Page 51 of A Dash of Scot
His eyes bore into hers, staid. “Nay. I wouldna, or willna, or anything other w-word, marry Lucia, whether ye were to agree to be my wife or no’.”
“And I have yet to agree,” she reminded him, just in case.
“I know.” He said it softly, a small smile on his lips. “And even if it takes to my thirty-ninth or forty-ninth to get ye to agree, I willna stop trying.”
“Then I may make you wait.”
“If that’s what it takes.”
She nodded. “What are the consequences?”
“There are none. My inheritance is not linked to my birthday, only that I do eventually provide an heir. Lucia’s insistence that we are betrothed is based on a drunken suggestion. Claiming witnesses, but they were all as inebriated as I was, and she’d also have to admit she had been behaving improperly, which would be an embarrassment to her father. Furthermore, I have reason to suspect her prior engagement to a rival of mine at Oxford may have compromised her, and he denied her, so she’s grasping at straws.”
Poppy’s hand rested over his heart. “You’re much more than a stalk of straw.”
“I agree.” He smiled. “I’m at least a thistle or an oak.”
“Definitely a pine.” Poppy’s smile faltered. “All jesting aside, Dougal. Does Lucia know that you will not marry her?”
“I’ve told her and her father as much. And my solicitor has also now gotten involved.” He let out a long sigh. “In fact, I’m awaiting news from my solicitor as to the results of said confrontation. While Lucia is grasping and likely a fallen woman, I in no way want to further besmirch her reputation. I merely had my solicitor inform her father that there would be no offer of marriage. And then, in a note as gently and delicately as I could, reminded her of how our connection, and lack thereof, came to be. If she were so inclined to have a solicitor prepare legal documents, she should go after Campbell himself, not me.”
“Her prior fiancé?”
“Aye.”
“And the father of her child?”
“I canna confirm if she’s with child or if Campbell is the father, but it is what I suspect.”
“What a shame she would try to dupe you.” Poppy frowned.
“Aye. But I’d no’ be the first scapegoat. Besides,” he tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, “none of that matters, no’ when I have ye.”
17
Poppy could have remained where she stood for the rest of the day, the week, the month, contemplating everything that had happened, changed, in the last hour.
Dougal loved her.
Dougal was vulnerable. Opening up to how he’d run away from her, from London, in fear. She was still mad about it. A year of misery when they could have had a simple conversation, but the fact that he was opening up to her about it now meant the world to her. And she was open to forgiving him.
Dougal had pledged his life to her.
To her. Poppy Featherstone. She was the woman Dougal Mackay placed upon a pedestal.
As they turned to head back toward the cottage, she had to pinch herself. Was this really happening? The pinch stung, and so she wasn’t asleep. Good sign. That meant the kiss, his declaration, his promises were all real.
Dougal tucked her arm around his elbow as they walked, the flex of his muscles beneath her hand enticing her to gently squeeze. He flexed again and grinned down at her.
As the cottage came into view, Dougal paused his steps, and she, too, came to a stop.
“What is it?” Fragile still, she saw her current bliss coming to an end.
“There is something ye should know afore we get inside and greet your sister and mother.” Dougal’s expression had turned grave, and Poppy felt suddenly ill.
Pressing a hand to her belly, she said, “Tell me.”
“’Tis about Sir John, and Anise is bound to be heartbroken.” Dougal glanced at her, his face full of regret for whatever he was about to relay.
