When Harry wakes up the next morning, the first thing he realises is that he's alone. Ruth's side of the bed is empty and that is enough to make him sit up in panic, looking frantically around the room for her. His wife, fitting one of his jumpers onto a coat hanger by the wardrobe, raises her eyebrows in bemusement at him. "Good morning," she grins wryly.
Harry reddens in embarrassment – he can tell by Ruth's smile that she knows what his first thought was – and gets up. "No one mentioned that getting married meant a personal valet service as well," he teases, as he hugs her from behind. Ruth sighs happily, not replying. Harry trails kisses down the side of her neck, and she leans back into him, feeling entirely blissful. His arms wind themselves further around her waist, and he guides her slowly back to the bed. The coat hanger is wrested from her hands. It is Ruth who stops them, gasping slightly for breath. "Later. Help me unpack first."
Harry rolls away from her with a groan. "Spoilsport," he pouts. Fifteen minutes later, however, he is rather glad to be helping with the unpacking. "Crikey, Ruth!" he manages, startled, as he draws a purple, rather low cut silk gown from the top of one of Ruth's cases. His eyes take on a faraway look, imagining his Ruth wearing it. "I've never seen this dress," he croaks. Ruth flushes and snatches it from him. "Well, it's hardly the thing to wear on the Grid, is it?" she points out, still rather flattered at his reaction. The corner of Harry's mouth twitches, and he deadpans, "You're probably right. God knows how much work I'd get out of Alec and Tariq if you did. Although, it would certainly provide an incentive for volunteering for overtime..."
Ruth giggles, not questioning his omission of Dimitri. She has a feeling that Beth is rather glad to have the flat to herself, and that a certain colleague shares her jubilation. "Hmm," she agrees softly, and leans over to add, "If you're very good Harry, I might wear it for you one day." She sees his mind work through her words, and then he raises his left eyebrow. "I shall look forward to it," is his only reply.
Once the unpacking is done, Harry volunteers to go down to the village for supplies. Ruth watches his retreating back from the front door as he walks to the car, admiring his broad shoulders and the ruffled brown curls at the top of his neck. As he unlocks the car, he calls back sternly, "Stop eyeing me up, Ruth." Surprised, she bursts out laughing.
"Incorrigible woman," she thinks she hears him mutter as he opens the door.
When he gets back, laden down with shopping bags, including one containing a bottle of his favourite malt, Ruth is buried in a book. He gives her a swift kiss to catch her attention, and then hands her a leaflet he's picked up in the village. Her eyes scan the paper quickly as he waits, leaning on the back of her chair, and then she turns her wide blue eyes onto him. "A dance?" she asks in disbelief. Harry slides into the seat next to her.
"A dance," he confirms. Leaning back, he adds nonchalantly, "It's been a long time since I took a girl dancing, Ruth..." His wife rolls her eyes, and sets the leaflet aside, returning to her book. "I've never danced in my life. Not even ballet as a little girl. I'd never manage Scottish dancing." She still becomes endearing embarrassed at the prospect of making a fool of herself in front of Harry – the man she, for want of a better word, idolises. Harry wraps an arm around her shoulders, tugging the book out of her hands. "But, Ruth," he protests, "it'll be like a Jane Austen novel. Don't you want to find out what it's like?"
His wife's only response is to deepen her frown. Harry leans in very close to her ear and whispers in his deep voice, "Oh, Ruth, where's your spirit of romance?"
"Come on, Ruth – it starts at eight!" he calls up the stairs, adjusting his bow tie in the mirror. The kilt, surprisingly, still fits. It's the one he inherited five years ago from his maternal uncle, one of the Monro clan, in the firm belief that, even though his sister had married an Englishman of all people, her offspring should still keep in touch with their Scottish roots. The dance is a formal affair, held by the laird and his wife for anyone who'll come. But by the looks of things, Ruth isn't going to be one of them. Harry turns once again to the top of the stairs, and his eyes widen.
