The Heart of Love (The Book of Love #9) - Meara Platt

Chapter One

London, England

May 1821

Whatever Heather Farthingale expected to see while in the garden at the break of dawn was not the big Scot, Robert MacLauren, tumbling over the high stone wall of Number One Chipping Way and dropping like a giant boulder onto the decorative wooden bench that stood against the garden wall. “Robbie!”

He did not tumble so much as crash down and land flat on his back atop the bench that was never going to support the muscled heft of him hitting it with such impact. Heather was not surprised when the bench began to sway precariously or when the wooden slats gave an ominous groan and sharply cracked.

She winced as the entire bench collapsed beneath his magnificent body, leaving him sprawled and dazed in all his golden glory.

Well, there was no point denying that Robert MacLauren, captain in the Scots Greys, the Crown’s most distinguished cavalry regiment, was splendid in every way.

“Bollocks,” he muttered, his words slurred as he gazed up at the early dawn sky. “Who moved the bloody wall?”

Well, perhaps this was not his finest moment.

“Robbie, are you hurt?” Heather hurried over to him and knelt by his side, ignoring the dampness of the grass now seeping through her thin robe and nightrail. The sun had barely peeked above the horizon, and she doubted any of the servants were stirring yet.

She’d only come outside to calm her betrothal jitters, especially since tonight was the night of the Marquess of Tilbury’s grand ball, and she would be standing by his side now that they were soon to be married.

But here she was, unable to sleep while her stomach was in a tight coil, and never thought to encounter anything but the light breeze against her cheeks and the soft twitter of birds in the blossoming trees.

She had not expected the morning serenity to be shattered by this big Scot hurling himself over the wall from the fashionable Mayfair street known as Chipping Way and crashing onto the charming bench designed for sitting.

He’d smashed it to bits with his less than elegant dive.

“Are you drunk?” He did not need to answer. She smelled the ale on his breath and the acrid scent of cheap perfume on his jacket. “Ugh, you reek.”

He lay atop the soft grass, blinking his eyes as he tried to focus on her. “Pixie? Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me. I ought to be furious with you.” But she was afraid he had truly been injured. Getting him tended before he did more damage to himself was more important than lecturing him on the evils of his rakehell life.

She wasn’t even certain he qualified as a true rakehell because he was too hardworking, had a well-defined code of honor, and had always been a complete gentleman in all his dealings with her. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Looking for ye, lass. And I’ve found ye. How’s yer ankle?”

“Completely healed. Thank you for asking.”

He smiled at her with enough warmth to melt a frozen sea. But this was Robbie’s way, wasn’t it? He knew how to turn on the charm whenever he wished.

Perhaps she was being too hard on him.

He had never attempted to take advantage of her. Quite the opposite, he’d appointed himself her protector and been quite wonderful to her until the Marquess of Tilbury had come along and taken up the role.

She shook out of her thoughts and touched him cautiously, afraid he might have broken a bone or cracked his head. “Oh, dear. The wood sliced your arm as it broke apart. You’re bleeding. Please don’t move. Let me get help.”

He caught her hand in his rough palm, his touch surprisingly gentle. “No, lass. Give me a moment, and I’ll manage on my own.”

“Don’t be stubborn. You need help. You fell off the wall.”

“I could have fallen off the roof and not hurt myself. When ye’re that drunk, yer body does no’ feel it.”

“You must be jesting. If you ever dare climb on the roof, I’ll grab a loaded rifle and shoot you off it myself.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said with a warm smile that brought out the handsomeness of his features. “Just get me to the kitchen. I’ll tend to the cut on my own. What are ye doing out here at this unholy hour? Isn’t Tilbury’s ball tonight? As his betrothed, ye’ll be standing by his side. Ye want to make him proud, don’t ye?”

“Yes…I just…” She frowned at him. “You had better sober up before the party.