One week and a day after Simon had arrived at Raibert Castle with the astounding invitation, Harrison sat in the old chapel at his family’s ancestral home, watching in restrained disbelief as Fergus Royce and Margaret Carmichael uttered their vows. Many of his fellow guests appeared to be as stunned as he was. At some point, he’d half expected the man and woman standing before the altar to realize they’d carried the jest a bit too far.
But evidently, his assessment had been wrong. Fergus and his bride—how odd to think those words in connection with Mrs. Carmichael—fairly beamed with happiness, their smiles displaying true delight that they’d found each other.
Following the ceremony, the guests gathered with the happy couple in the ballroom of the main house, celebrating the happy occasion with the craggy-faced groom and the woman he loved. As Fergus and the newly minted Mrs. Royce drank a toast to one another, emotion radiated in the matron’s eyes. Love. Joy. Happiness.
Love.The word played in his thoughts. He’d always been a logical man. As such, it seemed a fanciful concept which had never merited much consideration. What poets called love was little more than a romanticized explanation for the elemental drives that ensured the human race continued to repopulate its ranks.
Somehow, in the last few months, his pragmatic view had changed.
Once he’d met Grace, he couldn’t explain away love as a mere extension of desire. The very notion now seemed hollow and incomplete. No, love was so much more complex than the simple desire to bed a woman.
He knew that now. Damned shame it was too late.
Lifting his glass in another toast to the couple, he tossed back the liquor. Picturing Grace in his mind’s eye, his hunger sprang to the surface. Throughout months of lonely, desolate nights, he’d tried to tell himself it would pass, that he’d forget her.
Bloody hell, he was wrong. There was no forgetting Grace.
His passion for her would never die. The longing was a slow torment, night after night. His need for Grace couldn’t be slaked in another woman’s arms. The very thought of her triggered a fresh wave of need. Not only for her touch, but for so much more. He yearned to hear her soft, gentle laugh, and to touch the rich, silky curls that framed her face. If he could, he’d gaze into her perceptive, oh-so-clever brown eyes all night long. And if he had another chance, he’d kiss her sweet mouth, and treasure the smile that could melt the hardest of hearts.
God, he wanted her.
But like a dunce, he’d let her go.
Gracie Mae Winters had left on a steamer ship bound for America two weeks after she’d completed her mission. Accompanied by Mr. Jones and her aunt, Grace had departed Scotland a free woman. He’d ensured both American and Scottish pardons for Grace and Mrs. McTavish were in place before they took their leave. In saving Belle Fairchild Raibert from the evil of the man she’d married, Grace had saved the government from having to endure a scandalous and ugly international incident. She’d put her neck on the line for the benefit of Scotland. It was only right she be granted her freedom.
Freedom to return to America.
Freedom to return to the sister she adored…the sister she’d supported with the money gained through her thieving and trickery. The woman who’d possessed only one well-washed nightdress had paid for a fine education for her younger sibling.
Yes, Grace deserved her freedom.
Damned shame that freedom had taken her an ocean away.
As the wedding festivities continued, Harrison forced himself to join with the guests in wishing the newly married couple well. Despite the urge to slink off into some dark corner and drown his hunger in whisky, leaving was out of the question. After all, Fergus and Margaret would only have this one night to celebrate their nuptials. He, on the other hand, would have a lifetime to regret his own stubborn stupidity.
By hellfire, he’d watched Grace leave. He’d stood there like a blasted dolt and said nothing as the woman he adored made her way up the gangplank and sailed back to another life, far from him.
She’d turned once, looking over her shoulder as she boarded the ship. And then, she’d stood there, waving farewell to Mrs. Carmichael and to him. He’d seen the silent hope in her eyes, an emotion he’d tried to ignore. She’d wanted him to ask her to stay. In his heart, he knew that.
But he’d kept his damned mouth shut—even as she’d left him.
Forever.
Scowling to himself, he poured another two fingers of scotch, as if that might numb the bitter pain. As the evening wore on, and the toasts grew more jubilant, more and more whisky found its way into his glass.
“Harrison MacMasters, ye’re never at a loss for words,” Fergus called out, fueled by liquor and his own good-natured way. “But ye’ve been as quiet as a mouse sneakin’ past a hungry cat tonight. Ye’re happy for old Fergus, are ye not?”
“Of course,” Harrison said, raising his glass and taking another drink. “How could I not be? Ye’ve tamed the shrew, my friend.”
A little gasp went up from someone in the crowd, but Margaret Carmichael Royce laughed out loud. “I see the Shakespeare I insisted you read was not an utter waste.”
“Aye,The Taming of the Shrew.” He lifted his glass in a half-hearted little toast, though he wasn’t quite sure of what he was toasting.
The Untamed Shrew smiled, evidently unaware of his befuddlement. He’d dodged a bullet with that one, hadn’t he? Silently vowing to hold his tongue until he could get the hell out of there, he took one more drink from the tumbler—after all, there was no sense wasting good whisky.
Draining the glass, he turned toward the door. He damned sure didn’t feel like pretending to be happy. And why did the room seem to be swaying? Was it a trick of the light?
A few steps later, he stumbled. Pitching forward, he nearly plowed into a matron who’d piled her hair upon her head like a cake with too many layers. Righting himself, he’d nearly made it through the crowd when he came within inches of toppling into some gent in a ridiculously tall hat.
