Pistols at Dawn

by Andrea Pickens

  His brow furrowed. "I—I don't understand..."

  "Then let us leave it at that." Hugging her arms to her chest, hoping to hold what little dignity she had left, Eliza quickly skirted around him and hurried for the door. "Good night, milord."

  * * *

  "Bloody Hell." Marcus jabbed a poker into the glowing coals and stirred them to life. After adding several fresh logs to the fire, he slumped into the nearby armchair and took his head in his hands. His wits were a bit fuzzed from the brandy—but not fuzzed enough that he didn't recognized what a hash he had made of the encounter.

  Cursing his stupidity, he stared blankly at the wagging tongues of flame, each one seeming to whisper a silent reproach for his clumsy words.

  Had Eliza really thought he was offering her a tap on the shoulder?

  A ragged sigh slipped from his lips. She had little reason to think otherwise, he admitted, given the way he had recently pawed over her glorious body and ravaged her lush mouth. Self-loathing squeezed at his chest, and for a moment, Marcus was tempted to down his sorrows in another generous splash of brandy.

  But some shred of sense remained, and he stayed seated, hoping the bright blaze of the burning logs might help dispel his black mood.

  Love. He had been delighted by Lucien's announcement. Seeing the young couple flushed with such happiness had been heartening, and he was sure the match would flourish. But as he had watched Eliza throughout the meal, his spirits had plummeted. She looked so serious, so solemn. He didn't doubt that she approved, too. No, it hadn't been disapproval in her eyes, but rather a certain sense of longing.

  Had she been in love and suffered a disappointment? he wondered.

  The thought made him itch to bloody the offending fellow's nose—and then take Eliza in his arms and kiss the look of hurt from her face.

  "But she doesn't want your kisses," he muttered to himself.

  What a mull! She seemed to think he had had been annoyed at having to rescue her from Hastings. When in fact, his heart had nearly stopped beating when he saw the knife press to her throat.

  Love. Eliza might not have pulled the trigger of her ancient pistol, but she had managed to shoot Cupid's arrow deep into his flesh. Yes, he loved her, but as she didn't seem to return the sentiment, he would simply have to yank out the barb, no matter how much it hurt.

  With that depressing thought in mind, Marcus rose and headed upstairs to his bedchamber. But he doubted that sleep would come anytime soon.

  * * *

  A soft knock on her door roused Eliza from her brooding reveries. It was followed by Meredith's muffled half whisper.

  "Are you awake?"

  Much as she wished to be alone, Eliza didn't have the heart to ignore the query. Tightening the sash of her wrapper, she rose from the cushioned window seat and clicked open the latch. "Of course—who could possibly sleep, what with all the excitement bubbling through the manor house?"

  Her sister smiled. "You are right to tease me, for no doubt I have been acting like a silly, moonstruck schoolgirl all evening. But I can't help it, I feel as if I am floating on a cloud of spun-silver starlight."

  "As well you should." Eliza enveloped Meredith in a fierce hug. "If there is anyone who deserves to be happy, it is you."

  "I am happy," answered Meredith. "Deliriously so. And I just wanted to share the moment with you, just the two of us, before retiring."

  "I am glad you did," she murmured.

  The two of them stood with their arms around each other for a sisterly interlude, no words necessary to express their feelings for each other.

  "Dear me," Eliza finally broke away and dabbed her sleeve to her cheek. "With all this overflowing joy, I fear I am in danger of turning into a watering pot."

  Meredith let out a soulful sigh. "I never dreamed such joy was possible. Lucien is so kind, gentle, caring, compassionate—"

  "You need not exhaust yourself reciting all his sterling qualities," interrupted Eliza with a fond laugh. "I am in complete agreement that he is worthy of your hand."

  "Thank you," said Meredith quietly.

  "Not that it would make a whit of difference if I didn't approve," she added dryly.

  Amusement sparkled in her sister's eyes. "You know me too well. But I never doubted that you would perceive the goodness in him. You have always been a very good judge of character."

  Eliza gave an inward wince. "I do, on occasion, make mistakes," she murmured.

