A Love by Any Measure by Killian McRae

under the same roof — perchance, the same bed with the bastard?
    Then again, why should it matter? Maeve was nothing to him. And, he reminded himself, her leaving had been the whole point. Yet the pang of unease wouldn’t leave him. As August heard the blue-eyed man babble, he couldn’t deny that his heart betrayed his intent while Owen continued to argue.
    “Maeve, dearie, that would look bad,” he told her gently. “What would everyone say if I had you living with me before we’re wed? Come now, only two months, maybe three, and then we’ll be together, just we two.”
    “And Da,” Maeve added.
    “Of course, and Rory,” Owen agreed. “You’ll be my sweet little wife, the queen of my castle. I’ll make sure you keep your good name until then. If it’s just a question of money, I could—”
    “No!” Maeve interjected, cutting him short. For a moment, pride surged through August, and he felt relieved to see his Maeve keep her dignity with Owen wherein she could not with him.
    His Maeve? Well, she had bound herself in an agreement to him. They had a contract, and he expected her to see out the terms. But hadn’t he come up with the contract wanting her to break it? Wasn’t that the whole point of this exercise?
    “It’s not about money,” Maeve continued. “I think I can convince Grayson to show some flexibility. Besides, the more you save, the sooner we can wed.”
    “You really want to marry me badly, don’t you?” Owen asked, the influence of a broad smile coming through in his timbre. “Falling in love with me now?”
    August couldn’t breathe as he waited for her answer.
    “I think … ” she stuttered. “I-I think I could. I will, in time. You are a good man. I hope I prove worthy.”
    There was guilt in her voice, and he knew he was responsible.
    “Of course you are,” Owen assured her. August chanced a glance over his shoulder to see him reaching timidly to stroke her cheek. Against his own volition, the imaginary tick-tock of a Comtoise clock started reverberating through him. “I have to get back to the shop.”
    August allowed the couple some number of paces before discreetly pulling himself away from the lamp post and following at an undetectable distance. At the corner, Owen gently leaned over and quickly kissed her cheek.
    And then, it happened: a single, self-shattering declaration moved silently across his lips.
    Mine.
    August could take no more.
    Woodrow’s eyes flashed in panic when August burst into his office, the hard-set brow of determination etched in his features.
    “O’Toole’s,” August proclaimed. “I want it.”

At Her Hearth
    T he fever chased away restful sleep. Through the night, visions plagued him. He dreamed of a bride, fresh and fragrant and fine, and of her smile. He dreamed of standing before the congregation in the sight of the Heavenly Father as she took his name. He dreamed of pulling back her veil, and of the horror that followed as the crimson-lipped beauty mocked him.
    “Oh, August, do you believe this will make you happy? Do you believe this is right? How utterly foolish.”
    The scene dissolved. He saw himself looking in the window of the cottage, a hearth alight with gentle flame. Maeve’s form flickered, with a broad-shouldered man at her back, his arms wrapped tightly around her. As the figure pressed kisses down her neck, August pounded the glass, trying to get her attention. She seemed unable to hear, but the blond-haired Irishman saw August through the panes. Saw him, and laughed as he indulged in Maeve.
    In the morning, August placed a lantern in the window the very moment he could escape attention, and waited.
    He found himself pacing up and down the length of his bed chamber, staring at a clock with a steady tick, but whose hands seemed fixed. How could time pass so slowly? He wanted her here, wanted her now. He needed to reclaim his property, to reaffirm the contract. She was his, not Owen’s, for as long as she stayed on his