

"Forever and ever, amen."