  "Yes, but you're always wise enough to see the error of your ways." Meredith took a seat on the edge of the bed and smoothed at her skirts. "Take the earl..."

  She closed her eyes for an instant, trying not to imagine his chiseled face dappled in red-gold firelight.

  "The two of you—"

  "This evening is all about you and your betrothed, not me and my employer," interjected Eliza.

  "My happiness is assured," said Meredith. "Now it is your turn."

  "What makes you think I am not happy?" she demanded. "I have my work, I have my independence, I have you and Mama, and the prospect of being a doting aunt."

  Meredith dismissed the listing with a scornful snort. "Don't think to gammon me. As if I can't tell that you have something weighing on your spirits."

  "Perhaps I do," she admitted. "But I am not ready to talk about it, if you don't mind."

  "You don't have to," murmured Meredith. "I think I can guess what is troubling you, but since you have asked, I shall stay silent on the matter for now—save for one observation." She slid down from her perch. "Reason and logic are all very well, but sometimes it is better to listen to your heart, and not your head."

  "I'm afraid both of them are speaking gibberish at the moment," quipped Eliza.

  "Oh, I think Love has a very clear voice. You just have to listen very carefully to hear it."

  Love.

  She swallowed the rising lump in her throat, unable to think of a clever retort.

  Meredith planted a quick kiss on her cheek. "Good night. And sweet dreams."

  As the door clicked shut, Eliza blew out the candles with a heavy sigh, enveloping herself in the black velvet shadows of midnight. Sweet dreams were for couples whose hearts were joyfully entwined.

  Her own reveries promised to be naught but a dark tangle of confusion.

  Chapter 17

  Drawing a deep breath, Marcus crossed the garden terrace and descended the stairs to the sloping lawns leading down to lake. He felt like Hell—a myriad tiny devils seemed to be jabbing red-hot pitchforks into the back of his skull—but perhaps a brisk walk in the bracing air would help clear his head.

  An early morning mist lingered in the rising sunlight, shrouding the trees and hedges in a silvery shimmer. The grass was damp with dew, muffling his steps as he made his way past the herb garden, and somewhere close by, a morning dove was twittering a soft song.

  The sound made him wince.

  "Damnation," he muttered, pressing his fingertips to his throbbing temples.

  The pounding became more pronounced as a cheerful whistling cut through fluttering leaves.

  Beethoven's Ode to Joy.

  He didn't need to turn around to know who was approaching.

  "You're up early, Uncle Marcus," called Lucien. "A lovely morning for a walk, isn't it?"

  He grunted in reply, hoping the accompanying scowl would encourage his nephew to go away. Given his current mood, a besotted lover was the last sort of company he wanted.

  But Lucien seemed oblivious to the message. Falling in step beside him, the young man fixed him with a quizzical look. "You look a little peaked. Is something amiss?"

  Marcus bit back a caustic reply. No need to snap at those around him because of his own foul humor.

  Lucien's brows rose a notch, but he refrained from further questions. "Fresh air, mellow sunshine, vigorous exercise," he murmured. "I always find that problems tend to untangle when one does not keep them cooped up in a deep, dark hole."

  As their steps rounded the orchard
fence, his nephew suddenly left off the Beethoven's melody to give three sharp whistles.

  "Do stop that infernal racket," growled Marcus.

  "Sorry." Lucien paused to greet his hound, who had come bounding out of the bushes with his tail wagging—and tongue lolling.

  Marcus didn't react quite quickly enough to evade Ajax's muddy-pawed jump and slobbering kiss.

  "Sorry," repeated his nephew, smothering a grin.

  Looking down at his bedraggled breeches, he chuffed a reluctant laugh, feeling it would churlish to stay all snaps and snarls in the face of such high spirits.

  "Forgive me for not being in a more playful frame of mind," he said, ruffling his fingers through the hound's silky fur. "I don't wish to be like a storm cloud, scudding in on an ill-wind to darken your day. So perhaps it is best if you—and the Maestro's magnificent music—go on along this path, and I shall cut back through the copse of oak trees."

