Page 41 of Highland Seduction

“I’d heard ye were in town,” McGreghere said, clearly pleased to see Tor. “Come inside,” he said to them.

He’d clearly been working in the front room, the man’s desk filled with parchments of all sizes. They followed him through another door that opened to a central hall with an open hearth, unlit, at its center. McGreghere motioned them toward the wooden chairs, lined with bright red velvet cushions, asking his servant to bring wine.

“Yer arrival is most fortuitous. A shipment from Bordeaux arrived just this morn.” He looked to Ainsley then.

“I’m pleased to introduce my wife,” Tor said. McGreghere did not hide his surprise. “Lady Ainsley Shaw.” His surprise turned into astonishment at that announcement, but McGreghere quickly hid it, lowering his head in greeting.

“Pleased to make yer acquaintance, my lady.”

“As I am yers.”

They were handed goblets of wine as Tor explained, telling McGreghere what had transpired between them. Thankfully, he mentioned naught of the bishop, or their planned annulment.

“How long have ye been in Berwick?” McGreghere asked.

When Tor told him, he did not appear pleased. “I came here on the day we arrived but was told ye were not in town until today.

McGreghere frowned. “I enjoy this location for many reasons, but have clients who refuse to be turned away.”

Tor laughed. “Ye have been in town, then?”

“Aye, my friend. Apologies for the misunderstanding. So, have ye told yer wife how we met?”

“Nay.” Tor turned to her. “Royce and I were in Berwick, mayhap twelve or thirteen summers ago?”

“Or fifteen,” McGreghere offered.

“My brother drank more ale than was his custom at the very inn where we stay now. I’d gone to bed and only learned what had occurred the next morn.”

“I found Royce,” McGreghere said, “sprawled in front of the inn as drunk as a man could be. I took him here”—he gestured to the back of the manor house—“where he slept off the considerable amount of ale he’d obviously consumed.”

“A fortuitous first meeting,” Ainsley said.

“Aye,” McGreghere agreed. “But perhaps no’ as much so as getting married the day ye met.”

She peeked at Tor. He did not look away from her. Something in his expression caught her breath. It was not the promise he’d made in the furrier’s storage room. It was . . . more. She looked away, into her wine, and listened quietly as the two men traded tales.

Ye can touch me as ye like, and can be certain, if ye wish it, I will do the same.

Why had he not done so these past days? Had Tor been waiting for her to “wish it,” as he said? What precisely did he have planned for when they returned to the inn? Ainsley was as aware as ever of the consequences of fully being together, as it were.

Consequences she no longer feared. Indeed, the thought of being parted from Tor, of sleeping without him by her side, slowly became more terrifying than accepting a marriage she’d not asked for. A wedding she had not planned. A union with a man who, if he wished it, could treat her as property. Or worse, as Rhona’s husband had.

Tor would not do that, of course. He was, despite his surname, an honorable man. He’d even agreed to keep Ivy, the kitten, named after the street on which Ainsley found her, Ivy Lane. Ainsley smiled, remembering when they’d learned the kitten was, indeed, a girl. She’d taken to sleeping just above Tor’s head, and though he grumbled about it, Ainsley had caught him just that morn with the wee one in his arms as he carried her to the bowl of water he had procured for her, along with one filled with scraps of meat from their meal.

He’d warned her not to speak of it or allow any of the inn’s inhabitants to see their new companion. Though allowed to roam freely to aid in catching mice, having one in the chamber would be highly suspect indeed.

“Ainsley?”

She’d been so deep in thought, Ainsley had to ask Tor to repeat what he’d been saying.

“I told McGreghere of Ian and Marta. He agreed we’ve been asking in all the right places but will make inquiries of his own. And will attempt to locate a woman with ties to Marta, someone who could be her aunt. He wondered if either had any special markings that could identify her, in case the limp has healed?”

Ainsley thought of Ian and did remember one thing. “He fell from a wagon when he was a wee bairn. His older brother had been holding him and . . . well, his parents were no’ happy with him when he dropped her. Thankfully, the wagon had not been moving, but Ian did endure a cut”—Ainsley pointed to just under her own chin—“here. Ye’d not see it unless standing atop here, and even then only if he lifted his head.”

“Very good, lass. That will do. So tell me, what do ye plan next?”

A silence descended between them. That neither she nor Tor were willing to tell McGreghere of their plans with the bishop and appeal to the king was, Ainsley hoped, a sign. If naught else, ’twas a discussion they must have in private. One she’d been avoiding for fear of his reaction, but certainly not one to have in front of the lawyer.