Ruth is standing there, looking somewhat nervous. And lovely. She's wearing that dress, and she's pinned her chestnut hair up. The barest touches of make up warm her face, giving her an elegant and sophisticated look. "Will I do?" she asks quietly. Harry shakes his head, marvelling that anyone could be so unaware of such beauty. "You look beautiful, my darling," he tells her. He's never meant any words so sincerely. She glides down the stairs towards him, her gown floating around her, and as he takes her hand, Harry can feel the rush of her pulse in her wrist.
"Relax," he chides gently, as he walks them both down the garden path. He can't imagine anyone more suited for dancing than Ruth, endowed as she is with her own unique blend of elegance and grace, and he thinks himself a very lucky man indeed that he is her privileged partner...
She manages to resist dancing for a whole hour, practically clinging to the wall, as the other guests fling themselves around the floor in a series of exuberant Highland dances. Ruth merely gazes around the great hall where the dance is taking place, hung with tapestries and lit by glow of the central chandelier, with the soft fragrance of the rose decorations filling the air. Harry has no trouble in finding partners – several women from the village, and even the laird's wife for a couple of dances – but he is determined that before the end of the night, Ruth will have danced.
As the evening draws on, the music slows, and at last the musicians strike up a waltz. Ruth taps her foot slightly to the beat of the music, and Harry takes his chance. Without even asking for her permission, he takes his wife's hand and pulls her onto the floor. Before she can protest, his arm is around her waist, holding her very tightly against him, as he positions his other hand around hers. About to insist on being released, Ruth makes the mistake of looking up into his eyes. The love and tenderness she sees there halt her protest before it can reach her lips. Wordlessly, she allows him to guide them gently around the floor. She feels almost weightless, and utterly safe in Harry's arms.
Harry smiles as he feels Ruth's head come to rest on his shoulder. In the bad old days, after her return, when they couldn't talk about anything beyond work, this used to be one of his dreams – dancing with Ruth, feeling her love, holding her close to him, and not having her pull away. He'll never tell her this of course; any confession of the sort will only provoke guilt and pity that is no longer needed. "Thank you," she whispers giddily as the music comes to an end. But Harry doesn't release her entirely.
He can hear the last dance the band are striking up – an energetic jig – and he sees the rest of the dance floor reform into two lines of partners. He glances pleadingly down at Ruth, and she sighs, biting her lip. "Harry, I can't..." she insists. His arm tightens once more around her waist. "Humour me." Somehow Ruth finds herself on the end of the line, with Harry opposite her, as the dance begins. As Harry suggested, it is all rather Austen-esque, and Ruth can't help but enjoy the faster pace once she has worked out where her feet should be moving. Harry is moving with surprising speed for a man of his age, and the fierce enjoyment in his face as he takes her hand and skips down the centre of the lines makes her heart swell with love.
It is Ruth who slides up to him at the last moment before they part again to kiss his lips, much to the amusement of the locals who send up a cheer. Her hair is beginning to come out of its prim style, and her cheeks are slightly flushed with the heat and the exertion. Harry thinks she has never looked so glorious.
The drive home is passed in contented silence. Rather than relinquish their closeness, Harry maintains a hold on Ruth's hand, covering it even as he changes gears, which makes her smile. He has loosened his bow tie and opened the first button of his crisp white shirt, giving him an attractively dishevelled air. She sneaks a look at his bare neck out of the corner of her eye and swallows, remembering the attraction the same sight had caused that night at Havensworth all those years ago...
"Ruth?" he suddenly asks.
"Yes, Harry?"
"You mentioned wearing the dress... I don't suppose that this package includes taking off the dress too?" he smiles.
Ruth smirks and looks down at her lap. "Oh," she replies in an offhand tone, "I think I can stretch to that, Harry..."
A/N: I was re-reading the Personnel Files the other day, and noticed that Harry's mother was called Fiona Monro, which has a nicely Scottish ring to it – I thought it would be fun to include at least something regarding Harry's Scottish roots, but I'm not sure if it worked. Let me know?