  "Ah, is that because you wish to sulk through the shadows?" asked Lucien.

  "As a matter of fact, yes." Marcus started walking away. "The sun is making my head ache."

  "My guess is it's not the sun, or the moon, or the stars," called his nephew. "It's fear."

  He stopped and slowly turned. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Fear," repeated Lucien doggedly.

  Ajax let out a little woof.

  "What are you afraid of?" continued his nephew. "The fact that Miss Kirtland might say yes?"

  Marcus stood still as a statue, fixing Lucien with a basilisk stare of silent shock and consternation. The young man didn't bat an eye.

  "She won't," he finally said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "Not after the hash I made of things last night."

  "Would you care to talk about it?"

  "No." Marcus quirked a wry grimace. "But that would be rather cowardly, considering the fact that I held your feet to the flaming coals."

  "Trial by fire," quipped Lucien. "If you survive, you do tend to come out stronger."

  "Thank you for the encouraging words," he replied dryly. "I've been roasting myself all night, and I can't say it's made me feel anything other than burned to a crisp."

  Lucien approached, and after a quick glance at coal-black shadows under the earl's eyes, he took his uncle's arm and led him to the path that wound through the grove of trees. "You're right—you're not quite ready to greet the sun this morning. But perhaps I can help you see the light."

  Bemused by this new steely show of confidence in his nephew, Marcus let himself by guided beneath the fluttering canopy of leaves.

  "So, you think you've made a muddle of things with Miss Kirtland?" asked Lucien.

  He nodded. "A hopeless muddle. She thinks I'm a scoundrel."

  "Then change her mind."

  Woof.

  "I..." He found himself faltering. "I'm not sure I can."

  "Oh, show some bottom, Uncle Marcus. Ye gods, if I can manage to win the hand of the lady I love, so can you."

  Marcus blinked, then felt a smile curl on his lips. "You think so?"

  "I know so. Meredith and I are quite sure that Miss Kirtland's heart is yours, if only you will ask for it."

  "Ha." He expelled a harried sigh. "I started to, but she misunderstood—"

  "So go back and try again," cajoled Lucien. "Or would the Black Cat rather slink away with his tail between his legs."

  "Ouch," he murmured. "Since when have you developed such teeth and claws?"

  "Since a certain someone challenged me to be more than I believed I could be."

  Crunch, crunch. As their steps moved through the dead leaves on the path, Marcus felt new hope bloom in his heart. "She might not listen," he mused. "She's stubborn and willful." A laugh. "But so am I."

  "You see—you are exceedingly well-matched." Lucien picked up a stick and tossed it into the tree. As Ajax went bounding after it, he added, "I think you would regret it for the rest of your life if you don't dare to go after her and make her say yes. Love is worth the risk."

  Love. That word again. It was terrifying, and yet it was also...

  Marcus stopped abruptly. "I think I shall leave you here and return to the Manor. I have much to accomplish this morning and would prefer not to waste any more time."

  "But of course," murmured his nephew. "Good luck. But hen again, the Black Cat is accorded to be a very lucky feline."

  "Yes, well, let us hope my luck holds."

  * * *

  Eliza looked around her familiar workroom in Rose Cottage and then took a seat at her desk. She aligned her pens in a neat row beside the inkwell. She straightened the stack of ledgers and squared the sheaf of foolscap.

  Everything was in its place, she thought as she stared down at her blotter. And like the blank sheets of paper, her life was ready to write a new chapter.

  Turning to a fresh page.

  In another week or two, once the earl had procured a special license for the happy couple and the marriage ceremony was over, she would be returning here, to her old familiar things.

  Her old, familiar life.

  Eliza knew she ought to be feeling elated at the prospects for the future. Meredith was in alt over her coming nuptials with Lucien, and she had no doubts that the new couple would suit each other in every way. The young man had also made it clear that he meant to see to the care of Rose Cottage and her ailing mother. So she would no longer have to bear the financial burden of looking after her family.

  Her worries lifted, her independence assured—what more could she want?

