Page 18 of Wouldn’t it Be Scottish?

“Thank you, Hattie,” Agatha said. “We are very grateful for anything you can provide for us.”

With a smile the woman bustled away to fetch the clothes. Donal murmured in a wry voice, “Is her husband Old Henry? I wonder what sort of clothes he wears?”

Agatha gave a huff of laughter. “You should be grateful for whatever she can find you.” She glanced down at him, a flush in her cheeks, and he knew then that his pantaloons were very transparent. “We must look a sight. I’m so glad no one at the picnic saw us in this state.”

Donal was reminded of that surge of lust he had felt earlier. At least Agatha was mostly covered now by the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. “Once we’re dry again we can decide what to do,” he said. “Although the weather doesnae seem to be improving.”

“Father and Miriam are probably enjoying themselves in the pavilion and have forgotten all about us. There was going to be dancing. Maybe it won’t be too late for us to go back and join in?”

Donal didn’t answer. Right now the last thing he felt like doing was dancing and smiling. He didn’t think he would even be able to pretend.

Agatha shivered again, and concerned, Donal moved one of the kitchen chairs closer to the warmth, so that Agatha could sit down. She gave him a grateful smile. “Do you think people will wonder where we are?” She asked the question that must be preying on her mind.

“Probably not,” he said a little gloomily.

Agatha nodded in reluctant agreement. “I expect you are right. At least I hope so. It would be awful if they sent out a search party.” She gave a shaky laugh. “Imagine that! I wonder if Richard and Mary would worry?”

Donal wondered too. Would Mary weep over thoughts of his lifeless body? Or would she be relieved he was out of the way of her plans with Belvoir? No, that was unfair. She wasn’t that heartless. He glanced at Agatha and noticed she seemed to be sunk in melancholy too.

To distract them both he asked, “What is our next engagement? Nothing outdoors I hope.”

“Oh.” She wrinkled her brow in thought. “Another ball I think.”

Another ball. Donal tried not to groan. He knew he was being ungrateful—there were people who would envy him—but there was only so much socializing he could manage. He wasn’t the sort of person who enjoyed mingling and performing before others, especially when they were people he did not know and did not particularly like. When he was at Bonnyrigg, he was lucky if he attended one ball a year, and then it was more of a ceilidh with fiddles and flutes and wild dancing.

Mary used to love ceilidhs. When he would swing her around she would shriek and laugh, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. And now here she was skipping sedately about London as if that other girl had never existed. Perhaps she no longer did?

Donal suspected that if it weren’t for Agatha’s prompting and encouragement, he might have given up by now, but then he reminded himself that Agatha’s heart was broken too. He had to keep going if only for her sake.

But if he was honest, that wasn’t the only reason he wanted to stay. He enjoyed Agatha’s company. And kissing her. He certainly enjoyed that, so much so that he’d like to do a great deal more of it. As well as other things . . . Donal swallowed and decided it was probably best not to pursue those thoughts right now.

At that moment, Hattie returned with a bundle of clothing which she dropped onto the table. “Will these do, do you think, miss? My lord?” She held up a plain gray gown for Agatha, and then some rough-looking breeches and a homespun shirt for Donal. None of it was the height of fashion, but he didn’t care. He was just so grateful to be changing into something warm and dry.

“Thank you, Hattie, that is most kind of you,” Agatha assured the older woman.

“Verra good,” Donal said.

They could not change in the same room, and Hattie led Agatha through a doorway and into a private area to change, whispering, “I am sure the master will understand,” while Donal made do with the kitchen.

It wasn’t long until Agatha returned, looking self-conscious as she held up the skirt of her gown to stop the hem from dragging on the floor and tripping her up. She gave Donal an amused look and then bit back a laugh when she saw him in his borrowed clothing. The breeches sagged at his waist, threatening to slip down, and when he held out his arms the sleeves only came to his elbows. He did a turn, which made her laugh. He was glad she was smiling and laughing again—he had missed both since the rainstorm.

“I’ve worn worse,” he assured her. “I wasna always ‘Lord Donal.’ And despite what you might have heard, clothes do not maketh the man.”

“We should be grateful,” Agatha agreed, looking down at the ill-fitting bodice of her too-big gown. “Hattie said this belonged to her daughter—she is Susan’s personal maid now and has her own uniform. I suspect she got this out of the rag bag.”

He grinned. “At least I can’t see through it,” he said, and then realized that probably wasn’t something he should be reminding her of. “Although . . .” but he stopped, knowing if he said what he was thinking he was only going to make matters worse.

Color flooded Agatha’s cheeks. “Was it such a shock? Have you not seen a woman without her clothes before?” She spoke brusquely as if to cover her embarrassment.

Donal shook his head. “No, I havena. Don’t laugh. It seems very foolish now, but I was saving myself for Mary.”

“Oh.” She blinked at him. “I won’t laugh at that. Of course you were saving yourself. You loved her. But, Donal, you are such a good kisser!”

That made him color. “Thank you. I have done some kissing in my time but not enough to make me an expert. I think when I kissed you I must have been inspired.”

“I think I was inspired too,” she admitted, with a glance at him from under her lashes.

Donal knew it was true. That night in the garden he had felt things he had never felt before, and he had been inspired. There was something about Agatha that called to him in a way that was new and exciting, and if it weren’t for Mary . . .