  Tracing her fingertips in random circles across the well-worn blotter, Eliza told herself she now had the freedom to do exactly as she pleased.

  So why did the prospect look as black as the blot of ink beneath her thumb?

  With a flick of her hand, she knocked all the nibs askew. Hell's bells. Her feelings were refusing to line up as they should. That her old routine suddenly seemed so empty, so...

  "Eliza?"

  Blinking the wetness from her lashes, she slowly turned around.

  "I saw the door open and thought I would stop in and check that nothing is amiss."

  "No, Ned, everything is back to the usual," she replied, trying very hard to keep her voice from sounding hollow.

  His brow furrowed. "Actually, a good deal had changed."

  She managed a smile. "Yes—and no. My life shall go on much as before."

  Her neighbor shuffled his feet. "As to that..." Fisting his cap, he cleared his throat. "Might I speak... as a friend, Eliza?"

  "Why, of course, Ned. You know I respect your opinions." Her lips quirked. "Even if I don't always agree with them."

  A ghost of a smile flitted across his features. "Aye, you do have a mind of your own."

  "I take that as a compliment."

  "It was meant as one." He was back to looking very serious. "I could add a number of others, but I am a simple man, not much given to flowery speech, so I shall come straight to the point. I should like to ask for your hand in marriage."

  "Marriage?" Eliza gripped the back of her chair. Lud, her whole world seemed intent on turning topsy-turvy this morning. "This is rather sudden."

  He nodded. "Forgive me for not wooing you with a more formal courtship, Eliza. But you must know I admire you, and given the circumstances—"

  "What circumstances are those?" she asked softly.

  "You know how people are. They gossip, and even though any sensible soul in these parts knows you are not guilty of any impropriety, there are some unpleasant things being said about you and the Earl of Killingworth." He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the tips of his muddy boots. "To be blunt, your reputation has suffered, and so I thought it best to waste no time in offering you the protection of my name."

  Eliza was not sure whether it was anger or embarrassment or compassion—or a sparking of all three—that had her cheeks afire. "That is thoughtful of you, Ned. But as I have never given a fig in the past for what people have said, I have no intention of letting curren
t whispers upset me in the least."

  "We would have a comfortable life, Eliza," he went on doggedly. "My farm is a modest one, but with the improvements you suggested it is turning more profit. And I respect your judgment and value your counsel. I think we whould suit."

  Her own gaze slanted back to her desk. "On paper it might appear a good match, Ned. But I cannot accept your kind offer."

  "Why?"

  "Because..." Eliza turned to face him. No matter how hard a task, she could not duck away from the truth. "Because I do not wish to marry for mere comfort or convenience. Because I would not truly make you happy. Because..."

  The rest of the words died on her lips as the sound of bootsteps scuffed down the corridor.

  "I had not realized you had company, Miss Kirtland." Marcus hesitated in the doorway, the capes of his coat flapping against the molding. His windblown hair curled around his ears, softening the planes of his face.

  Her heart fluttered in her chest.

  "I do hope I am not interrupting anything serious."

  "No—" she began.

  "Actually, I was asking Miss Kirtland to marry me," announced Ned with a scowl.

  "Allow me to be the first to offer felicitations," drawled Marcus, his brows taking on a sardonic tilt.

  The farmer's fists clenched at his sides. "How kind. I would rather you give me a bit of privacy, milord."

  Eliza was finding it difficult to draw in a gulp of air. Why the two men had taken such a dislike to each other was a mystery to her, but their growls of animosity was rubbing her already sensitive nerves raw. She felt stripped of all dignity, like a bone being clawed over by two terriers.

  Caught between that which she didn't want and that which she couldn't have—the irony of it was suddenly too much to bear.

  "Stop it—both of you!"

  The men fell silent, Ned looking earnest, Marcus looking... enigmatic. His amber eyes, half hidden by a shock of dark hair, flickered with an inscrutable light as he folded his arms across his chest.

  "Please leave." She knew she sounded perilously close to bursting into tears and didn't care. "If you don't mind, I would like some time to myself, to put my things in order."